Black Vulmea's Vengeance by Robert E. Howard
A TERENCE VULMEA STORY
First published in Golden Fleece, November 1938
TABLE OF CONTENTS
OUT of the Cockatoo's cabin staggered Black Terence Vulmea,
pipe in one hand and flagon in the other. He stood with booted legs wide,
teetering slightly to the gentle lift of the lofty poop. He was bareheaded
and his shirt was open, revealing his broad hairy chest. He emptied the
flagon and tossed it over the side with a gusty sigh of satisfaction, then
directed his somewhat blurred gaze on the deck below. From poop ladder to
forecastle it was littered by sprawling figures. The ship smelt like a
brewery. Empty barrels, with their heads stove in, stood or rolled between
the prostrate forms. Vulmea was the only man on his feet. From galley-boy to
first mate the rest of the ship's company lay senseless after a debauch that
had lasted a whole night long. There was not even a man at the helm.
But it was lashed securely and in that placid sea no hand was needed on
the wheel. The breeze was light but steady. Land was a thin blue line to the
east. A stainless blue sky held a sun whose heat had not yet become fierce.
Vulmea blinked indulgently down upon the sprawled figures of his crew, and
glanced idly over the larboard side. H e grunted incredulously and batted his
eyes. A ship loomed where he had expected to see only naked ocean stretching
to the skyline. She was little more than a hundred yards away, and was
bearing down swiftly on the Cockatoo, obviously with the intention of laying
her alongside. She was tall and square-rigged, her white canvas flashing
dazzlingly in the sun. From the maintruck the flag of England whipped red
against the blue. Her bulwarks were lined with tense figures, bristling with
boarding-pikes and grappling irons, and through her open ports the astounded
pirate glimpsed the glow of the burning matches the gunners held ready.
"All hands to battle-quarters!" yelled Vulmea confusedly. Reverberant
snores answered the summons. All hands remained as they were.
"Wake up, you lousy dogs!" roared their captain. "Up, curse you! A king's
ship is at our throats!"
His only response came in the form of staccato commands from the frigate's
deck, barking across the narrowing strip of blue water.
Cursing luridly he lurched in a reeling run across the poop to the swivel-
gun which stood at the head of the larboard ladder. Seizing this he swung it
about until its muzzle bore full on the bulwark of the approaching frigate.
Objects wavered dizzily before his bloodshot eyes, but he squinted along its
barrel as if he were aiming a musket.
"Strike your colors, you damned pirate!" came a hail from the trim figure
that trod the warship's poop, sword in hand.
"Go to hell!" roared Vulmea, and knocked the glowing coals of his pipe
into the vent of the gun-breech. The falcon crashed, smoke puffed out in a
white cloud, and the double handful of musket balls with which the gun had
been charged mowed a ghastly lane through the boarding party clustered along
the frigate's bulwark. Like a clap of thunder came the answering broadside
and a storm of metal raked the Cockatoo's decks, turning them into a red
Sails ripped, ropes parted, timbers splintered, and blood and brains
mingled with the pools of liquor spilt on the decks. A round shot as big as a
man's head smashed into the falcon, ripping it loose from the swivel and
dashing it against the man who had fired it. The impact knocked him backward
headlong across the poop where his head hit the rail with a crack that was
too much even for an Irish skull. Black Vulmea sagged senseless to the
boards. He was as deaf to the triumphant shouts and the stamp of victorious
feet on his red-streaming decks as were his men who had gone from the sleep
of drunkenness to the black sleep of death without knowing what had hi,
Captain John Wentyard, of his Majesty's frigate the Redoubtable, sipped
his wine delicately and set down the glass with a gesture that in another man
would have smacked of affectation. Wentyard was a tall man, with a narrow,
pale face, colorless eyes, and a prominent nose. His costume was almost sober
in comparison with the glitter of his officers who sat in respectful silence
about the mahogany table in the main cabin.
"Bring in the prisoner," he ordered, and there was a glint of satisfaction
in his cold eyes.
They brought in Black Vulmea, between four brawny sailors, his hands
manacled before him and a chain on his ankles that was just long enough to
allow him to walk without tripping. Blood was clotted in the pirate's thick
black hair. His shirt was in tatters, revealing a torso bronzed by the sun
and rippling with great muscles. Through the stern-windows, he could see the
topmasts of the Cockatoo, just sinking out of sight. That close-range
broadside had robbed the frigate of a prize. His conquerors were before him
and there was no mercy in their stares, but Vulmea did not seem at all
abashed or intimidated. He met the stern eyes of the officers with a level
gaze that reflected only a sardonic amusement. Wentyard frowned. He preferred
that his captives cringe before him. It made him feel more like Justice
personified, looking unemotionally down from a great height on the sufferings
of the evil.
"You are Black Vulmea, the notorious pirate?"
"I'm Vulmea," was the laconic answer.
"I suppose you will say, as do all these rogues," sneered Wentyard, "that
you hold a commission from the Governor of Tortuga? These privateer
commissions from the French mean nothing to his Majesty. You—"
"Save your breath, fish-eyes!" Vulmea grinned hardly. "I hold no
commission from anybody. I'm not one of your accursed swashbucklers who hide
behind the name of buccaneer. I'm a pirate, and I've plundered English ships
as well as Spanish—and be damed to you, heron-beak!"
The officers gasped at this effrontery, and Wentyard smiled a ghastly,
mirthless smile, white with the anger he held in rein.
"You know that I have the authority to hang you out of hand?" he reminded
"I know," answered the pirate softly. "It won't be the first time you've
hanged me, John Wentyard."
"What?" The Englishman stared.
A flame grew in Vulmea's blue eyes and his voice changed subtly in tone
and inflection; the brogue thickened almost imperceptibly.
"On the Galway coast it was, years ago, captain. You were a young officer
then, scarce more than a boy—but with all your ruthlessness fully
developed. There were some wholesale evictions, with the military to see the
job was done, and the Irish were mad enough to make a fight of it—poor,
ragged, half-starved peasants, fighting with sticks against full-armed
English soldiers and sailors. After the massacre and the usual hangings, a
boy crept into a thicket to watch—a lad of ten, who didn't even know
what it was all about. You spied him, John Wentyard, and had your dogs drag
him forth and string him up alongside the kicking bodies of the others. `He's
Irish,' you said as they heaved him aloft. `Little snakes grow into big
ones.' I was that boy. I've looked forward to this meeting, you English
Vulmea still smiled, but the veins knotted in his temples and the great
muscles stood out distinctly on his manacled arms. Ironed and guarded though
the pirate was, Wentyard involuntarily drew back, daunted by the stark and
naked hate that blazed from those savage eyes.
"How did you escape your just deserts?" he asked coldly, recovering his
Vulmea laughed shortly.
"Some of the peasants escaped the massacre and were hiding in the
thickets. As soon as you left they came out, and not being civilized,
cultured Englishmen, but only poor, savage Irishry, they cut me down along
with the others, and found there was still a bit of life in me. We Gaels are
hard to kill, as you Britons have learned to your cost."
"You fell into our hands easily enough this time," observed Wentyard.
Vulmea grinned. His eyes were grimly amused now, but the glint of
murderous hate still lurked in their deeps.
"Who'd have thought to meet a king's ship in these western seas? It's been
weeks since we sighted a sail of any kind, save for the carrach we took
yesterday, with a cargo of wine bound for Panama from Valparaiso. It's not
the time of year for rich prizes. When the lads wanted a drinking bout, who
was I to deny them? We drew out of the lanes the Spaniards mostly follow, and
thought we had the ocean to ourselves. I'd been sleeping in my cabin for some
hours before I came on deck to smoke a pipe or so, and saw you about to board
us without firing a shot."
"You killed seven of my men," harshly accused Wentyard.
"And you killed all of mine," retorted Vulmea. "Poor devils, they'll wake
up in hell without knowing how they got there."
He grinned again, fiercely. His toes dug hard against the floor, unnoticed
by the men who gripped him on either side. The blood was rioting through his
veins, and the berserk feel of his great strength was upon him. He knew he
could, in a sudden, volcanic explosion of power, tear free from the men who
held him, clear the space between him and his enemy with one bound, despite
his chains, and crush Wentyard's skull with a smashing swing of his manacled
fists. That he himself would die an instant later mattered not at all. In
that moment he felt neither fears nor regrets—only a reckless,
ferocious exultation and a cruel contempt for these stupid Englishmen about
him. He laughed in their faces, joying in the knowledge that they did not
know why he laughed. So they thought to chain the tiger, did they? Little
they guessed of the devastating fury that lurked in his catlike thews.
He began filling his great chest, drawing in his breath slowly,
imperceptibly, as his calves knotted and the muscles of his arms grew hard.
Then Wentyard spoke again.
"I will not be overstepping my authority if I hang you within the hour. In
any event you hang, either from my yardarm or from a gibbet on the Port Royal
wharves. But life is sweet, even to rogues like you, who notoriously cling to
every moment granted them by outraged society. It would gain you a few more
months of life if I were to take you back to Jamaica to be sentenced by the
governor. This I might be persuaded to do, on one condition."
"What's that?" Vulmea's tensed muscles did not relax; imperceptibly he
began to settle into a semi-crouch.
"That you tell me the whereabouts of the pirate, Van Raven."
In that instant, while his knotted muscles went pliant again, Vulmea
unerringly gauged and appraised the man who faced him, and changed his plan.
