Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “I suppose you’re right,” Johnny said soberly. “But have you got any ideas how we’ll do it? These are stone walls, you know. We can’t just blow ’em down.”

  “We’ll have to wait for a break,” Harley said. “In the meantime, let’s get some sleep.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Johnny said. “And if they’re goin’ to kill us, I hope it isn’t going to be by starvation.”

  THEY slept most of the day. When they awoke it was dark and they were both weak with hunger.

  “Maybe it is going to be by starvation,” Johnny groaned.

  They heard a fumbling outside and a moment later the door swung open and one of the natives entered, carrying a heavy bowl of steaming food.

  He set it down on the floor and motioned them to eat.

  Johnny crawled forward enthusiastically, without waiting for a second invitation. Harley stood up slowly and walked toward the food. His path took him directly past the native who was standing in the center of the room.

  He didn’t glance at the native.

  “How is it?” he asked.

  “Wonderful,” Johnny said. He was sampling the food with a heavy wooden spoon. “It’s stew, just like mother used to make.”

  “Fine,” Harley said.

  He took one quick glance at the guard as he sauntered across the floor. This was their break! The guard was watching Johnny eat, paying no attention to Harley. And the door of the cell was standing slightly ajar.

  When he was within a few feet of the native Harley suddenly shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and swung savagely at the man’s jaw.

  The native was taken by surprise. Dazed from the blow, he raised his arms slowly and opened his mouth to cry out. Harley cursed his weakness. The man should have gone down and stayed down, but the punch had lacked steam.

  He stepped in again, hooked his left into the native’s body and then crossed with his right Every ounce of his weight and strength was behind the blow. If it didn’t do the job their chance was gone.

  Johnny was staring at the scene with his mouth open. The wooden spoon had fallen from his hand into the stew, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  The native was toppling backward, eyes glazing. He hit the floor, rolled over and lay still. Harley watched his motionless body for a moment, then snapped to Johnny:

  “On your feet! We’re leaving!” Johnny was already on his feet. “Right in the middle of my first meal in forty-eight hours, this has to happen,” he moaned. “Why couldn’t you have waited a few minutes?”

  “This is our break,” Harley said grimly. “We may never get another. Let’s go!”

  “Okay, Poppa,” Johnny said. “I’m with you.”

  Harley stepped quickly to the door, shoved it open. He took a cautious look up and down, but the interior of the stockade was black. There was no sign of movement or life from the neighboring huts.

  “Come on,” he whispered to Johnny, and together they stepped through the door onto the hard-packed earth of the stockade.

  “Where to?” Johnny asked.

  Harley listened to the stillness for a moment, trying to make up his mind.

  One course seemed as good as the next.

  “Let’s try for the gate,” he said, his mouth close to Johnny’s ear.

  Johnny squeezed his arm in answer. They started away from the stone cell, but before they covered six feet, a low, mocking laugh broke the stillness.

  THE two flyers froze, and Harley suddenly realized with sickening clearness that they’d stumbled into a trap. Everything had been too easy!

  They heard a click in the darkness and instantly they were caught in the powerful glare of a spotlight. The brilliant light almost blinded them. Helpless, they blinked against the light.

  “You poor foolish young men!” The German’s voice, coming from behind the spotlight sounded almost sad. “I wanted to see if you were going to be sensible, and you have given me a very definite answer. I am afraid I shall have to be more severe with you.”

  Johnny suddenly stepped away from Harley’s side, his fists clenched at his sides. There was a wild look of rage on his face.

  “All right, you yellow-livered murderer, shoot us and get it over.” He started toward the light with slow, deliberate strides. “Or haven’t you got enough guts to shoot?”

  “Stand where you are!” The German’s voice was crisply sharp.

  “Johnny!” Harley snapped. “Come back here, you crazy fool!”

  “I want to see this lying rat face to face,” Johnny snarled, “Then let him shoot me.”

  He continued toward the light without a break in his stride.

  There was a click from behind the light.

  “I have cocked my gun,” the German said. “If you take another step, I shoot.”

  “Go ahead and shoot, I’m comin’ ahead,” Johnny said, and his voice almost quiet.

  Harley waited for another instant and then he lunged after Johnny. Things happened too quickly then for his brain to register. He heard a sharp crack and then another. Johnny continued walking, but something had happened to his leg. His hands moved mechanically to his chest where two bright red stains were slowly spreading. He stumbled and coughed, but he continued walking.

  Harley reached his side in two strides, but before he could move to touch him, three of the brown natives sprang out of the darkness and lunged at him.

  He swung madly at them with both fists and one went down spitting teeth from his bleeding mouth, but the other two grabbed his arms and hurled him to the ground. He saw Johnny stumble and fall and then a swinging club flashed into his range of vision. He tried to duck, but he was pinned helplessly to the ground. Something like a howitzer shell exploded in his head and he blacked out . . .

  WHEN he came to he was lying in absolute blackness. His arms and legs were unbound, but his head ached with a steady dullness.

