by Mike Resnick
“Bah!” said Calhoun, tossing the strange-looking emeralds into the bush. “Nobody flim-flams Capturin’ Clyde Calhoun! I’m going to war!”
“Before breakfast?” I said.
“What’s more important to you?” he demanded. “My emeralds or your stomach?”
“Do you want a frank answer or a friendly one?” I replied.
“All right, all right,” he muttered, “we’ll put some grub on. I might as well enlist Tonto and his men in our cause.”
“Tonto and his men might be just a tad riled that you guv away their half of the skins to Mudapa and his men,” I noted.
Well, Tonto showed up just when the eggs were frying, and riled is an understatement. They had Clyde staked out spread-eagled and naked on the ground inside of a minute, and while I often thought fondly of coming upon Fatima Malone or some other genteel young lady of my acquaintance in just such a position, somehow seeing Clyde stretched out like that killed my appetite, and I didn’t even bother pulling the eggs out of the frying pan.
“You have betrayed our trust,” said Tonto, “and for that you must die, slowly and painfully.”
“If you really want me to die slowly,” suggested Clyde, “why not come back next year and strike the first blow then?”
“We are not going to strike you at all,” said Tonto.
“That’s a comfort,” Clyde allowed. “Now how’s about letting me up?”
“No,” continued Tonto. “We are going to pour honey all over your body and then leave you to the mercy of all the ants and scavengers of the bush.”
“I got a better idea,” said Clyde. “How’s about you and me squaring off, mano a mano? If I win, I ain’t no traitor and I get to go free; if you win, then you can feed me to the beasts of the jungle.”
Tonto looked like he was considering it, but Clyde had him by maybe five inches and seventy pounds, and in the end he didn’t like the odds, so he finally rejected the offer.
“Okay,” said Clyde, undeterred. “I got a better idea…”
“No more talk,” said Tonto. “Time to die.”
I figgered if they killed Clyde they might not want to stop at just one foreign devil, so I took the bull by the horns, or the Injun by the loincloth, and stepped out of my tent, wrapped in my jaguar skin.
“Hold your horses, Brother Tonto,” I said. “I got something to say before you torture poor old Clyde to death.”
“It better be ‘don’t!’” muttered Clyde.
“What are horses?” asked Tonto, looking around.
“Okay, hold your tree sloths,” I amended. “Just hang on a minute and listen to me.”
He shut up and turned to me with an It better be good expression on his face.
“I know it appears on the surface that Clyde was dealing with the enemy, but actually that’s all part of our secret plan.”
“Your secret plan to betray us, or your secret plan to grow rich?” he demanded.
“Clyde ain’t made one penny off them skins, and that’s a fact,” I said. “May the Good Lord smite me dead on the spot if I’m lying to you.” The closer Injuns backed away, just in case God decided to exercise His option. “He just guv ’em to Mudapa to gain his confidence and lower his guard,” I concluded.
“Right!” Clyde chimed in.
“And what was supposed to happen once his guard was down?” asked Tonto suspiciously.
Clyde seemed stuck for an answer. “You tell him, Lucifer,” he said at last.
“It was all your idea, Clyde,” I said, equally stuck, “so you should tell him.”
“But you thunk of a lot of the most important details,” said Clyde desperately, “so you get the honor of laying the plan out for him.”
“No,” I said. “Credit where credit’s due. You tell him, Clyde.”
“I’d like to,” he said, “but I can’t think when I’m staked out like this. Maybe if someone would let me up…?”
“Not until I am convinced you have not betrayed us,” said Tonto.
“All right,” I said, thinking about three words ahead of where I was speaking. “Our plan was to have Clyde disguise himself as a Jaguar Man with this here skin I’m holding, join Mudapa’s army, find out their plans, and then report back to you so you’ll be ready for them when they attack. And the reason we let all but one skin go was because we figgered he’d be harder to spot in the middle of three hundred Jaguar Men than one hundred and fifty of ’em.”
Tonto was one surprised Injun. “You know,” he said, “it makes sense.”