He straightened and smiled.
"And why the Dutchman, Wentyard?" he asked softly. "Why not Tranicos, or
Villiers, or McVeigh, or a dozen others more destructive to English trade
than Van Raven? Is it because of the treasure he took from the Spanish
plate-fleet? Aye, the king would like well to set his hands on that hoard,
and there's a rich prize would go to the captain lucky or bold enough to find
Van Raven and plunder him. Is that why you came all the way around the Horn,
"We are at peace with Spain," answered Wentyard acidly. "As for the
purposes of an officer in his Majesty's navy, they are not for you to
Vulmea laughed at him, the blue flame in his eyes.
"Once I sank a king's cruiser off Hispaniola," he, said. "Damn you and
your prating of `His Majesty'! Your English king is no more to me than so
much rotten driftwood. Van Raven? He's a bird of passage. Who knows where he
sails? But if it's treasure you want, I can show you a hoard that would make
the Dutchman's loot look like a peat-pool beside the Caribbean Sea!"
A pale spark seemed to snap from Wentyard's colorless eyes, and his
officers leaned forward tensely. Vulmea grinned hardly. He knew the credulity
of navy men, which they shared with landsmen and honest mariners, in regard
to pirates and plunder. Every seaman not himself a rover, believed that every
buccaneer had knowledge of vast hidden wealth. The loot the men of the Red
Brotherhood took from the Spaniards, rich enough as it was, was magnified a
thousand times in the telling, and rumor made every swaggering sea-rat the
guardian of a treasure-trove.
Coolly plumbing the avarice of Wentyard's hard soul, Vulmea said: "Ten
days' sail from here there's a nameless bay on the coast of Ecuador. Four
years ago Dick Harston, the English pirate and I anchored there, in quest of
a hoard of ancient jewels called the Fangs of Satan. An Indian swore he had
found them, hidden in a ruined temple in an uninhabited jungle a day's march
inland, but superstitious fear of the old gods kept him from helping himself.
But he was willing to guide us there.
"We marched inland with both crews, for neither of us trusted the other.
To make a long tale short, we found the ruins of an old city, and beneath an
ancient, broken altar, we found the jewels—rubies, diamonds, emeralds,
sapphires, bloodstones, big as hen eggs, making a quivering flame of fire
about the crumbling old shrine!"
The flame grew in Wentyard's eyes. His white fingers knotted about the
slender stem of his wine glass.
"The sight of them was enough to madden a man," Vulmea continued, watching
the captain narrowly. "We camped there for the night, and, one way or
another, we fell out over the division of the spoil, though there was enough
to make every man of us rich for life. We came to blows, though, and whilst
we fought among ourselves, there came a scout running with word that a
Spanish fleet had come into the bay, driven our ships away, and sent five
hundred men ashore to pursue us. By Satan, they were on us before the scout
ceased the telling! One of my men snatched the plunder away and hid it in the
old temple, and we scattered, each band for itself. There was no time to take
the plunder. We barely got away with our naked lives. Eventually I, with most
of my crew, made my way back to the coast and was picked up by my ship which
came slinking back after escaping from the Spaniards.
"Harston gained his ship with a handful of men, after skirmishing all the
way with the Spaniards who chased him instead of us, and later was slain by
savages on the coast of California.
"The Dons harried me all the way around the Horn, and I never had an
opportunity to go back after the loot—until this voyage. It was there I
was going when you overhauled me. The treasure's still there. Promise me my
life and I'll take you to it."
"That is impossible," snapped Wentyard. "The best I can promise you is
trial before the governor of Jamaica."
"Well," said Vulmea, "Maybe the governor might be more lenient than you.
And much may happen between here and Jamaica."
Wentyard did not reply, but spread a map on the broad table.
"Where is this bay?"
Vulmea indicated a certain spot on the coast. The sailors released their
grip on his arms while he marked it, and Wentyard's head was within reach,
but the Irishman's plans were changed, and they included a chance for
life— desperate, but nevertheless a chance.
"Very well. Take him below."
Vulmea went out with his guards, and Wentyard sneered coldly.
"A gentleman of his Majesty's navy is not bound by a promise to such a
rogue as he. Once the treasure is aboard the Redoubtable, gentlemen, I
promise you he shall swing from a yard-arm."
Ten days later the anchors rattled down in the nameless bay Vulmea had
IT seemed desolate enough to have been the coast of an
uninhabited continent. The bay was merely a shallow indentation of the
shore-line. Dense jungle crowded the narrow strip of white sand that was the
beach. Gay-plumed birds flitted among the broad fronds, and the silence of
primordial savagery brooded over all. But a dim trail led back into the
twilight vistas of green-walled mystery.
Dawn was a white mist on the water when seventeen men marched down the dim
path. One was John Wentyard. On an expedition designed to find treasure, he
would trust the command to none but himself. Fifteen were soldiers, armed
with hangers and muskets. The seventeenth was Black Vulmea. The Irishman's
legs, perforce, were free, and the irons had been removed from his arms. But
his wrists were bound before him with cords, and one end of the cord was in
the grip of a brawny marine whose other hand held a cutlass ready to chop
down the pirate if he made any move to escape.
"Fifteen men are enough," Vulmea had told Wentyard. "Too many! Men go mad
easily in the tropics, and the sight of the Fangs of Satan is enough to
madden any man, king's man or not. The more that see the jewels, the greater
chance of mutiny before you raise the Horn again. You don't need more than
three or four. Who are you afraid of'? You said England was at peace with
Spain, and there are no Spaniards anywhere near this spot, in any event."
"I wasn't thinking of Spaniards," answered Wentyard coldly. "I am
providing against any attempt you might make to escape."
"Well," laughed Vulmea, "do you think you need fifteen men for that?"
"I'm taking no chances," was the grim retort. "You are stronger than two
or three ordinary men, Vulmea, and full of wiles. My men will march with
pieces ready, and if you try to bolt, they will shoot you down like the dog
you are —should you, by any chance, avoid being cut down by your guard.
Besides, there is always the chance of savages."
The pirate jeered.
"Go beyond the Cordilleras if you seek real savages. There are Indians
there who cut off your head and shrink it no bigger than your fist. But they
never come on this side of the mountains. As for the race that built the
temple, they've all been dead for centuries. Bring your armed escort if you
want to. It will be of no use. One strong man can carry away the whole
"One strong man!" murmured Wentyard, licking his lips as his mind reeled
at the thought of the wealth represented by a load of jewels that required
the full strength of a strong man to carry. Confused visions of knighthood
and admiralty whirled through his head. "What about the path?" he asked
suspiciously. "If this coast is uninhabited, how comes it there?"
"It was an old road, centuries ago, probably used by the race that built
the city. In some places you can see where it was paved. But Harston and I
were the first to use it for centuries. And you can tell it hasn't been used
since. You can see where the young growth has sprung up above the scars of
the axes we used to clear a way."
Wentyard was forced to agree. So now, before sunrise, the landing party
was swinging inland at a steady gait that ate up the miles. The bay and the
ship were quickly lost to sight. All morning they tramped along through
steaming heat, between green, tangled jungle walls where gay-hued birds
flitted silently and monkeys chattered. Thick vines hung low across the
trail, impeding their progress, and they were sorely annoyed by gnats and
other insects. At noon they paused only long enough to drink some water and
eat the ready-cooked food they had brought along. The men were stolid
veterans, inured to long marches, and Wentyard would allow them no more rest
than was necessary for their brief meal. He was afire with savage eagerness
to view the hoard Vulmea had described.
The trail did not twist as much as most jungle paths. It was overgrown
with vegetation, but it gave evidence that it had once been a road,
well-built and broad. Pieces of paving were still visible here and there. By
mid-afternoon the land began to rise slightly to be broken by low,
jungle-choked hills. They were aware of this only by the rising and dipping
of the trail. The dense walls on either hand shut off their view.
Neither Wentyard nor any of his men glimpsed the furtive, shadowy shapes
which now glided along through the jungle on either hand. Vulmea was aware of
their presence, but he only smiled grimly and said nothing. Carefully and so
subtly that his guard did not suspect it, the pirate worked at the cords on
his wrists, weakening and straining the strands by continual tugging and
twisting. He had been doing this all day, and he could feel them slowly
The sun hung low in the jungle branches when the pirate halted and pointed
to where the old road bent almost at right angles and disappeared into the
mouth of a ravine.
"Down that ravine lies the old temple where the jewels are hidden."
"On, then!" snapped Wentyard, fanning himself with his plumed hat. Sweat
trickled down his face, wilting the collar of his crimson, gilt-embroidered
coat. A frenzy of impatience was on him, his eyes dazzled by the imagined
glitter of the gems Vulmea had so vividly described. Avarice makes for
credulity, and it never occurred to Wentyard to doubt Vulmea's tale. He saw
in the Irishman only a hulking brute eager to buy a few months more of life.
Gentlemen of his Majesty's navy were not accustomed to analyzing the
character of pirates. Wentyard's code was painfully simple: a heavy hand and
a roughshod directness. He had never bothered to study or try to understand
They entered the mouth of the ravine and marched on between cliffs fringed
with overhanging fronds. Wentyard fanned himself with his hat and gnawed his
lip with impatience as he stared eagerly about for some sign of the ruins
described by his captive. His face was paler than ever, despite the heat
which reddened the bluff faces of his men, tramping ponderously after him.
