Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Johnny scrambled awkwardly to his feet and stared at Harley.

  “What the hell’s up?” he yelled.

  “I don’t know,” Harley said rapidly; “but let’s get out of this light.”

  FROM the darkness behind the brilliant light, a mocking voice broke into laughter and then another command, delivered with the same German accent, rang out.

  “Krauts!” exploded Johnny.

  “Let’s get moving!” Harley snapped. His gun was in his hand as he began backing toward the trees on the opposite side of the clearing from which the light was situated.

  He heard a rustling sound behind him and wheeled suddenly. From the shadows of the trees a dozen figures were springing into the lighted clearing. He had just one brief panoramic glance at them, but they were stamped on his memory, in that instant, forever.

  They were tall, splendidly muscled savages light brown in color, dressed in gaudy skirts that hung from their waists to the middle of their thighs. Bands of golden metal circled their arms and wrists, gleaming brightly in the light. Their faces were lean and strangely aristocratic, with thin nostrils and wide dark eyes.

  The instant it took Harley to see this much was all the time he had for details. For each savage held a knotty club in his hands, and from the grim set of their faces there was no doubt in his mind what they intended to do with them.

  He raised his gun and shot the closest savage. The man fell spinning to the right with the impact of the bullet in his shoulder, but his lean, grimly stoic features did not change expression as he dropped.

  Another lunged over his body and hurled his club at Harley’s head. Harley dropped to the ground and the heavy bludgeon missed his skull by a fraction. Before he raised his gun again the savages were on him. The gun was torn from his hand and his arms were pinioned helplessly by a dozen powerful hands. Struggling desperately he was hauled roughly to his feet. He felt thin ropes biting into his wrists and arms.

  From the blackness behind the powerful light he heard again the light mocking laugh. One of the savages stepped before him and raised a club over his head. Harley fought to jerk away but the hands that held him were like steel claws. He watched in helpless desperation as the thickly muscled savage raised the club slowly to a striking position.

  There was no expression of anger or vindictiveness on the savage’s face. His features were set in expressionless, stoic lines that were somehow more terrible than any grimace of rage could possibly have been. The man was an executioner, doing his job without sentiment or emotion.

  Harley twisted his head away and found Johnny’s eyes. The lanky blond was similarly held and another savage was standing over him with raised club.

  “So long,” he shouted. He tried to smile but he knew the effort wasn’t very successful.

  Johnny said, “Adios, amigo, this looks like it.” He grinned. “I told you we wouldn’t make it. You should’ve gotten rid of me like I said.”

  The savages were ready to strike. Their arms were tensely knotted, when suddenly a light, clear voice rang out across the clearing.

  “Stop!”

  THE word was spoken in Spanish and its effect on the savages was instantaneous. Their arms dropped to their sides and they faced the opposite side of the clearing, bowing their heads to the ground.

  And then a girl stepped out of the darkness; and Harley felt sure he was dreaming. She was silhouetted in the glare of the light and her figure was tall, regal and commanding. An impressive, beaded headdress accentuated her height. Her face was in the shadows cast by the light, but her eyes shone with the luster of rare pearls. She was a creature from a dream or another world. Slim bands of gold adorned her wrists and ankles and a gleaming, triplestrand of gems sparkled about her neck.

  She spoke in Spanish to the savages holding the flyers.

  Johnny twisted toward Harley. “What’s she sayin’ ? You picked up some of this language, didn’t you?” Harley nodded. “She is telling them not to hurt us, to escort us to the Sacred Golden Temple.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” Harley said, “but it’s a break for a while. Maybe things aren’t as bad as they look.”

  The savages shoved the two flyers toward the blackness that surrounded the clearing; the tall, regal figure of the girl moved from the glare of the light and disappeared. A second later the light switched off and the darkness rushed into the clearing again.

  “Johnny,” Harley called, as he was led along a narrow trail.