“Good,” said Clyde. “Cut me loose and let me get on with being a Master Spy.”
“It sounds logical,” continued Tonto, “but we need a hostage, just in case you were lying to us again.” Tonto pointed a finger at me. “You will infiltrate the enemy. We will hold your friend here until you return with the information we want.”
“At least cover me up enough to make me decent in case any ladies wander by,” said Clyde. “I don’t want my proud masculine appurtenance to be the object of prying eyes.”
“If I were you,” said Tonto, “I’d be more worried about it being the object of prying teeth, but then, I never did understand white men.”
“Lucifer,” said Clyde, “why are you still hanging around here?”
“It ain’t been thirty seconds since I told Tonto our plan,” I answered.
“Then you been loafing for twenty-eight seconds,” said Clyde bitterly. “Being staked out naked in the tropical sun is mighty difficult work. The sooner you come back, the sooner they’ll cut me loose and I can pour myself a beer.”
“You got any beer here?” I asked.
“Damn it, just go!” he bellowed.
I could see there wasn’t no sense arguing with him when he was in that kind of mood, so I took my leave of the camp and started walking north and east, which was the direction I’d seen Mudapa and his men heading when he’d swiped all the skins.
It took about two hours to catch up with ’em, as they wasn’t in no hurry, and in fact they was all sitting around swapping jokes and smoking little native cigars when I arrived. I waited until they got up and started walking again, slipped on my Jaguar Man duds, and joined ’em. No one paid me no never-mind until lunchtime, when the chef made the rounds and asked each warrior what he wanted. When he came to me, I told him I’d settle for a sandwich, and he said he hadn’t never heard of a sandwich and how many legs did it have, and I figgered I’d better start speaking Injun mighty quick or I’d give myself away, so I said, “Ugh. Me heap hungry warrior. Me take-um whatever you got-um.”
Well, that’s what I planned to say, but all I got out was the “Ugh” and he started cussing a blue streak and jumping up and down, and finally Mudapa came by to see what was the matter.
“He insulted my cooking!” said the chef. “He called it ‘Ugh’! I will not cook anymore until he apologizes.”
Mudapa nudged me with his spear. “You heard him. Apologize.”
“Heap sorry,” I said. “Me make-um no more trouble.”
Mudapa stared at me kind of funny-like. “I’ve never heard a member of my village speak like that,” he said suspiciously.
“I’m from out-of-state, here to visit my cousin,” I said.
Suddenly he reached out and ripped the jaguar skin off me. “I knew it!” he said. “A spy in our midst!”
“I ain’t no spy,” I said. “I’m the Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones, here to bring enlightenment and the word of the Lord to you poor ignorant heathen.”
“You came here with Calhoun to rob us!” he said, pointing the tip of his spear right at my neck.
“Not so,” I said. “I heard all that shooting, and I thunk it was a Fourth of July celebration, so I moseyed over and stumbled onto his camp.”
“You are working with him!” accused Mudapa.
“No such a thing!” I said.
“You must prove it to me, or your life is forfeit.”
Now, truth to tell, I didn’t k
now what forfeit was, except that it probably came between threefeit and fivefeit, but he looked pretty serious, and his spear looked even more serious, so I knew I had to come up with some way to prove I wasn’t Clyde’s partner mighty fast, and finally my Silent Partner smote me right betwixt the eyes with one of His heavenly suggestions, and I put it right into action.
“You’re all wrong about this,” I said to Mudapa with all the sincerity I could muster on the spur of the moment. “Clyde Calhoun ain’t my friend. He’s a crook and a thief, and I spit on him.” And to emphasize it, I spat at the ground—and so help me, it wasn’t my fault that a wind come up just then and blew it in Mudapa’s face.
“That’s it!” he cried. “You’re a dead man!”