Vulmea's brown face showed no undue moisture. He did not tramp: he moved with
the sure, supple tread of a panther, and without a suggestion of a seaman's
lurching roll. His eyes ranged the walls above them and when a frond swayed
without a breath of wind to move it, he did not miss it.
The ravine was some fifty feet wide, the floor carpeted by a low, thick
growth of vegetation. The jungle ran densely along the rims of the walls,
which were some forty feet high. They were sheer for the most part, but here
and there natural ramps ran down into the gulch, half-covered with tangled
vines. A few hundred yards ahead of them they saw that the ravine bent out of
sight around a rocky shoulder. From the opposite wall there jutted a
corresponding crag. The outlines of these boulders were blurred by moss and
creepers, but they seemed too symmetrical to be the work of nature alone.
Vulmea stopped, near one of the natural ramps that sloped down from the
rim. His captors looked at him questioningly.
"Why are you stopping?" demanded Wentyard fretfully. His foot struck
something in the rank grass and he kicked it aside. It rolled free and
grinned up at him—a rotting human skull. He saw glints of white in the
green all about him—skulls and bones almost covered by the dense
"Is this where you piratical dogs slew each other?" he demanded crossly.
"What are you waiting on? What are you listening for?"
Vulmea relaxed his tense attitude and smiled indulgently.
"That used to be a gateway there ahead of us," he said. "Those rocks on
each side are really gate-pillars. This ravine was a roadway, leading to the
city when people lived there. It's the only approach to it, for it's
surrounded by sheer cliffs on all sides." He laughed harshly. "This is like
the road to Hell, John Wentyard: easy to go down—not so easy to go up
"What are you maundering about?" snarled Wentyard, clapping his hat
viciously on his head. "You Irish are all babblers and mooncalves! Get on
From the jungle beyond the mouth of the ravine came a sharp twang.
Something whined venomously down the gulch, ending its flight with a vicious
thud. One of the soldiers gulped and started convulsively. His musket
clattered to the earth and he reeled, clawing at his throat from which
protruded a long shaft, vibrating like a serpent's head. Suddenly he pitched
to the ground and lay twitching.
"Indians!" yelped Wentyard, and turned furiously on his prisoner. "Dog!
Look at that! You said there were no savages hereabouts!"
Vulmea laughed scornfully.
"Do you call them savages? Bah! Poor-spirited dogs that skulk in the
jungle, too fearful to show themselves on the coast. Don't you see them
slinking among the trees? Best give them a volley before they grow too
Wentyard snarled at him, but the Englishman knew the value of a display of
firearms when dealing with natives, and he had a glimpse of brown figures
moving among the green foliage. He barked an order and fourteen muskets
crashed, and the bullets rattled among the leaves. A few severed fronds
drifted down; that was all. But even as the smoke puffed out in a cloud,
Vulmea snapped the frayed cords on his wrists, knocked his guard staggering
with a buffet under the ear, snatched his cutlass and was gone, running like
a cat up the steep wall of the ravine. The soldiers with their empty muskets
gaped helplessly after him, and Wentyard's pistol banged futilely, an instant
too late. From the green fringe above them came a mocking laugh.
"Fools! You stand in the door of Hell!"
"Dog!" yelled Wentyard, beside himself, but with his greed still uppermost
in his befuddled mind. "We'll find the treasure without your help!"
"You can't find something that doesn't exist," retorted the unseen pirate.
"There never were any jewels. It was a lie to draw you into a trap. Dick
Harston never came here. I came here, and the Indians butchered all my crew
in that ravine, as those skulls in the grass there testify."
"Liar!" was all Wentyard could find tongue for. "Lying dog! You told me
there were no Indians hereabouts!"
"I told you the head-hunters never came over the mountains," retorted
Vulmea. "They don't either. I told you the people who built the city were all
dead. That's so, too. I didn't tell you that a tribe of brown devils live in
the jungle near here. They never go down to the coast, and they don't like to
have white men come into the jungle. I think they were the people who wiped
out the race that built the city, long ago. Anyway, they wiped out my men,
and the only reason I got away was because I'd lived with the red men of
North America and learned their woodscraft. You're in a trap you won't get
out of, Wentyard!"
"Climb that wall and take him!" ordered Wentyard, and half a dozen men
slung their muskets on their backs and began clumsily to essay the rugged
ramp up which the pirate had run with such catlike ease.
"Better trim sail and stand by to repel boarders," Vulmea advised him from
above. "There are hundreds of red devils out there—and no tame dogs to
run at the crack of a caliver, either."
"And you'd betray white men to savages!" raged Wentyard.
"It goes against my principles," the Irishman admitted, "but it was my
only chance for life. I'm sorry for your men. That's why I advised you to
bring only a handful. I wanted to spare as many as possible. There are enough
Indians out there in the jungle to eat your whole ship's company. As for you,
you filthy dog, what you did in Ireland forfeited any consideration you might
expect as a white man. I gambled on my neck and took my chances with all of
you. It might have been me that arrow hit."
The voice ceased abruptly, and just as Wentyard was wondering if there
were no Indians on the wall above them, the foliage was violently agitated,
there sounded a wild yell, and down came a naked brown body, all asprawl,
limbs revolving in the air, it crashed on the floor of the ravine and lay
motionless —the figure of a brawny warrior, naked but for a loin-cloth
of bark. The dead man was deep-chested, broad-shouldered and muscular, with
features not unintelligent, but hard and brutal. He had been slashed across
The bushes waved briefly, and then again, further along the rim, which
Wentyard believed marked the flight of the Irishman along the ravine wall,
pursued by the companions of the dead warrior, who must have stolen up on
Vulmea while the pirate was shouting his taunts.
The chase was made in deadly silence, but down in the ravine conditions
were anything but silent. At the sight of the falling body a blood-curdling
ululation burst forth from the jungle outside the mouth of the ravine, and a
storm of arrows came whistling down it. Another man fell, and three more were
wounded, and Wentyard called down the men who were laboriously struggling up
the vine-matted ramp. He fell back down the ravine, almost to the bend where
the ancient gate-posts jutted, and beyond that point he feared to go. He felt
sure that the ravine beyond the Gateway was filled with lurking savages. They
would not have hemmed him in on all sides and then left open an avenue of
At the spot where he halted there was a cluster of broken rocks that
looked as though as they might once have formed the walls of a building of
some sort. Among them Wentyard made his stand. He ordered his men to lie
prone, their musket barrels resting on the rocks. One man he detailed to
watch for savages creeping up the ravine from behind them, the others watched
the green wall visible beyond the path that ran into the mouth of the ravine.
Fear chilled Wentyard's heart. The sun was already lost behind the trees and
the shadows were lengthening. In the brief dusk of the tropic twilight, how
could a white man's eye pick out a swift, flitting brown body, or a musket
ball find its mark? And when darkness fell—Wentyard shivered despite
Arrows kept singing down the ravine, but they fell short or splintered on
the rocks. But now bowmen hidden on the walls drove down their shafts, and
from their vantage point the stones afforded little protection. The screams
of men skewered to the ground rose harrowingly. Wentyard saw his command
melting away under his eyes. The only thing that kept them from being
instantly exterminated was the steady fire he had them keep up at the foliage
on the cliffs. They seldom saw their foes; they only saw the fronds shake,
had an occasional glimpse of a brown arm. But the heavy balls, ripping
through the broad leaves, made the hidden archers wary, and the shafts came
at intervals instead of in volleys. Once a piercing death yell announced that
a blind ball had gone home, and the English raised a croaking cheer.
Perhaps it was this which brought the infuriated warriors out of the
jungle. Perhaps, like the white men, they disliked fighting in the dark, and
wanted to conclude the slaughter before night fell. Perhaps they were ashamed
longer to lurk hidden from a handful of men.
At any rate, they came out of the jungle beyond the trail suddenly, and by
the scores, not scrawny primitives, but brawny, hard-muscled warriors,
confident of their strength and physically a match for even the sinewy
Englishmen. They came in a wave of brown bodies that suddenly flooded the
ravine, and others leaped down the walls, swinging from the lianas. They were
hundreds against the handful of Englishmen left. These rose from the rocks
without orders, meeting death with the bulldog stubbornness of their breed.
They fired a volley full into the tide of snarling faces that surged upon
them, and then drew hangers and clubbed empty muskets. There was no time to
reload. Their blast tore lanes in the onsweeping human torrent, but it did
not falter; it came on and engulfed the white men in a snarling, slashing,
Hangers whirred and bit through flesh and bone, clubbed muskets rose and
fell, spattering brains. But copper-headed axes flashed dully in the
twilight, warclubs made a red ruin of the skulls they kissed, and there were
a score of red arms to drag down each struggling white man. The ravine was
choked with a milling, eddying mass, revolving about a fast-dwindling cluster
of desperate, white-skinned figures.
Not until his last man fell did Wentyard break away, blood smeared on his
arms, dripping from his sword. He was hemmed in by a surging ring of
ferocious figures, but he had one loaded pistol left. He fired it full in a
painted face surmounted by a feathered chest and saw it vanish in bloody
ruin. He clubbed a shaven head with the empty barrel, and rushed through the
gap made by the falling bodies. A wild figure leaped at him, swinging a
war-club, but the sword was quicker. Wentyard tore the blade free as the
savage fell. Dusk was ebbing swiftly into darkness, and the figures swirling
about him were becoming indistinct, vague of outline. Twilight waned quickly
in the ravine and darkness had settled there before it veiled the jungle
outside. It was the darkness that saved Wentyard, confusing his attackers. As
the sworded Indian fell he found himself free, though men were rushing on him
from behind, with clubs lifted.