  “Yeah?” Johnny’s voice came from about twenty feet ahead in the darkness.

  “Are you okay? How’s your leg?” Johnny laughed without humor.

  “Not much I can do about it now,” he said. “This seems to be an infantry division we’re in.”

  Harley didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. He continued to put one foot in front of another. His arms were still bound tightly behind him and the backlash of the low branches whipped painfully across his unprotected face; but there was nothing he could do about that. He set his jaw and kept going . . .

  THE first orange streaks of dawn were mottling the sky when the party came to a halt Harley was almost blind with pain and fatigue, but his weary mind was spinning with a dozen speculations.

  Who were these savages? And why had they captured two American flyers?

  He remembered the definitely German voice that had been directing things from the blackness of the forest and a frown deepened on his face. There were no Nazis in this area . . . Or were there?

  And the girl . . .

  What possible explanation could there be for her presence here?

  The party had halted at the top of a slight incline that led to a broad deep valley surrounded by high mountain peaks. And as the shadowy darkness of early dawn lifted and Harley was able to make out details, he forgot, for a while the mystery surrounding his capture.

  In the center of the valley was a huge circular stockade with one high massive gate. A scraggly road led from the top of the incline to this gate. Beside the stockade walls were irregular rows of stunted corn and several patches of dirt that looked like an attempt at gardening.

  Over the wall there was visible one building—a majestic spire that rose almost a hundred feet in the air. There was no sign of life, and the silence of the valley was broken only by an occasional rattle of stones from one of the surrounding peaks.

  And yet the savages who stood rigidly at his side seemed to be waiting some sign from the stockade before descending the winding road that led to the gate.

  Harley glanced ahead at Johnny.

  “How’re you making out?” he called.

  Johnny looked over his shoulder and forced a weary grin to his face.

  “The first ten miles were tough. After that I just didn’t give a damn.”

  “How’s your leg?”

  “Okay.”

  “This looks like the end of the line,” Harley said.

  “What’re we waiting for?”

  Harley shrugged. “No telling. I could use a bed and some food pretty soon.”

  “I’ll settle for the food,” Johnny said.

  Their stoic captors paid no attention to their conversation. They remained at attention, arms folded across their chests in attitudes of stony indifference.

  After the wait had stretched on about ten minutes, the savages started down the path to the stockade herding the two flyers ahead of them.

  The gate swung slowly open as they approached. Inside the stockade Harley saw a dozen or so brown-skinned men and women standing in front of crude little huts. Children, wild-haired and bright-eyed, peered at them around the legs of the silently watching men and women. Harley was struck with the physical perfection of the tribe, and the defiant, fearless intelligence that gleamed from their dark eyes.

  Ahead of them in the center of the stockade was the building which had been visible from the top of the hill. It was a square stone structure, ornately ornamented with gilt paintings and designs. A s
hort flight of smooth stone steps led to a wide door in the center of the building.

  THEIR captors led them up this flight of stairs and into the shadowy interior of the building. Harley’s eyes focused after a moment and he glanced around. They were in a square hall with a domed, lattice-work roof through which the first pale rays of the sun were slanting.

  In the center of the room was a squat throne of highly polished wood that gleamed like ebony in the shadowy light. Behind this throne a flight of steps led to a stone altar. And as Harley’s eyes traveled up these steps an involuntary gasp of astonishment escaped his lips.

  For on the raised altar was the statue of a man, fully eight feet tall, with hands outspread in a gesture of supplication. The figure had been sculptured by a master hand. There was a classic calmness in the features that reminded Harley of examples of Grecian art he had seen in American museums . . .

  And the proportions of the man’s body, nude except for a skirt that hung to the middle of his thighs, were magnificent.

  But it was not these things that caused Harley’s heart to beat faster. It was something else.

  The statue gleamed with vivid luster where the sun’s rays touched it, filling the room with lambent, golden reflections.

