Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  Harrison could no longer see the sun, but he knew it was hanging low. The shadows were gathering, and he was plunging deeper and deeper into the swamp. He began to glimpse patches of scummy ooze among the trees, and the path grew more tortuous as it wound to avoid these slimy puddles. Harrison plunged on without pausing. The dense growth might lend concealment to a desperate fugitive, but it was not in the woods, but among the scattered cabins of the swamp dwellers that he expected to find the man he hunted. The city-bred Chinaman, fearful of solitude and unable to fend for himself, would seek the company of men, even of black men.

  The detective wheeled suddenly. About him, in the dusk, the swamp was waking. Insects lifted strident voices, wings of bats or owls beat the air, and bullfrogs boomed from the lily pads. But he had heard a sound that was not of these things. It was a stealthy movement among the trees that marched in solid ranks beside the trail. Harrison drew his .45 and waited. Nothing happened. But in primitive solitudes a man’s instincts are whetted. The detective felt that he was being watched by unseen eyes; he could almost sense the intensity of their glare. Was it the Chinaman, after all?

  A bush beside the trail moved, without a wind to stir it. Harrison sprang through the curtain of creeper-hung cypresses, gun ready, snarling a command. His feet sank in slimy ooze, he stumbled in rotting vegetation and felt the dangling strands of moss slap against his face. There was nothing behind the bush, but he could have sworn that he saw a shadowy form move and vanish among the trees a short distance away. As he hesitated, he glanced down and saw a distinct mark in the loam. He bent closer; it was the print of a great, bare, splay foot. Moisture was oozing into the depression. A man had been standing behind that bush.

  With a shrug Harrison stepped back into the trail. That was not the footprint of Woon Shang, and the detective was not looking for anybody else. It was natural that one of the swamp dwellers would spy on a stranger. The detective sent a hail into the gathering darkness, to assure the unseen watcher of his friendly intentions. There was no reply. Harrison turned and strode on down the trail, not feeling entirely at ease, as he heard, from time to time, a faint snapping of twigs and other sounds that seemed to indicate someone moving along a course paralleling the path. It was not soothing to know that he was being followed by some unseen and possibly hostile being.

  It was so dark now that he kept the path more by feel than by sight. About him sounded weird cries of strange birds or animals, and from time to time a deep grunting reverberation that puzzled him until he recognized it as the bellow of a bull alligator. He wondered if the scaly brutes ever crawled up on the trail, and how the fellow that was shadowing him out there in the darkness managed to avoid them. With the thought another twig snapped, much closer to the trail than before. Harrison swore softly, trying to peer into the Stygian gloom under the moss-festooned branches. The fellow was closing in on him with the growing darkness.

  There was a sinister implication about the thing that made Harrison’s flesh creep a bit. This reptile-haunted swamp-trail was no place for a fight with an insane Negro — for it seemed probable that the unknown stalker was the killer of Joe Corley. Harrison was meditating on the matter when a light glimmered through the trees ahead of him. Quickening his steps he came abruptly out of the darkness into a grey twilight.

  He had reached an expanse of solid ground, where the thinning trees let in the last grey light of the outer dusk. They made a black wall with waving fringes all about a small clearing, and through their boles, on one side, Harrison caught a glimmer of inky water. In the clearing stood a cabin of rough-hewn logs, and through a tiny window shone the light of an oil lamp.

  As Harrison emerged from among the growth he glanced back, but saw no movement among the ferns, heard no sound of pursuit. The path, dimly marked on the higher ground, ran past the cabin and vanished in the further gloom. This cabin must be the abode of that Celia Pompoloi Rogers had mentioned. Harrison strode to the sagging stoop and rapped on the handmade door.

  Inside there was movement, and the door swung open. Harrison was not prepared for the figure that confronted him. He had expected to see a bare- footed slattern; instead he saw a tall, rangily powerful man, neatly dressed, whose regular features and light skin portrayed his mixed blood.

  “Good evening, sir.” The accent hinted of education above the average.