He came at me with a knife in one hand and a spear in the other, and Lord knows what else he’d have been pointing at me if he’d had a third hand. I started backing away, and then he guv out a war cry what would have woke such dead as weren’t otherwise occupied and charged at me, but when he was maybe five feet away he tripped over a root or a rock or something, and he fell down to the ground and guv another scream, a little more pained than angry this time, and he rolled over on his back, and we could see that he’d accidentally driven the knife all the way into his chest.
“I just hate it when things like this happen!” he mumbled, and died.
I figgered I was going to have to take all his warriors on at once then, but when I turned to face them they was all kneeling on the ground, looking for all the world like they was getting ready for a hot game of craps, but since they didn’t have no dice and they all started bowing in my direction I realized they was worshipping me, or at least waiting for their Chief Justice to inaugurate me as their president.
Finally one of ’em stepped forward, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Lucifer Jones, you have defeated Mudapa in mortal combat. You are now our king and we will follow you into battle whenever and wherever you say.”
“Well, I’m sure glad to know you fellers don’t hold no grudges,” I said. “And for my first official act, I think we’ll go rescue Clyde Calhoun, who was in a bad way when last I saw him. And if he’s still alive, remember to avert your eyes, as he’s kind of sensitive about people staring at the south end of him.” Then I got to thinking, and I added, “By the way, do you guys have any of the emeralds you promised him?”
One of ’em nodded. “They are back in our village.”
“And if the king wants ’em, they’re his, and nobody objects?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Well,” I said, “that being the case, I guess saving Clyde moves back to the top of the list.”
And since my word was law, we started walking back to Clyde’s camp. When we’d covered about half the distance, we bumped into Clyde’s trackers and gunbearers and such, who were heading away from camp in a mighty big hurry.
“Why did you desert your boss?” I demanded when they saw us and came to a stop.
“Why did you?” one of ’em shot back.
“I’d be mighty careful if I was you, Brother,” I said. “Us kings don’t tolerate no backtalk. Now, why are you all running hell for leather away from camp?”
“Another tribe showed up and chased Tonto’s warriors away,” said one of the trackers.
“They’re headhunters,” said a second.
“Worse,” said a third. “They’re head collectors.”
“Is Clyde still mildly alive and twitching?” I asked.
“He’s still cursing,” said a gunbearer.
“That’s how you tell he’s alive,” I said. “When he stops shooting and he stops cursing, he’s dead.”
“Are we still going to rescue him?” asked one of my loyal worshippers.
“Yeah, I think we’d better,” I said. “If we don’t nip this collecting tendency in the bud, they might turn their attention to us next.”
So we kept walking, and I noticed that the guys what was pulling the wagon that held all the skins was still with us, since they figured if they tried to make it all the way back home alone they stood a fair chance of being robbed, and I decided we might as well give the jaguar heads and skins a field test, so when we were maybe a mile outside of camp I had everyone slip into them. I’d kind of hoped we’d look awesome and imposing, but actually, when you get right down to cases, a bunch of half-naked Injuns dressed up as Jaguar Men look pretty damned silly.
Still, we’d gone to all the trouble to bring the skins back with us, so I figgered we might as well wear ’em and break ’em in, and a couple of minutes later we marched into camp, which was occupied by all these guys wearing shrunken heads on necklaces and belts. They looked at us, and we looked at them, and suddenly one of them yelled: “It is the ghosts of all the beasts we have slain, come to take their revenge upon us!”
Now, truth to tell, I didn’t know if they were talking about all the jaguars they had killed or all the men they had killed, but it didn’t make no difference, because ten seconds later they’d all cleared out and were high-tailing back to wherever they’d come from.
Clyde was still staked out, and looking a lot more uncomfortable than he had when I’d left him.
“Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” he said. “It’s nice to see them skins didn’t go to waste.” He looked around as best he could. “Where’s Mudapa?”
“I’m the new king,” I told him.
“There’s only one way you get to be a king in these here parts,” said Clyde. “How did you manage to kill him?”
“I’m a natural athlete,” I said with becoming modesty.
“Son of a bitch deserved to die!” muttered Clyde. “Serves him right for getting me down here under false pretexts and lying about having a bunch of emeralds.”