  He remembered Johnny then and he sat up, feeling an almost intolerable sense of grief and bitterness overwhelm him. He pressed his face and his hands and a convulsive shudder went through his body. Johnny! The crazy redhead with the easy grin and the ever-ready wise-crack, the heart as big as a basketball, was dead.

  He rose slowly to his feet and found his hands were clenching and unclenching with murderous rage. The German with the soft smooth voice who had shot Johnny down in cold blood was still alive. And Harley was still alive. But he knew one of them would be dead before this thing was settled. He made a vow to that.

  “I’ll get him, Johnny,” he whispered bitterly into the darkness. “I’ll get him.”

  He was still standing in the darkness when he heard the bars on the outside of the door lifted cautiously. He backed quickly against the far wall and held his breath and the door opened with a slow protesting creak.

  There was the shadowy outline of human form framed in the blackness of the doorway. Harley watched tensely as the figure stepped softly into the room and dosed the door.

  Then he moved forward like a cat. His hands were spread as he moved closer to the dark shadow just inside the door. And when the figure moved away from the door he sprang forward and whipped one hand over the intruder’s mouth.

  The figure in his arm thrashed wildly and Harley let out an astonished breath as he felt soft warm flesh under his hands. There was a subtle perfume in his nostrils from the long smooth arm that brushed his cheek. He removed his hand and an angry voice whispered in Spanish:

  “Quiet, you fool! You will spoil everything. I am here as a friend. You must believe me.”

  Harley’s arms fell to his sides in amazement. The girl he had attacked was the Princess Zania! But his astonishment was only temporary. This visit might be just another trick. He jerked her close to him and his fingers dug into her soft arms.

  “You’re lying,” he said harshly.

  The girl made no struggle. Her weight was passive against his body.

  “You are hurting me,” she said quietly.

  THERE was something in the fi
rmness of her voice that caused Harley’s fingers to loosen slowly on her arms. This might be some deception, but if it was it didn’t make sense to the flyer. And there would be no point in having the girl risk her own safety to bait a trap. He could kill her with one twist of his hands before she could make an outcry.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “Speak quietly,” the girl said, and there was an undercurrent of urgency in her words. “These men have lied to me. They are not friends; they are enemies.”

  “You’re changing your mind in an awful hurry,” Harley said.

  “I know. I have been blind. They are here to steal El Dorado. I know this now. I was suspicious, but I have played into their hands. And when I saw them shoot down your unarmed comrade I knew that such men did not deserve to be called men, They are inhuman animals.”

  “What did you say about them stealing El Dorado?” Harley asked.

  “El Dorado, the Golden Man. You saw his statue in the shrine,” the girl said breathlessly. Do you remember the legend of El Dorado? When Cortez, the Spaniard, came here centuries ago to plunder and pillage our lands, the wise men hired him away from our cities with the tale of a golden man, who lived deep in the wilds of the jungle. The cupidity of the Spaniards was keen, and they set out in search of El Dorado. They found, instead, death, in the depths of the jungle. Our cities were saved and the wise men decreed that a shrine should be built to celebrate the legend. You have seen the shrine. When the Germans came here several months ago they told me that your country was planning to steal El Dorado, but they offered to help me move the statue to a place of hiding, as a gesture of friendship. I accepted their offer. Now I know their purpose was to gain for themselves the statue of El Dorado. But they will never succeed. There is a legend that El Dorado will crush anyone who seeks to desecrate his shrine. That is the curse of El Dorado. But I will not need the curse of El Dorado!”

  The girl’s voice hardened and Harley felt her body stiffen. “The curse of Zania will be enough. My warriors are waiting my signal to kill the Germans the moment they make their attempt to steal El Dorado.” Harley felt his heart beating faster as he listened to the girl. If she were a liar, she was a magnificent one.

  “And why have you come to me?” he asked.

  “Because,” the girl said simply, “I have wronged you. It is my fault that your brave comrade lies dead this moment. I thought you would like to help me now against our common enemy.”

  “I’ll help you,” Harley said softly, because he didn’t trust his voice. “Show me what I can do.”

  “Come with me,” the girl said.

  HARLEY followed her from the stone prison. There was a pale crescent of moon in the sky, but drifting clouds obscured its light. The stockade was dark. The girl led him quickly to the building that housed the statue of El Dorado. She opened a door and stepped into its dark interior. Harley followed her cautiously.

  The door dosed behind him and suddenly a gun was jammed hard against his back. A German voice said, “Do not move as you value your life.”

  There was a movement in the darkness, and then he heard a muffled cry and the sounds of vicious scuffling. “You little hell-cat!” a voice grated.

  There was the sickening echo of a blow on soft flesh and the sound of the struggling ceased. A moment later there was the scratch of a match, and then a feeble light cut through the darkness.

  Harley saw the white-suited German holding the flickering match and staring down with satisfaction at the crumpled body of the Princess Zania.

  Another man stood at his side pointing a gun at Harley. And there was the gun in his back. That made three.

  “Little fool,” the white-suited German muttered viciously as he stared at the body on the floor. He put bloody fingers to his mouth and sucked them tenderly “Almost bit my finger off.”