  “Name’s Harrison,” said the detective abruptly, displaying his badge. “I’m after a crook that ran in here — a Chinese murderer, named Woon Shang. Know anything about him?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied promptly. “That man went past my cabin three days ago.”

  “Where is he now?” demanded Harrison.

  The other spread his hands in a curiously Latin gesture.

  “I can not say. I have little intercourse with the other people who live in the swamp, but it is my belief that he is hiding among them somewhere. I have not seen him pass my cabin going back up the path.”

  “Can you guide me to these other cabins?”

  “Gladly, sir; by daylight.”

  “I’d like to go tonight,” growled Harrison.

  “That’s impossible, sir,” the other protested. “It would be most dangerous. You ran a great risk in coming this far alone. The other cabins are further back in the swamp. We do not leave our huts at night; there are many things in the swamp which are dangerous to human beings.”

  “The Swamp Cat, for instance?” grunted Harrison.

  The man cast him a quick glance of interrogation.

  “He killed a colored man named Joe Corley a few hours ago,” said the detective. “I found Corley on the trail. And if I’m not mistaken, that same lunatic has been following me for the past half hour.”

  The mulatto evinced considerable disquiet and glanced across the clearing into the shadows.

  “Come in,” he urged. “If the Swamp Cat is prowling tonight, no man is safe out of door. Come in and spend the night with me, and at dawn I will guide you to all the cabins in the swamp.”

  Harrison saw no better plan. After all, it was absurd to go blundering about in the night, in an unknown marsh. He realized that he had made a mistake in coming in by himself, in the dusk; but working alone had become a habit with him, and he was tinged with a strong leaven of recklessness. Following a tip he had arrived at the little town on the edge of the swamplands in the mid-afternoon, and plunged on into the woods without hesitation. Now he doubted the wisdom of the move.

  “Is this Celia Pompoloi’s cabin?” he asked.

  “It was,” the mulatto replied. “She has been dead for three weeks. I live here alone. My name is John Bartholomew.”

  Harrison’s head snapped up and he eyed the other with new interest. John Bartholomew; Joe Corley had muttered that name just before he died.

  “Did you know Joe Corley?” he demanded.

  “Slightly; he came into the swamp to hide from the law. He was a rather low grade sort of human, though naturally I am sorry to hear of his death.”

  “What’s a man of your intelligence and education doing in this jungle?” the detective asked bluntly.

  Bartholomew smiled rather wryly. “We can not always choose our environments, Mr. Harrison. The waste places of the world provide retreat for others than criminals. Some come to the swamps like your Chinaman, fleeing from the law. Others come to forget bitter disappointments forced upon them by circumstances.”

  Harrison glanced about the cabin while Bartholomew was putting a stout bar in place across the door. It had but two rooms, one behind the other, connected by a strongly built door. The slab floor was clean, the room scantily furnished; a table, benches, a bunk built against the wall, all hand-made. There was a fireplace, over which hung primitive cooking utensils, and a cloth covered cupboard.

  “Would you like some fried bacon and corn pone?” asked Bartholomew. “Or perhaps a cup of coffee? I do not have much to offer you, but—”

  “No, thanks, I ate a big meal just before I started into the swamp
. Just tell me something about these people.”

  “As I said, I have little intercourse with them,” answered Bartholomew. “They are clannish and suspicious, and keep much to themselves. They are not like other colored people. Their fathers came here from Haiti, following one of the bloody revolutions which have cursed that unfortunate island in the past. They have curious customs. Have you heard of the worship of Voodoo?”

  Harrison nodded.

  “These people are Voodooists. I know that they have mysterious conclaves back in the swamps. I have heard drums booming in the night, and seen the glow of fires through the trees. I have sometimes felt a little uneasy for my safety at such times. Such people are capable of bloody extremes, when their primitive natures are maddened by the bestial rites of the Voodoo.”

  “Why don’t the whites come in here and stop it?” demanded Harrison.

  “They know nothing about it. No one ever comes here unless he is a fugitive from the law. The swamp people carry on their worship without interference.