Blindly he fled down the ravine. It lay empty before him. Fear lent wings
to his feet. He raced through the stone abutted Gateway. Beyond it he saw the
ravine widen out; stone walls rose ahead of him, almost hidden by vines and
creepers, pierced with blank windows and doorways. His flesh crawled with the
momentary expectation of a thrust in the back. His heart was pounding so
loudly, the blood hammering so agonizingly in his temples that he could not
tell whether or not bare feet were thudding close behind him.
His hat and coat were gone, his shirt torn and bloodstained, though
somehow he had come through that desperate melee unwounded. Before him he saw
a vine-tangled wall, and an empty doorway. He ran reelingly into the door and
turned, falling to his knee from sheer exhaustion. He shook the sweat from
his eyes, panting gaspingly as he fumbled to reload his pistols. The ravine
was a dim alleyway before him, running to the rock-buttressed bend. Moment by
moment he expected to see it thronged with fierce faces, with swarming
figures. But it lay empty and fierce cries of the victorious warriors drew no
nearer. For some reason they had not followed him through the Gateway.
Terror that they were creeping on him from behind brought him to his feet,
pistols cocked, staring this way and that.
He was in a room whose stone walls seemed ready to crumble. It was
roofless, and grass grew between the broken stones of the floor. Through the
gaping roof he could see the stars just blinking out, and the frond-fringed
rim of the cliff. Through a door opposite the one by which he crouched he had
a vague glimpse of other vegetationchoked, roofless chambers beyond.
Silence brooded over the ruins, and now silence had fallen beyond the bend
of the ravine. He fixed his eyes on the blur that was the Gateway and waited.
It stood empty. Yet he knew that the Indians were aware of his flight. Why
did they not rush in and cut his throat? Were they afraid of his pistols?
They had shown no fear of his soldiers' muskets. Had they gone away, for some
inexplicable reason? Were those shadowy chambers behind him filled with
lurking warriors? If so, why in God's name were they waiting?
He rose and went to the opposite door, craned his neck warily through it,
and after some hesitation, entered the adjoining chamber. It had no outlet
into the open. All its doors led into other chambers, equally ruinous, with
broken roofs, cracked floors and crumbling walls. Three or four he traversed,
his tread, as he crushed down the vegetation growirg among the broken stones,
seeming intolerably loud in the stillness. Abandoning his explorations—
for the labyrinth seemed endless—he returned to the room that opened
toward the ravine. No sound came up the gulch, but it was so dark under the
cliff that men could have entered the Gateway and been crouching near him,
without his being able to see them.
At last he could endure the suspense no longer. Walking as quietly as he
was able, he left the ruins and approached the Gateway, now a well of
blackness. A few moments later he was hugging the left-hand abutment and
straining his eyes to see into the ravine beyond. It was too dark to see
anything more than the stars blinking over the rims of the walls. He took a
cautious step beyond the Gateway—it was the swift swish of feet through
the vegetation on the floor that saved his life. He sensed rather than saw a
black shape loom out of the darkness, and he fired blindly and point-blank.
The flash lighted a ferocious face, falling backward, and beyond it the
Englishman dimly glimpsed other figures, solid ranks of them, surging
inexorably toward him.
With a choked cry he hurled himself back around the gate-pillar, stumbled
and fell and lay dumb and quaking, clenching his teeth against the sharp
agony he expected in the shape of a spear-thrust. None came. No figure came
lunging after him. Incredulously he gathered himself to his feet, his pistols
shaking in his hands. They were waiting, beyond that bend, but they would not
come through the Gateway, not even to glut their blood-lust. This fact forced
itself upon him, with its implication of inexplicable mystery.
Stumblingly he made his way back to the ruins and groped into the black
doorway, overcoming an instinctive aversion against entering the roofless
chamber. Starlight shone through the broken roof, lightening the gloom a
little, but black shadows clustered along the walls and the inner door was an
ebon wall of mystery. Like most Englishmen of his generation, John Wentyard
more than believed in ghosts, and he felt that if ever there was a place fit
to be haunted by the phantoms of a lost and forgotten race, it was these
He glanced fearfully through the broken roof at the dark fringe of
overhanging fronds on the cliffs above, hanging motionless in the breathless
air, and wondered if moonrise, illuminating his refuge, would bring arrows
questing down through the roof. Except for the far lone cry of a nightbird,
the jungle was silent. There was not so much as the rustle of a leaf. If
there were men on the cliffs there was no sign to show it. He was aware of
hunger and an increasing thirst; rage gnawed at him, and a fear that was
already tinged with panic.
He crouched at the doorway, pistols in his hands, naked sword at his knee,
and after a while the moon rose, touching the overhanging fronds with silver
long before it untangled itself from the trees and rose high enough to pour
its light over the cliffs. Its light invaded the ruins, but no arrows came
from the cliff, nor was there any sound from beyond the Gateway. Wentyard
thrust his head through the door and surveyed his retreat.
The ravine, after it passed between the ancient gate-pillars, opened into
a broad bowl, walled by cliffs, and unbroken except for the mouth of the
gulch. Wentyard saw the rim as a continuous, roughly circular line, now edged
with the fire of moonlight. The ruins in which he had taken refuge almost
filled this bowl, being butted against the cliffs on one side. Decayed and
smothering vines had almost obliterated the original architectural plan. He
saw the structure as a maze of roofless chambers, the outer doors opening
upon the broad space left between it and the opposite wall of the cliff. This
space was covered with low, dense vegetation, which also choked some of the
Wentyard saw no way of escape. The cliffs were not like the walls of the
ravine. They were of solid rock and sheer, even jutting outward a little at
the rim. No vines trailed down them. They did not rise many yards above the
broken roofs of the ruins, but they were as far out of his reach as if they
had towered a thousand feet. He was caught like a rat in a trap. The only way
out was up the ravine, where the blood-lusting warriors waited with grim
patience. He remembered Vulmea's mocking warning: "—Like the road to
Hell: easy to go down; not so easy to go up again!" Passionately he hoped
that the Indians had caught the Irishman and slain him slowly and painfully.
He could have watched Vulmea flayed alive with intense satisfaction.
Presently, despite hunger and thirst and fear, he fell asleep, to dream of
ancient temples where drums muttered and strange figures in parrot-feather
mantles moved through the smoke of sacrificial fires; and he dreamed at last
of a silent, hideous shape which came to the inner door of his roofless
chamber and regarded him with cold, inhuman eyes.
It was from this dream that he awakened, bathed in cold sweat, to start up
with an incoherent cry, clutching his pistols. Then, fully awake, he stood in
the middle of the chamber, trying to gather his scattered wits. Memory of the
dream was vague but terrifying. Had he actually seen a shadow sway in the
doorway and vanish as he awoke, or had it been only part of his nightmare?
The red, lopsided moon was poised on the western rim of the cliffs, and that
side of the bowl was in thick shadow, but still an illusive light found its
way into the ruins. Wentyard peered through the inner doorway, pistols
cocked. Light floated rather than streamed down from above, and showed him an
empty chamber beyond. The vegetation on the floor was crushed down, but he
remembered having walked back and forth across it several times.
Cursing his nervous imagination he returned to the outer doorway. He told
himself that he chose that place the better to guard against an attack from
the ravine, but the real reason was that he could not bring himself to select
a spot deeper in the gloomy interior of the ancient ruins.
He sat down cross-legged just inside the doorway, his back against the
wall, his pistols beside him and his sword across his knees. His eyes burned
and his lips felt baked with the thirst that tortured him. The sight of the
heavy globules of dew that hung on the grass almost maddened him, but he did
not seek to quench his thirst by that means, believing as he did that it was
rank poison, he drew his belt closer, against his hunger, and told himself
that he would not sleep. But he did sleep, in spite of everything.
IT was a frightful scream close at hand that awakened
Wentyard. He was on his feet before he was fully awake, glaring wildly about
him. The moon had set and the interior of the chamber was dark as Egypt, in
which the outer doorway was but a somewhat lighter blur. But outside it there
sounded a blood-chilling gurgling, the heaving and flopping of a heavy body.
It was a human being that had screamed. Wentyard groped for his pistols,
found his sword instead, and hurried forth, his taut nerves thrumming. The
starlight in the bowl, dim as it was, was less Stygian than the absolute
blackness of' the ruins. But he did not see the figure stretched in the grass
until he stumbled over it. That was all he saw, then—just that dim form
stretched on the ground before the doorway. The foliage hanging over the
cliff rustled a little in the faint breeze. Shadows hung thick under the wall
and about the ruins. A score of men might have been lurking near him, unseen.
But there was no sound.
After a while, Wentyard knelt beside the figure, straining his eyes in the
starlight. He grunted softly. The dead man was not an Indian, but a black
man, a brawny ebon giant, clad, like the red men, in a bark loin clout, with
a crest of parrot feathers on his head. A murderous copperheaded axe lay near
his hand, and a great gash showed in his muscular breast, a lesser wound
under his shoulder blade. He had been stabbed so savagely that the blade had
transfixed him and come out through his back.
Wentyard swore at the accumulated mystery of it. The presence of the black
man was not inexplicable. Negro slaves, fleeing from Spanish masters,
frequently took to the jungle and lived with the natives. This black
evidently did not share in whatever superstition or caution kept the Indians
outside the bowl; he had come in alone to butcher the victim they had at bay.