  He paid no attention to Harley, but lit a thick candle and stuck it in a niche in the wall. It cast a flickering illumination over the room.

  He turned to Harley then and frowned thoughtfully.

  “You’ve caused a lot of trouble, young man, but you won’t much longer,” he said.

  Harley noticed over his shoulder that a scaffolding had been built against the statue of El Dorado and a clumsy block and tackle rigged into position.

  He shrugged. “You can’t blame me for fighting for life, can you?” he said. “You’ve won and that’s that. You’re even going to get your little toy statue, it looks like.”

  The German’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, then he glanced down at the unconscious figure of the girl and smiled.

  “She told you, eh? I wondered when she was finally going to realize that our motives were not completely altruistic. Yes, as you say, I’m going to get the little toy statue. All the arrangements have been made. We came here to get it and we didn’t fail. It was quite a long chance we took in tracing down a legend as flimsy as that of El Dorado, but it will pay off well. Germany needs gold to meet its obligations on the continent. El Dorado will make a wonderful addition to our reserve supply.”

  Harley put his hands in his pockets and smiled.

  “Just how do you intend to get it out of here?” he drawled. “Do you think the natives will help you after the way you’ve treated their Princess?”

  “I think they will co-operate.” The German smiled. “If they don’t what has happened to their princess will be but a prelude to—ah—more unpleasant things. They will behave.”

  He gestured sharply to the man behind Harley.

  “Watch him carefully while we take the statue down from the altar.”

  WITH his third companion beside him he mounted the steps that led to the statue. While he was making an arrangement on the ropes that led to the block and tackle, the girl stirred and raised herself on one elbow. There was a dark bruise on her cheek where the German had struck her. She watched in mute helplessness as the white-suited German prepared to lower the statue to the floor.

  There was no warning for what happened next. Without a sound, without an instant’s warning, the heavy statue twisted slowly and began to fall. The ropes that an instant before had held it securely broke with a snap and with the terrible momentum of hundreds of pounds of dead weight behind it, the huge golden statue plunged from the altar.

  There was no time for the Germans to move.

  Harley heard a scream of maniacal terror that he knew would live with him until death, as the ponderous statue hurtled downward, crushing the two Germans beneath its weight like the foot of a giant on an ant.

  From behind him he heard a choking gasp of horror, and the gun wavered against his back for an instant. He hurled himself to his knees, spinning as he dropped. The German fired once over his head and then Harley lunged forward driving his shoulder into the man’s knees. He went down with a crash and the gun slipped from his fingers. Harley clawed at him until he found his throat . . .

  THE boat was waiting at the river bank, manned by two of the stalwart Aztecs and stocked with supplies for a five-day trip. Harley turned to Zania for the last time as he prepared to step over its low side. He looked rested and fresh; his clothes were dean, and the cuts on his face from the jungle branches had healed. It was four weeks later.

  “For the last time,” he said, trying to smile, “won’t you come with me?” The girl shook her head simply, but there was something deeper than pain in her eyes.

  “I must stay,” she said. “I have an obligation here.”

  “To your people?”

  “To El Dorado. He saved us as the legend promised. He crushed those who sought to violate his shrine. I must stay and keep his memory green with my people.”

  Harley said nothing else. He climbed into the boat and soon the swift strong strokes of the rowers had propelled it to mid-stream. He looked back, then, and saw that Zania was standing on the bank, watching him.

  She was still watching when the tiny boat disappeared around the bend.

  A HORSE ON THORNDYKE

  First published in the Ap
ril 1944 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  It’s bad enough to have a horseman for a rival, but it’s even worse when you’re a horse!

  CHAPTER I

  REGGIE THORNDYKE ordered his third Scotch moodily. His long face, which vaguely resembled that of a kind horse, was sad as he sipped the drink and meditated upon his troubles.

  This solemn reverie was not typical of Reggie for his disposition was generally vague and sunny and he was not given to playing Hamlet at bars, but on this particular afternoon his spirits were lower than a snake’s vest buttons.

  The cause of his grief was a girl, and as he thought of her his mild blue eyes were miserable.

  The average man thinking of Eileen Ravenal would be far from sad or moody. For she was a gorgeous blonde creature liberally endowed with all the attributes that, since time immemorial, have transported men into rhapsodic, romantic dreams.

  Reggie, however, was the exception for the simple reason that Eileen Ravenal had resisted, with unflattering ease, his numerous attempts to change her last name to Thorndyke. And since she wanted no part of him except as an understanding friend, he was very unhappy.

  He sighed heavily and ordered another drink, and as the bartender set it before him, he became aware that a small, gray-haired man had taken the stool at his side and was staring at him with fixed, intent eyes.

  Reggie stood this gimlet-eyed attention for about two minutes, growing more uncomfortable all the time. Finally he turned to the little man.

  “I say, old fellow,” he said, “would you mind looking the other way for a while?”

  The little man, who was dressed in neat dark clothes, smiled in uncertain embarrassment His face and clothes were plain but his eyes were a deep solid blue and they seemed out of place in the mine-run quality of his face.