  “Celia Pompoloi, who once occupied this very hut, was a woman of considerable intelligence and some education; she was the one swamp dweller who ever went ‘outside,’ as they call the outer world, and attended school. Yet, to my actual knowledge, she was the priestess of the cult and presided over their rituals. It is my belief that she met her fate at last during one of those saturnalias. Her body was found in the marshes, so badly mangled by the alligators that it was recognizable only by her garments.”

  “What about the Swamp Cat?” asked Harrison.

  “A maniac, living like a wild beast in the marshes, only sporadically violent; but at those times a thing of horror.”

  “Would be kill the Chinaman if he had a chance?”

  “He would kill anyone when his fit is on him. You said the Chinaman was a murderer?”

  “Murderer and thief,” grunted Harrison. “Stole ten grand from the man he killed.”

  Bartholomew looked up as with renewed interest, started to speak, then evidently changed his mind.

  Harrison rose, yawning. “Think I’ll hit the hay,” he announced.

  Bartholomew took up the lamp and led his guest into the back room, which was of the same size as the other, but whose furnishings consisted only of a bunk and a bench.

  “I have but the one lamp, sir,” said Bartholomew. “I shall leave it with you.”

  “Don’t bother,” grunted Harrison, having a secret distrust of oil lamps, resultant from experiencing an explosion of one in his boyhood. “I’m like a cat in the dark. I don’t need it.”

  With many apologies for the rough accommodations and wishes for a good night’s sleep, Bartholomew bowed himself out, and the door closed. Harrison, through force of habit, studied the room. A little starlight came in through the one small window, which he noticed was furnished with heavy wooden bars. There was no door other than the one by which he had entered. He lay down on the bunk fully dressed, without even removing his shoes, and pondered rather glumly. He was beset by fears that Woon Shang might escape him, after all. Suppose the Chinaman slipped out by the way he had come in? True, local officers were watching at the edge of the swampland, but Woon Shang might avoid them in the night. And what if there was another way out, known only to the swamp people? And if Bartholomew was as little acquainted with his neighbors as he said, what assurance was there that the mulatto would be able to guide him to the Chinaman’s hiding place? These and other doubts assailed him while he lay and listened to the soft sounds of his host’s retiring, and saw the thin line of light under the door vanish as the lamp was blown out. At last Harrison consigned his doubts to the devil, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER II

  Murder Tracks

  It was a noise at the windows, a stealthy twisting and wrenching at the bars, that awakened him. He woke quickly, with all his facilities alert, as was his habit. Something bulked in the window, something dark and round, with gleaming spots in it. He realized with a start that it was a human head he saw, with the faint starlight shining on rolling eyes and bared teeth. Without shifting his body, the detective stealthily reached for his gun; lying as he was in the darkness of the bunk, the man watching him could scarcely have seen the movement. But the head vanished, as if warned by some instinct.

  Harrison sat up on his bunk, scowling, resisting the natural impulse to rush to the window and look out. That might be exactly what the man outside was wanting. There was something deadly about this business; the fellow had evidently been trying to get in. Was it the same creature that had followed him through the swamp? A sudden thought struck him. What was more likely than that the Chinaman had set a man to watch for a possible pursuer? Harrison cursed himself for not having thought of it before.

  He struck a match, cupped it in his hand, and looked at his watch. It was scarcely ten o’clock. The night was still young. He scowled abstractedly at the rough wall behind the bunk, minutely illuminated in the flare of the match, and suddenly his breath hissed between his teeth. The match burned down to his fingers and went out. He struck another and leaned to the wall. Thrust in a chink between the logs was a knife, and its wicked curved blade was grimly smeared and clotted. The implication sent a shiver down Harrison’s spine. The blood might be that of an animal — but who would butcher a calf or a hog in that room? Why had not the blade been cleansed? It was as if it had been hastily concealed, after striking a murderous blow.

  He took it down and looked at it closely. The blood was dried and blackened as if at least many hours had elapsed since it had been let. The weapon was no ordinary butcher knife — Harrison stiffened. It was a Chinese dagger. The match went out and Harrison did what the average man would have done. He leaned over the edge of the bunk, the only thing in the room that would conceal an object of any size, and lifted the cloth that hung to the floor. He did not actually expect to find the corpse of Woon Shang beneath it. He merely acted through instinct. Nor did he find a corpse. His hand, groping in the dark, encountered only the uneven floor and rough logs; then his fingers felt something else — something at once compact and yielding, wedged between the logs as the knife had been.