But the mystery of his death remained. The blow that had impaled him had been
driven with more than ordinary strength. There was a sinister suggestion
about the episode, though the mysterious killer had saved Wentyard from being
brained in his sleep—it was as if some inscrutable being, having
claimed the Englishman for its own, refused to be robbed of its prey.
Wentyard shivered, shaking off the thought.
Then he realized that he was armed only with his sword. He had rushed out
of the ruins half asleep, leaving his pistols behind him, after a brief
fumbling that failed to find them in the darkness. He turned and hurried back
into the chamber and began to grope on the floor, first irritably, then with
growing horror. The pistols were gone.
At this realization panic overwhelmed Wentyard. He found himself out in
the starlight again without knowing just how he had got there. He was
sweating, trembling in every limb, biting his tongue to keep from screaming
in hysterical terror.
Frantically he fought for control. It was not imagination, then, which
peopled those ghastly ruins with furtive, sinister shapes that glided from
room to shadowy room on noiseless feet, and spied upon him while he slept.
Something besides himself had been in that room—something that had
stolen his pistols either while he was fumbling over the dead man outside,
or— grisly thought!—while he slept. He believed the latter had
been the case. He had heard no sound in the ruins while he was outside. But
why had it not taken his sword as well? Was it the Indians, after all,
playing a horrible game with him? Was it their eyes he seemed to feel burning
upon him from the shadows? But he did not believe it was the Indians. They
would have no reason to kill their black ally.
Wentyard felt that he was near the end of his rope. He was nearly frantic
with thirst and hunger, and he shrank from the contemplation of another day
of heat in that waterless bowl. He went toward the ravine mouth, grasping his
sword in desperation, telling himself that it was better to be speared
quickly than haunted to an unknown doom by unseen phantoms, or perish of
thirst. But the blind instinct to live drove him back from the
rock-buttressed Gateway. He could not bring himself to exchange an uncertain
fate for certain death. Faint noises beyond the bend told him that men, many
men, were waiting there, and retreated, cursing weakly.
In a futile gust of passion he dragged the black man's body to the Gateway
and thrust it through. At least he would not have it for a companion to
poison the air when it rotted in the heat.
He sat down about half-way between the ruins and the ravine-mouth, hugging
his sword and straining his eyes into the shadowy starlight, and felt that he
was being watched from the ruins; he sensed a Presence there, inscrutable,
He was still sitting there when dawn flooded jungle and cliffs with grey
light, and a brown warrior, appearing in the Gateway, bent his bow and sent
an arrow at the figure hunkered in the open space. The shaft cut into the
grass near Wentyard's foot, and the white man sprang up stiffly and ran into
the doorway of the ruins. The warrior did not shoot again. As if frightened
by his own temerity, he turned and hurried back through the Gateway and
vanished from sight.
Wentyard spat dryly and swore. Daylight dispelled some of the phantom
terrors of the night, and he was suffering so much from thirst that his fear
was temporarily submerged. He was determined to explore the ruins by each
crevice and cranny and bring to bay whatever was lurking among them. At least
he would have daylight by which to face it.
To this end he turned toward the inner door, and then he stopped in his
tracks, his heart in his throat. In the inner doorway stood a great gourd,
newly cut and hollowed, and filled with water; beside it was a stack of
fruit, and in another calabash there was meat, still smoking faintly. With a
stride he reached the door and glared through. Only an empty chamber met his
Sight of water and scent of food drove from his mind all thoughts of
anything except his physical needs. He seized the water-gourd and drank
gulpingly, the precious liquid splashing on his breast. The water was fresh
and sweet, and no wine had ever given him such delirious satisfaction. The
meat he found was still warm. What it was he neither knew nor cared. He ate
ravenously, grasping the joints in his fingers and tearing away the flesh
with his teeth. It had evidently been roasted over an open fire, and without
salt or seasoning, but it tasted like food of the gods to the ravenous man.
He did not seek to explain the miracle, nor to wonder if the food were
poisoned. The inscrutable haunter of the ruins which had saved his life that
night, and which had stolen his pistols, apparently meant to preserve him for
the time being, at least, and Wentyard accepted the gifts without
And having eaten he lay down and slept. He did not believe the Indians
would invade the ruins; he did not care much if they did, and speared him in
his sleep. He believed that the unknown being which haunted the rooms could
slay him any time it wished. It had been close to him again and again and had
not struck. It had showed no signs of hostility so far, except to steal his
pistols. To go searching for it might drive it into hostility.
Wentyard, despite his slaked thirst and full belly, was at the point where
he had a desperate indifference to consequences. His world seemed to have
crumbled about him. He had led his men into a trap to see them butchered; he
had seen his prisoner escape; he was caught like a caged rat himself; the
wealth he had lusted after and dreamed about had proved a lie. Worn out with
vain ragings against his fate, he slept.
The sun was high when he awoke and sat up with a startled oath. Black
Vulmea stood looking down at him.
"Damn!" Wentyard sprang up, snatching at his sword. His mind was a riot of
maddening emotions, but physically he was a new man, and nerved to a rage
that was tinged with near-insanity.
"You dog!" he raved. "So the Indians didn't catch you on the cliffs!"
"Those red dogs?" Vulmea laughed. "They didn't follow me past the Gateway.
They don't come on the cliffs overlooking these ruins. They've got a cordon
of men strung through the jungle, surrounding this place, but I can get
through any time I want to. I cooked your breakfast—and mine—
right under their noses, and they never saw me."
"My breakfast!" Wentyard glared wildly. "You mean it was you brought water
and food for me?"
"But—but why?" Wentyard was floundering in a maze of
Vulmea laughed, but he laughed only with his lips. His eyes were burning.
"Well, at first I thought it would satisfy me if I saw you get an arrow
through your guts. Then when you broke away and got in here, I said, `Better
still! They'll keep the swine there until he starves, and I'll lurk about and
watch him die slowly.' I knew they wouldn't come in after you. When they
ambushed me and my crew in the ravine, I cut my way through them and got in
here, just as you did, and they didn't follow me in. But I got out of here
the first night. I made sure you wouldn't get out the way I did that time,
and then settled myself to watch you die. I could come or go as I pleased
after nightfall, and you'd never see or hear me."
"But in that case, I don't see why—"
"You probably wouldn't understand!" snarled Vulmea. "But just watching you
starve wasn't enough. I wanted to kill you myself—I wanted to see your
blood gush, and watch your eyes glaze!" The Irishman's voice thickened with
his passion, and his great hands clenched until the knuckles showed white.
"And I didn't want to kill a man half-dead with want. So I went back up into
the jungle on the cliffs and got water and fruit, and knocked a monkey off a
limb with a stone, and roasted him. I brought you a good meal and set it
there in the door while you were sitting outside the ruins. You couldn't see
me from where you were sitting, and of course you didn't hear anything. You
English are all dull-eared."
"And it was you who stole my pistols last night!" muttered Wentyard,
staring at the butts jutting from Vulmea's Spanish girdle.
"Aye! I took them from the floor beside you while you slept. I learned
stealth from the Indians of North America. I didn't want you to shoot me when
I came to pay my debt. While I was getting them I heard somebody sneaking up
outside, and saw a black man coming toward the doorway. I didn't want him to
be robbing me of my revenge, so f stuck my cutlass through him. You awakened
when he howled, and ran out, as you'll remember, but I stepped back around
the corner and in at another door. I didn't want to meet you except in broad
open daylight and you in fighting trim."
"Then it was you who spied on me from the inner door," muttered Wentyard.
"You whose shadow I saw just before the moon sank behind the cliffs."
"Not I!" Vulmea's denial was genuine. "I didn't come down into the ruins
until after moonset, when I came to steal your pistols. Then I went back up
on the cliffs, and came again just before dawn to leave your food."
"But enough of this talk!" he roared gustily, whipping out his cutlass:
"I'm mad with thinking of the Galway coast and dead men kicking in a row, and
a rope that strangled me! I've tricked you, trapped you, and now I'm going to
Wentyard's face was a ghastly mask of hate, livid, with bared teeth and
"Dog!" with a screech he lunged, trying to catch Vulmea offguard.
But the cutlass met and deflected the straight blade, and Wentyard bounded
back just in time to avoid the decapitating sweep of the pirate's steel.
Vulmea laughed fiercely and came on like a storm, and Wentyard met him with a
drowning man's desperation.
Like most officers of the British navy, Wentyard was proficient in the use
of the long straight sword he carried. He was almost as tall as Vulmea, and
though he looked slender beside the powerful figure of the pirate, he
believed that his skill would offset the sheer strength of the Irishman.
He was disillusioned within the first few moments of the fight. Vulmea was
neither slow nor clumsy. He was as quick as a wounded panther, and his
sword-play was no less crafty than Wentyard's. It only seemed so, because of
the pirate's furious style of attack, showering blow on blow with what looked
like sheer recklessness. But the very ferocity of his attack was his best
defense, for it gave his opponent no time to launch a counter-attack.
The power of his blows, beating down on Wentyard's blade, rocked and shook
the Englishman to his heels, numbing his wrist and arm with their impact.
Bliad fury, humiliation, naked fright combined to rob the captain of his
poise and cunning. A stamp of feet, a louder clash of steel, and Wentyard's
blade whirred into a corner. The Englishman reeled back, his face livid, his
eyes like those of a madman.