  Harley heard Johnny’s quick breathing beside him. He glanced at him and saw that he was staring at the majestic statue with open-mouthed amazement.

  “Judas Priest!” he whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.” His arm nudged Harley. “Look at that thing, guy. Solid gold, or I’m a Kentucky hill-billy.”

  “I don’t think you are,” Harley said with a shake of his head. “It looks like the McCoy to me. But it couldn’t be! It’d be worth millions if it was.”

  Suddenly there was a stir among their captors as they shifted their gaze slightly to the left of the immense golden statue.

  Harley followed their movement instinctively. The tall regally beautiful girl he had seen in the clearing was standing beside the throne and studying him with calm, expressionless eyes. At her side was a slim, gray-haired man wearing a white suit. The man’s cold hard features were faintly mocking and there was a shadowy smile hovering about his thin lips.

  The eyes of the dozen or so savages who had brought them to this place, were centered on the girl and the expressions on their lean faces were almost worshipful. They ignored the man in the white suit.

  Harley studied the girl as she walked slowly to the front of the altar, bowed her head to the golden statue and then ascended the steps and sat down. She faced the American flyers, her eyes cool and impassive against the light tan of her cheeks. The man remained beside the throne chair without moving and his hard face was like a cynical mask, hiding his emotions.

  “Permit me to welcome you to our little retreat,” the man murmured with a smile. His voice was almost a whisper, but there was an unmistakeable guttural sound in its tone. Harley wondered if this could have been the German whose voice gave the commands to the savages in the clearing. The white-suited man moved his lips to speak again but the girl silenced him with an imperious gesture of her hand.

  The man inclined his head slightly to her with an air of deference, but there was no mistaking the annoyed flush that crept into his cheeks.

  THE GIRL studied the American flyers for a moment in silence. There was no animosity in her gaze. She might have been examining an insect that had aroused her curiosity for a moment. Harley felt himself flushing with anger at the cold, deliberate quality of her scrutiny.

  But despite his smouldering anger, his mind registered the girl’s exquisite beauty with a thrill of excitement. She had removed the towering headdress she had worn in the clearing and her black hair fell back from her high forehead in sweeping natural waves to her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and clear against the soft tan of her skin and her lips were the color of a ripe cherry. She wore a dark cloak over her shoulders and a skirt that fell to her knees. Her bare legs were as slim and lithe as a young boy’s. Gold-beaded slippers encased her narrow, delicately arched feet and they were held in place by leather thongs that wrapped around her slender ankles.

  Johnny whistled softly through his teeth.

  “I’d let her capture me any day in the week,” he murmured.

  The girl’s level gaze moved to Johnny for an instant and then back to Harley.

  “I do not understand your tongue,” she said, speaking in an odd stilted Castillian Spanish that Harley translated with difficulty. “But,” she added, “I do not like the implications in your comrade’s voice and manner.”

  “What did she say?” Johnny asked.

  “She’s spotted the wolf hair under your sheep’s clothing,” Harley said, “and she doesn’t like it. Stop staring at her legs.”

  “A prude, eh?” muttered Johnny.

  The man in the white suit stepped to the girl’s side and murmured a few words in her ear. She nodded, and he turned to the flyers.

  “The Princess Zania,” he said, speaking to them in English with a German accent, “has graciously consented to let me explain your situation here. However, before I begin, I think you might be more comfortable with your arms free.”

  He motioned to the savages at the sides of the flyers and they seemed to understand his meaning, for one of them stepped forward and cut the leather thongs that bound their arms. Harley rubbed his wrists gratefully and winced as the returning blood sent electric tingles through his cramped arms.

  “Thanks,” he said dryly. “Now maybe you’ll tell us why you ordered us captured.” He had a pretty good idea why the German had ordered their capture, but he hoped to find out as much as he could without committing himself.

  “That’s rather an obvious question,” the German smiled. “You were captured because the Princess Zania has an understandable aversion to allowing enemies to circulate in her domain.”