“He wasn’t lying, Clyde,” I said. “He just wasn’t much for sharing.”
“So I’m getting my emeralds after all!” said Clyde with a great big smile. “It almost makes being staked out here in the blazing sun worth it. Cut me loose, Lucifer, and let’s go get my loot.”
“That’s something we got to discuss, Clyde,” I said. “It’s my loot now.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “I honored the contract. Them emeralds is mine!”
“Well, yeah,” I allowed, “I suppose at one time you could have laid claim to all of ’em. But that was before I pulled off this fearless and daring rescue.”
“What fearless and daring rescue?” he bellowed. “A bunch of superstitious headhunters thunk the ghosts of all the jaguars they’d killed was coming after ’em!”
“Well,” I said, taking a couple of steps back, “if that’s the way you feel about it, I can take my army home and call the headhunters back.”
“Hah!” he snorted. “You don’t frighten me none. Them headhunters ain’t gonna slow down til they get back to their village.”
“You got a point,” I admitted. Then I added: “I suppose we can send word to Tonto that the coast is clear.”
“All right!” he grumbled. “Cut me loose and we’ll split the emeralds fifty-fifty.”
I knelt down and pulled out my pocket knife. “One third, one third, and one third,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“One third for you, one third for me, and one third for the Lord,” I said. “I’ll hang onto His third until such time as He shows up to claim it.”
“Never!” screamed Clyde.
A mighty hungry-looking snake suddenly started slithering up his leg.
“Okay, it’s a deal!” he said kind of frantically.
I cut the ropes, and he reached out, grabbed the snake, and flang it into the bush. Then he kind of glared at me in my Jaguar Man duds. “That’s a fitting outfit for you, Lucifer,” he said bitterly. “Them cats always was a vicious and surly race, and just because a human’s borrowed their skins, a jaguar don’t never change its stripes.”
“Aw, come on, Clyde,” I said. “I could have gone off and pi
cked up the emeralds first.” That didn’t seem to assuage him, so I then pointed out that I could have gone off and picked up the emeralds only, and suddenly he allowed that maybe I wasn’t quite as selfish as he’d first thunk, even if I was never going to be in a class with them philathrosaurs that people keep reading about in the papers.
Next morning we headed off to the village where they kept all the emeralds, and where I planned to take my rightful place as king and maybe elevate a dozen of the prettier womenfolk to queenhood after field-testing their potential royalty, so to speak, but when we finally got there the whole place was deserted.
Clyde’s trackers got busy reading all the signs, and they reported back that a jaguar with an irritable demeanor and a big appetite had paid the village a visit and dined on a couple of its prominent citizens, and the rest had just hightailed it, emeralds and all, to parts unknown.
“If that don’t beat all,” said Clyde. “Here I kill three hundred jaguars, and I overlook the only one that counts.”
He announced that he was cutting his losses and going on his next assignment, which had something to do with koala bears. As for me, a noble king without no noble country, I figgered that if emeralds were growing on trees (or wherever emeralds grew) in Columbia, well, the sinners in Columbia were probably as much in need of saving and spiritual uplifting as any others, and besides green was always one of my six or seven favorite colors, so I headed north to make my fortune and build my tabernacle.
But that’s a whole other story, and writing can be mighty thirsty work.
Connoisseurs
Some people are connoisseurs of art. Some are connoisseurs of fine wines. More than a few are connoisseurs of exotic women.
Me, I seem to have inadvertently become a connoisseur of jails.
The best grub is in the Cape Town hoosegow. The friendliest jailer was in the Hong Kong lock-up, though there’s a lot to be said for the guards at the Sylvania calaboose. The most comfortable bunk was probably in the jail at San Palmero. The hottest and stuffiest is the Nairobi jail, though the one in Beria, over in Mozambique, runs it a close second. Probably the friendliest crowd to share a cell with was back in Moline, Illinois, though you find the best card games in the Cairo jail and there ain’t no fairer craps game than the one they play in the Madrid lock-up.