"Pick up your sword!" Vulmea was panting, not so much from exertion as
from rage. Wentyard did not seem to hear him.
"Bah!" Vulmea threw aside his cutlass in a spasm of disgust. "Can't you
even fight? I'll kill you with my bare hands!"
He slapped Wentyard viciously first on one side of the face and then on
the other. The Englishman screamed wordlessly and launched himself at the
pirate's throat, and Vulmea checked him with a buffet in the face and knocked
him sprawling with a savage smash under the heart. Wentyard got to his knees
and shook the blood from his face, while Vulmea stood over him, his brows
black and his great fists knotted.
"Get up'" muttered the Irishman thickly. "Get up, you hangman of peasants
Wentyard did not heed him. He was groping inside his shirt, from which he
drew out something he stared at with painful intensity.
"Get up, damn you, before I set my boot-heels on your face—"
Vulmea broke off, glaring incredulously. Wentyard, crouching over the
object he had drawn from his shirt, was weeping in great, racking sobs.
"What the hell!" Vulmea jerked it away from him, consumed by wonder to
learn what could bring tears from John Wentyard. It was a skillfully painted
miniature. The blow he had struck Wentyard had cracked it, but not enough to
obliterate the soft gentle faces of a pretty young woman and child which
smiled up at the scowling Irishman.
"Well, I'm damned!" Vulmea stared from the broken portrait in his hand to
the man crouching miserably on the floor. "Your wife and daughter?"
Wentyard, his bloody face sunk in his hands, nodded mutely. He had endured
much within the last night and day. The breaking of the portrait he always
carried over his heart was the last straw; it seemed like an attack on the
one soft spot in his hard soul, and it left him dazed and demoralized.
Vulmea scowled ferociously, but it somehow seemed forced.
"I didn't know you had a wife and child," he said almost defensively.
"The lass is but five years old," gulped Wentyard. "I haven't seen them in
nearly a year My God, what's to become of them now? A navy captain's pay is
none so great. I've never been able to save anything. It was for them I
sailed in search of Van Raven and his treasure. I hoped to get a prize that
would take care of them if aught happened to me. Kill me!" he cried shrilly,
his voice cracking at the highest pitch. "Kill me and be done with it, before
I lose my manhood with thinking of them, and beg for my life like a craven
But Vulmea stood looking down at him with a frown. Varying expressions
crossed his dark face, and suddenly he thrust the portrait back in the
"You're too poor a creature for me to soil my hands with!" he sneered, and
turning on his heel, strode through the inner door.
Wentyard stared dully after him, then, still on his knees, began to caress
the broken picture, whimpering softly like an animal in pain as if the breaks
in the ivory were wounds in his own flesh. Men break suddenly and
unexpectedly in the tropics, and Wentyard's collapse was appalling.
He did not look up when the swift stamp of boots announced Vulmea's sudden
return, without the pirate's usual stealth. A savage clutch on his shoulder
raised him to stare stupidly into the Irishman's convulsed face.
"You're an infernal dog!" snarled Vulmea, in a fury that differed
strangely from his former murderous hate. He broke into lurid imprecations,
cursing Wentyard with all the proficiency he had acquired during his years at
sea. "I ought to split your skull," he wound up. "For years I've dreamed of
it, especially when I was drunk. I'm a cursed fool not to stretch you dead on
the floor. I don't owe you any consideration, blast you! Your wife and
daughter don't mean anything to me. But I'm a fool, like all the Irish, a
blasted, chicken-hearted, sentimental fool, and I can't be the cause of a
helpless woman and her colleen starving. Get up and quit sniveling!"
Wentyard looked up at him stupidly.
"You—you came back to help me?'
"I might as well stab you as leave you here to starve!" roared the pirate,
sheathing his sword. "Get up and stick your skewer back in its scabbard.
Who'd have ever thought that a scraun like you would have womenfolk like
those innocents? Hell's fire! You ought to be shot! Pick up your sword. You
may need it before we get away. But remember, I don't trust you any further
than I can throw a whale by the tail, and I'm keeping your pistols. If you
try to stab me when I'm not looking I'll break your head with my cutlass
Wentyard, like a man in a daze, replaced the painting carefully in his
bosom and mechanically picked up his sword and sheathed it. His numbed wits
began to thaw out, and he tried to pull himself together.
"What are we to do now?" he asked.
"Shut up!" growled the pirate. "I'm going to save you for the sake of the
lady and the lass, but I don't have to talk to you!" With rare consistency he
then continued: "We'll leave this trap the same way I came and went.
"Listen: four years ago I came here with a hundred men. I'd heard rumors
of a ruined city up here, and I thought there might be loot hidden in it. I
followed the old road from the beach, and those brown dogs let me and my men
get in the ravine before they started butchering us. There must have been
five or six hundred of them. They raked us from the walls, and then charged
us —some came down the ravine and others jumped down the walls behind
us and cut us off. I was the only one who got away, and I managed to cut my
way through them, and ran into this bowl. They didn't follow me in, but
stayed outside the Gateway to see that I didn't get out.
"But I found another way—a slab had fallen away from the wall of a
room that was built against the cliff, and a stairway was cut in the rock. I
followed it and came out of a sort of trap door up on the cliffs. A slab of
rock was over it, but I don't think the Indians knew anything about it
anyway, because they never go up on the cliffs that overhang the basin. They
never come in here from the ravine, either. There's something here they're
afraid of —ghosts, most likely.
"The cliffs slope down into the jungle on the outer sides, and the slopes
and the crest are covered with trees and thickets. They had a cordon of men
strung around the foot of the slopes, but I got through at night easily
enough, made my way to the coast and sailed away with the handful of men I'd
left aboard my ship.
"When you captured me the other day, I was going to kill you with my
manacles, but you started talking about treasure, and a thought sprang in my
mind to steer you into a trap that I might possibly get out of. I remembered
this place, and I mixed a lot of truth in with some lies. The Fangs of Satan
are no myth; they are a hoard of jewels hidden somewhere on this coast, but
this isn't the place. There's no plunder about here.
"The Indians have a ring of men strung around this place, as they did
before. I can get through, but it isn't going to be so easy getting you
through. You English are like buffaloes when you start through the brush.
We'll start just after dark and try to get through before the moon rises.
"Come on; I'll show you the stair."
Wentyard followed him through a series of crumbling, vine-tangled
chambers, until he halted against the cliff. A thick slab leaned against the
wall which obviously served as a door. The Englishman saw a flight of narrow
steps, carved in the solid rock, leading upward through a shaft tunneled in
"I meant to block the upper mouth by heaping big rocks on the slab that
covers it," said Vulmea. "That was when I was going to let you starve. I knew
you might find the stair. I doubt if the Indians know anything about it, as
they never come in here or go up on the cliffs. But they know a man might be
able to get out over the cliffs some way, so they've thrown that cordon
around the slopes.
"That black I killed was a different proposition. A slave ship was wrecked
off this coast a year ago, and the blacks escaped and took to the jungle.
There's a regular mob of them living somewhere near here. This particular
black man wasn't afraid to come into the ruins. If there are more of his kind
out there with the Indians, they may try again tonight. But I believe he was
the only one, or he wouldn't have come alone."
"Why don't we go up the cliff now and hide among the trees?" asked
"Because we might be seen by the men watching below the slopes, and they'd
guess that we were going to make a break tonight, and redouble their
vigilance. After awhile I'll go and get some more food. They won't see
The men returned to the chamber where Wentyard had slept. Vulmea grew
taciturn, and Wentyard made no attempt at conversation. They sat in silence
while the afternoon dragged by. An hour or so before sundown Vulmea rose with
a curt word, went up the stair and emerged on the cliffs. Among the trees he
brought down a monkey with a dextrously-thrown stone, skinned it, and brought
it back into the ruins along with a calabash of water from a spring on the
hillside. For all his woodscraft he was not aware that he was being watched;
he did not see the fierce black face that glared at him from a thicket that
stood where the cliffs began to slope down into the jungle below.
Later, when he and Wentyard were roasting the meat over a fire built in
the ruins, he raised his head and listened intently.
"What do you hear?" asked Wentyard.
"A drum," grunted the Irishman.
"I hear it," said Wentyard after a moment. "Nothing unusual about
"It doesn't sound like an Indian drum," answered Vulmea. "Sounds more like
an African drum."
Wentyard nodded agreement; his ship had lain off the mangrove swamps of
the Slave Coast, and he had heard such drums rumbling to one another through
the steaming night. There was a subtle difference in the rhythm and timbre
that distinguished it from an Indian drum.
Evening came on and ripened slowly to dusk. The drum ceased to throb. Back
in the low hills, beyond the ring of cliffs, a fire glinted under the dusky
trees, casting brown and black faces into sharp relief.
An Indian whose ornaments and bearing marked him as a chief squatted on
his hams, his immobile face turned toward the ebony giant who stood facing
him. This man was nearly a head taller than any other man there, his
proportions overshadowing both the Indians squatting about the fire and the
black warriors who stood in a close group behind him. A jaguar-skin mantle
was cast carelessly over his brawny shoulders, and copper bracelets
ornamented his thickly-muscled arms. There was an ivory ring on his head, and
parrot-feathers stood tip from his kinky hair. A shield of hard wood and
toughened bullhide was on his left arm, and in his right hand he gripped a
great spear whose hammered iron head was as broad as a man's hand.