  “Enemies?” Harley said. “What gave her the idea that we’re enemies?”

  “I think,” the German smiled, “that I may take credit for the development of that idea in Princess Zania’s mind. You see, I explained to her the ambitions of the Allied Nations regarding her territory and also the completely ruthless methods they would use in advancing those ambitions. With the result that the good Princess is willing to do what I suggest in eradicating such vermin from the face of the globe.”

  “I see,” Harley said grimly. “I presume, then, you’re an agent of Nazi Germany.”

  “That is correct,” the German said quietly. “I am here with several associates on a matter of grave importance to der Fuehrer.”

  “And you’re feeding these people the same lies you spread in Poland, Greece, France and Austria,” Harley said bitterly. “I suppose you told her what loyal Indians the Nazis are and how generous you’re going to be to them after you’ve installed the New Order in their country.”

  “These people are not Indians; they are a last remnant of the Aztecs,” the German said with a smile. “Otherwise, your summation is correct.”

  “What do you want with us?” Johnny demanded.

  “You, my young friends, are simply victims of circumstances,” the German said. “One of Princess Zania’s scouts reported the crash of your plane and I decided it might be unwise to allow American airmen to be at liberty in this vicinity. The chances are unlikely that you could cause me any trouble, dead or alive, but I wish to be cautious. Now with you safely under my—ah—protection, there is no possibility that you will cause trouble.”

  “Well, you seem to be running the show,” Harley said with a shrug. “What are you going to do with us?”

  “I intend to put you where you will do no harm for a while,” the German said. “When my work here is completed you will be led into the jungle and released.”

  HE TURNED from them and spoke several low words to the girl. She nodded and gestured sharply to the savages who stood guard beside the flyers.

  The men closed in on Harley and Johnny and led them through a side door into the open
courtyard that surrounded the square building. Several ragged children ran screaming at the sight of the Americans.

  Harley glanced at Johnny.

  “Our smooth friend, Herr Kraut-head, seems to have done his work well,” he said.

  They were led toward the rear of the stockade and ushered into a small stone building. The door slammed behind them and they heard the sound of wooden bars falling into place. Johnny tried the door and found it securely locked. He grinned wryly at Harley.

  “We seem to be in for the duration,” he said.

  They inspected their small cell. One barred window, a foot square, looked on the stockade. The only other opening was the door. There were two bundles of rags on the floor that evidently served as beds. That was all.

  Johnny sat down on the floor and stretched his injured leg before him with a grateful sigh.

  “That feels better,” he said. “What the hell do you make of this mess, Harley.”

  “I don’t know any more than you do. The Nazis evidently have some reason for sending men into this area but for what I can’t imagine.” He frowned and began pacing the narrow confines of the cell, too excited to sit down and rest.

  “It can’t be aerial reconnaissance,” he said, “If that were the explanation, there’d be planes and a field here. What a handful of men expect to do here is more than I can figure out.”

  “Maybe they just want to work up the natives against us,” Johnny suggested.

  “If that’s the reason they’ve succeeded beautifully,” Harley grunted. “The Princess Zania certainly isn’t on our side, that’s for sure.”

  Johnny sighed and closed his eyes.

  “Gosh, what an ally she’d make,” he murmured.

  “You’d better forget about her good looks if you want to keep yours,” Harley advised. “Instead, you’d better be worrying about how we can get the hell out of here.”

  Johnny shrugged. “Why worry about that? You heard the guy say he’d let us go when they finished their job here.”

  “I’ve heard that Germans say a lot of things they don’t mean,” Harley said. “So I’m not believing this one. He’d turn us loose in the jungle, sure! Without food or water and five hundred miles from either—if we’re lucky. More probably they’d leave us lying in the trail with a bullet in our head. No! If we’re going to get out of this mess we’ve got to do it an our own, or not at all.”