  He drew it forth; it felt like a flat package of crisp paper, bound with oiled silk. Cupping a match in his hand, he tore it open. Ten worn bills met his gaze; on each bill was the numerals of $1,000. He crushed the match out and sat in the dark, mental pictures tumbling rapidly across his consciousness.

  So John Bartholomew had lied. Doubtless he had taken in the Chinaman as he had taken in Harrison. The detective visualized a dim form bending in the darkness above a sleeping figure in that same bunk — a murderous stroke with the victim’s own knife.

  He growled inarticulately, with the chagrin of the cheated manhunter, certain that Woon Shang’s body was rotting in some slimy marsh. At least he had the money. Careless of Bartholomew to hide it there. But was it? It was only by an accidental chain of circumstances that he had found it —

  He stiffened again. Under the door he saw a thin pencil of light. Had Bartholomew not yet gone to bed? But he remembered the blowing out of the lamp. Harrison rose and glided noiselessly to the thick door. When he reached it he heard a low mumble of voices in the outer room. The speakers moved nearer, stood directly before the door. He strained his ears and recognized the crisp accents of John Bartholomew. “Don’t bungle the job,” the mulatto was muttering. “Get him before he has a chance to use his gun. He doesn’t suspect anything. I just remember that I left the Chinaman’s knife in the crack over the bunk. But the detective will never see it, in the dark. He had to come butting in here, this particular night. We can’t let him see what he’d see if he lived through this night.”

  “We do de job quick and clean, mastah,” murmured another voice, with a guttural accent different from any Harrison had ever heard, and impossible to reproduce.

  “Alright; we haven’t anything to fear from Joe Corley. The Swamp Cat carried out my instructions.”

  “Dat Swamp Cat prowlin’
‘round outside right now,” muttered another man. “Ah don’t like him. Why can’t he do dis job?”

  “He obeys my orders; but he can’t be trusted too far. But we can’t stand here talking like this. The detective will wake up and get suspicious. Throw open that door and rush him. Knife him in his bunk—”

  Harrison always believed that the best defense was a strong offensive. There was but one way out of this jam. He took it without hesitation. He hurled a massive shoulder against the door, knocking it open, and sprang into the outer room, gun leveled, and barked: “Hands up, damn you!”

  There were five men in that room; Bartholomew, holding the lamp and shading it with his left hand, and four others, four lean, rangy giants in nondescript garments, with yellow, sinister features. Each man of the four had a knife in his hand.

  They recoiled with yells of dismay as Harrison crashed upon them. Automatically their hands went up and their knives clattered on the floor. For an instant the white man was complete master of the situation, Bartholomew turning ashy as he stared, the lamp shaking in his hands.

  “Back up against that wall!” snapped Harrison.

  They obeyed dumbly, rendered incapable of action by the shock of surprise. Harrison knew that it was John Bartholomew, more than these hulking butchers, that he had to fear.

  “Set that lamp on the table,” he snapped. “Line up there with them — ha!”

  Bartholomew had stooped to lower the lamp to the table — then quick as a cat he threw it crashing to the floor, ducking behind the table with the same motion. Harrison’s gun crashed almost simultaneously, but even in the bedlam darkness that followed, the detective knew he had missed. Whirling, he leaped through the outer door. Inside the dark cabin he would have no chance against the knives for which the Negroes were already groping on the floor, mouthing like rabid dogs. As Harrison raced across the clearing he heard Bartholomew’s furious voice yelling commands. The white man did not take the obvious route, the beaten trail. He rounded the cabin and darted toward the trees on the other side. He had no intention of fleeing until he was run down from behind. He was seeking a place where he could turn at bay and shoot it out with a little advantage on his side. The moon was just coming up above the trees, emphasizing, rather than illuminating the shadows.