"I came swiftly when I heard the drum," he said gutturally, in the
bastard-Spanish that served as a common speech for the savages of both
colors. "I knew it was N'Onga who called me. N'Onga had gone from my camp to
fetch Ajumba, who was lingering with your tribe. N'Onga told me by the
drum-talk that a white man was at bay, and Ajumba was dead. I came in haste.
Now you tell me that you dare not enter the Old City."
"I have told you a devil dwells there," answered the Indian doggedly. "He
has chosen the white man for his own. He will be angry it you try to take him
away from him. It is death to enter his kingdom."
The black chief lifted his great spear and shook it defiantly.
"I was a slave to the Spaniards long enough to know that the only devil is
a white man! I do not fear your devil. In my land his brothers are big as he,
and I have slain one with a spear like this. A day and a night have passed
since the white man fled into the Old City. Why has not the devil devoured
him, or this other who lingers on the cliffs?"
"The devil is not hungry," muttered the Indian. "He waits until he is
hungry. He has eaten recently. When he is hungry again he will take them. I
will not go into his lair with my men. You are a stranger in this country.
You do not understand these things."
"I understand that Bigomba who was a king in his own country fears
nothing, neither man nor demon," retorted the black giant. "You tell me that
Ajumba went into the Old City by night, and died. I have seen his body. The
devil did not slay him. One of the white men stabbed him. If Ajumba could go
into the Old City and not be seized by the devil, then I and my thirty men
can go. I know how the big white man comes and goes between the cliffs and
the ruins. There is a hole in the rock with a slab for a door over it. N'Onga
watched from the bushes high up on the slopes and saw him come forth and
later return through it. I have placed men there to watch it. If the white
men come again through that hole, my warriors will spear them. If they do not
come, we will go in as soon as the moon rises. Your men hold the ravine, and
they can not flee that way. We will hunt them like rats through the crumbling
"EASY now," muttered Vulmea. "It's as dark as Hell in this
shaft." Dusk had deepened into early darkness. The white men were groping
their way up the steps cut in the rock. Looking back and down Wentyard made
out the lower mouth of the shaft only as a slightly lighter blur in the
blackness. They climbed on, feeling their way, and presently Vulmea halted
with a muttered warning. Wentyard, groping, touched his thigh and felt the
muscles tensing upon it. He knew that Vulmea had placed his shoulders under
the slab that closed the upper entrance, and was heaving it up. He saw a
crack appear suddenly in the blackness above him, limning the Irishman's bent
head and foreshortened figure.
The stone came clear and starlight gleamed through the aperture, laced by
the overhanging branches of the trees. Vulmea let the slab fall on the stone
rim, and started to climb out of the shaft. He had emerged head, shoulders
and hips when without warning a black form loomed against the stars and a
gleam of steel hissed downward at his breast.
Vulmea threw up his cutlass and the spear rang against it, staggering him
on the steps with the impact. Snatching a pistol from his belt with his left
hand he fired point-blank and the black man groaned and fell head and arms
dangling in the opening. He struck the pirate as he fell, destroying Vulmea's
already precarious balance. He toppled backward down the steps, carrying
Wentyard with him. A dozen steps down they brought up in a sprawling heap,
and staring upward, saw the square well above them fringed with indistinct
black blobs they knew were heads outlined against the stars.
"I thought you said the Indians never—" panted Wentyard.
"They're not Indians," growled Vulmea, rising. "They're Negroes.
Cimarroons! The same dogs who escaped from the slave ship. That drum we heard
was one of them calling the others. Look out!"
Spears came whirring down the shaft, splintering on the steps, glancing
from the walls. The white men hurled themselves recklessly down the steps at
the risk of broken limbs. They tumbled through the lower doorway and Vulmea
slammed the heavy slab in place.
"They'll be coming down it next," he snarled. "We've got to heap enough
rocks against it to hold it—no, wait a minute! If they've got the guts
to come at all, they'll come by the ravine if they can't get in this way, or
on ropes hung from the cliffs. This place is easy enough to get
into—not so damned easy to get out of. We'll leave the shaft open. If
they come this way we can get them in a bunch as they try to come out."
He pulled the slab aside, standing carefully away from the door.
"Suppose they come from the ravine and this way, too?"
"They probably will," growled Vulmea, "but maybe they'll come this way
first, and maybe if they come down in a bunch we can kill them all. There may
not be more than a dozen of them. They'll never persuade the Indians to
follow them in."
He set about reloading the pistol he had fired, with quick sure hands in
the dark. It consumed the last grain of powder in the flask. The white men
lurked like phantoms of murder about the doorway of the stair, waiting to
strike suddenly and deadly. Time dragged. No sound came from above.
Wentyard's imagination was at work again, picturing an invasion from the
ravine, and dusky figures gliding about them, surrounding the chamber. He
spoke of this and Vulmea shook his head.
"When they come I'll hear them; nothing on two legs can get in here
without my knowing it."
Suddenly Wentyard was aware of a dim glow pervading the ruins. The moon
was rising above the cliffs. Vulmea swore.
"No chance of our getting away tonight. Maybe those black dogs were
waiting for the moon to come up. Go into the chamber where you slept and
watch the ravine. If you see them sneaking in that way, let me know. I can
take care of any that come down the stair."
Wentyard felt his flesh crawl as he made his way through those dim
chambers. The moonlight glinted down through vines tangled across the broken
roofs, and shadows lay thick across his path. He reached the chamber where he
had slept, and where the coals of the fire still glowed dully. He started
across toward the outer door when a soft sound brought him whirling around. A
cry was wrenched from his throat.
Out of the darkness of a corner rose a swaying shape; a great wedge-
shaped head and an arched neck were outlined against the moonlight. In one
brain-staggering instant the mystery of the ruins became clear to him; he
knew what had watched him with lidless eyes as he lay sleeping, and what had
glided away from his door as he awoke—he knew why the Indians would not
come into the ruins or mount the cliffs above them. He was face to face with
the devil of the deserted city, hungry at last—and that devil was a
In that moment John Wentyard experienced such fear and loathing horror as
ordinarily come to men only in foul nightmares. He could not run, and after
that first scream his tongue seemed frozen to his palate. Only when the
hideous head darted toward him did he break free from the paralysis that
engulfed him and then it was too late.
He struck at it wildly and futilely, and in an instant it had him—
lapped and wrapped about with coils which were like huge cables of cold,
pliant steel. He shrieked again, fighting madly against the crushing
constriction —he heard the rush of Vulmea's boots—then the
pirate's pistols crashed together and he heard plainly the thud of the
bullets into the great snake's body. It jerked convulsively and whipped from
about him, hurling him sprawling to the floor, and then it came at Vulmea
like the rush of a hurricane through the grass, its forked tongue licking in
and out in the moonlight, and the noise of its hissing filling the
Vulmea avoided the battering-ram stroke of the blunt nose with a sidewise
spring that would have shamed a starving jaguar, and his cutlass was a sheen
in the moonlight as it hewed deep into the mighty neck. Blood spurted and the
great reptile rolled and knotted, sweeping the floor and dislodging stones
from the wall with its thrashing tail. Vulmea leaped high, clearing it as it
lashed but Wentyard, just climbing to his feet, was struck and knocked
sprawling into a corner. Vulmea was springing in again, cutlass lifted, when
the monster rolled aside and fled through the inner door, with a loud rushing
sound through the thick vegetation.
Vulmea was after it, his berserk fury fully roused. He did not wish the
wounded reptile to crawl away and hide, perhaps to return later and take them
by surprise. Through chamber after chamber the chase led, in a direction
neither of the men had followed in his former explorations, and at last into
a room almost choked by tangled vines. Tearing these aside Vulmea stared into
a black aperture in the wall, just in time to see the monster vanishing into
its depths. Wentyard, trembling in every limb, had followed, and now looked
over the pirate's shoulder. A reptilian reek came from the aperture, which
they now saw as an arched doorway, partly masked by thick vines. Enough
moonlight found its way through the roof to reveal a glimpse of stone steps
leading up into darkness.
"I missed this," muttered Vulmea. "When I found the stair I didn't look
any further for an exit. Look how the doorsill glistens with scales that have
been rubbed off that brute's belly. He uses it often. I believe those steps
lead to a tunnel that goes clear through the cliffs. There's nothing in this
bowl that even a snake could eat or drink. He has to go out into the jungle
to get water and food. If he was in the habit of going out by the way of the
ravine, there'd be a path worn away through the vegetation, like there is in
the room. Besides, the Indians wouldn't stay in the ravine. Unless there's
some other exit we haven't found, I believe that he comes and goes this way,
and that means it lets into the outer world. It's worth trying, anyway."
"You mean to follow that fiend into that black tunnel?" ejaculated
"Why not? We've got to follow and kill him anyway. If we run into a nest
of them—well, we've got to die some time, and if we wait here much
longer the Cimarroons will be cutting our throats. This is a chance to get
away, I believe. But we won't go in the dark."
Hurrying back to the room where they had cooked the monkey, Vulmea caught
up a faggot, wrapped a torn strip of his shirt about one end and set it
smouldering in the coals which he blew into a tiny flame. The improvised
torch flickered and smoked, but it cast light of a sort. Vulmea strode back
to the chamber where the snake had vanished, followed by Wentyard who stayed
close within the dancing ring of light, and saw writhing serpents in every
vine that swayed overhead.
The torch revealed blood thickly spattered on the stone steps. Squeezing
their way between the tangled vines which did not admit a man's body as
easily as a serpent's they mounted the steps warily. Vulmea went first,
holding the torch high and ahead of him, his cutlass in his right hand. He
had thrown away the useless, empty pistols. They climbed half a dozen steps
and came into a tunnel some fifteen feet wide and perhaps ten feet high from
the stone floor to the vaulted roof. The serpent-reek and the glisten of the
floor told of long occupancy by the brute, and the blood-drops ran on before
The walls, floor and roof of the tunnel were in much better state of
preservation than were the ruins outside, and Wentyard found time to marvel
at the ingenuity of the ancient race which had built it.
Meanwhile, in the moonlit chamber they had just quitted, a giant black man
appeared as silently as a shadow. His great spear glinted in the moonlight,
and the plumes on his head rustled as he turned to look about him. Four
warriors followed him.
"They went into that door," said one of these, pointing to the vine-
tangled entrance. "I saw their torch vanish into it. But I feared to follow
them, alone as I was, and I ran to tell you, Bigomba."
"But what of the screams and the shot we heard just before we descended
the shaft?" asked another uneasily.
"I think they met the demon and slew it," answered Bigomba. "Then they
went into this door. Perhaps it is a tunnel which leads through the cliffs.
One of you go gather the rest of the warriors who are scattered through the
rooms searching for the white dogs. Bring them after me. Bring torches with
you. As for me, I will follow with the other three, at once. Bigomba sees
like a lion in the dark."
As Vulmea and Wentyard advanced through the tunnel Wentyard watched the
torch fearfully. It was not very satisfactory, but it gave some light, and he
shuddered to think of its going out or burning to a stump and leaving them in
darkness. He strained his eyes into the gloom ahead, momentarily expecting to
see a vague, hideous figure rear up amidst it. But when Vulmea halted
suddenly it was not because of an appearance of the reptile. They had reached
a point where a smaller corridor branched off the main tunnel, leading away
to the left.
"Which shall we take?"
Vulmea bent over the floor, lowering his torch.
"The blood-drops go to the left," he grunted. "That's the way he
"Wait!" Wentyard gripped his arm and pointed along the main tunnel. "Look!
There ahead of us! Light!"
Vulmea thrust his torch behind him, for its flickering glare made the
shadows seem blacker beyond its feeble radius. Ahead of them, then, he saw
something like a floating gray mist, and knew it was moonlight finding its
way somehow into the tunnel. Abandoning the hunt for the wounded reptile, the
men rushed forward and emerged into a broad square chamber, hewn out of solid
rock. But Wentyard swore in bitter disappointment. The moonlight was coming,
not from a door opening into the jungle, but from a square shaft in the roof,
high above their heads.
An archway opened in each wall, and the one opposite the arch by which
they had entered was fitted with a heavy door, corroded and eaten by decay.
Against the wall to their right stood a stone image, taller than a man, a
carven grotesque, at once manlike and bestial. A stone altar stood before it,
its surface channeled and darkly stained. Something on the idol's breast
caught the moonlight in a frosty sparkle.
"The devil!" Vulmea sprang forward and wrenched it away. He held it up
—a thing like a giant's necklace, made of jointed plates of hammered
gold, each as broad as a man's palm and set with curiously-cut jewels.
"I thought I lied when I told you there were gems here," grunted the
pirate. "It seems I spoke the truth unwittingly! These are the the Fangs of
Satan, but they'll fetch a tidy fortune anywhere in Europe."
"What are you doing?" demanded Wentyard, as the Irishman laid the huge
necklace on the altar and lifted his cutlass. Vulmea's reply was a stroke
that severed the ornament into equal halves. One half he thrust into
Wentyard's astounded hands.
"If we get out of here alive that will provide for the wife and child," he
"But you—" stammered Wentyard. "You hate me—yet you save my
life and then give me this—"
"Shut up!" snarled the pirate. "I'm not giving it to you; I'm giving it to
the girl and her baby. Don't you venture to thank me, curse you! I hate you
as much as I—"
He stiffened suddenly, wheeling to glare down the tunnel up which they had
come. He stamped out the torch and crouched down behind the altar, drawing
Wentyard with him.
"Men!" he snarled. "Coming down the tunnel, I heard steel clink on stone.
I hope they didn't see the torch. Maybe they didn't. It wasn't much more than
a coal in the moonlight."
They strained their eyes down the tunnel. The moon hovered at an angle
above the open shaft which allowed some of its light to stream a short way
down the tunnel. Vision ceased at the spot where the smaller corridor
branched off. Presently four shadows bulked out of the blackness beyond,
taking shape gradually like figures emerging from a thick fog. They halted,
and the white men saw the largest one—a giant who towered above the
others— point silently with his spear, up the tunnel, then down the
corridor. Two of the shadowy shapes detached themselves from the group and
moved off down the corridor out of sight. The giant and the other man came on
up the tunnel.
"The Cimarroons, hunting us," muttered Vulmea. "They're splitting their
party to make sure they find us. Lie low; there may be a whole crew right
They crouched lower behind the altar while the two blacks came up the
tunnel, growing more distinct as they advanced. Wentyard's skin crawled at
the sight of the broad-bladed spears held ready in their hands. The biggest
one moved with the supple tread of a great panther, head thrust forward,
spear poised, shield lifted. He was a formidable image of rampant barbarism,
and Wentyard wondered if even such a man as Vulmea could stand before him
with naked steel and live.
They halted in the doorway, and the white men caught the white flash of
their eyes as they glared suspiciously about the chamber. The smaller black
seized the giant's arm convulsively and pointed, and Wentyard's heart jumped
into his throat. He thought they had been discovered, but the Negro was
pointing at the idol. The big man grunted contemptuously. However, slavishly
in awe he might be of the fetishes of his native coast, the gods and demons
of other races held no terrors for him.
But he moved forward majestically to investigate, and Wentyard realized
that discovery was inevitable.
Vulmea whispered fiercely in his ear: "We've got to get them, quick! Take
the brave. I'll take the chief. Now!"
They sprang up together, and the blacks cried out involuntarily, recoiling
from the unexpected apparitions. In that instant the white men were upon
The shock of their sudden appearance had stunned the smaller black. He was
small only in comparison with his gigantic companion. He was as tall as
Wentyard and the great muscles knotted under his sleek skin. But he was
staggering back, gaping stupidly, spear and shield lowered on limply hanging
arms. Only the bite of steel brought him to his senses, and then it was too
late. He screamed and lunged madly, but Wentyard's sword had girded deep into
his vitals and his lunge was wild. The Englishman side-stepped and thrust
again and yet again, under and over the shield, fleshing his blade in groin
and throat. The black man swayed in his rush, his arms fell, shield and spear
clattered to the floor and he toppled down upon them.
Wentyard turned to stare at the battle waging behind him, where the two
giants fought under the square beam of moonlight, black and white, spear and
shield against cutlass.
Bigomba, quicker-witted than his follower, had not gone down under the
unexpected rush of the white man. He had reacted instantly to his fighting
instinct. Instead of retreating he had thrown up his shield to catch the
down-swinging cutlass, and had countered with a ferocious lunge that scraped
blood from the Irishman's neck as he ducked aside.
Now they fought in grim silence, while Wentyard circled about them, unable
to get in a thrust that might not imperil Vulmea. Both moved with the
sure-footed quickness of tigers. The black man towered above the white, but
even his magnificent proportions could not overshadow the sinewy physique of
the pirate. In the moonlight the great muscles of both men knotted, rippled
and coiled in response to their herculean exertions. The play was
bewildering, almost blinding the eye that tried to follow it.
Again and again the pirate barely avoided the dart of the great spear, and
again and again Bigomba caught on his shield a stroke that otherwise would
have shorn him asunder. Speed of foot and strength of wrist alone saved
Vulmea, for he had no defensive armor. But repeatedly he either dodged or
side-stepped, the savage thrusts, or beat aside the spear with his blade. And
he rained blow on blow with his cutlass, slashing the bullhide to ribbons,
until the shield was little more than a wooden framework through which,
slipping in a lightning-like thrust, the cutlass drew first blood as it raked
through the flesh across the black chief's ribs.
At that Bigomba roared like a wounded lion, and like a wounded lion he
leaped. Hurling the shield at Vulmea's head he threw all his giant body
behind the arm that drove the spear at the Irishman's breast. The muscles
leaped up in quivering bunches on his arm as he smote, and Wentyard cried
out, unable to believe that Vulmea could avoid the lunge. But chain-lightning
was slow compared to the pirate's shift. He ducked, side-stepped, and as the
spear whipped past under his arm-pit, he dealt a cut that found no shield in
the way. The cutlass was a blinding flicker of steel in the moonlight, ending
its arc in a butchershop crunch. Bigomba fell as a tree falls and lay still.
His head had been all but severed from his body.
Vulmea stepped back, panting. His great chest heaved under the tattered
shirt, and sweat dripped from his face. At last he had met a man almost his
match, and the strain of that terrible encounter left the tendons of his
"We've got to get out of here before the rest of them come," he gasped,
catching up his half of the idol's necklace. "That smaller corridor must lead
to the outside, but those blacks are in it, and we haven't any torch. Let's
try this door. Maybe we can get out that way."
The ancient door was a rotten mass of crumbling panels and corroded copper
bands. It cracked and splintered under the impact of Vulmea's heavy shoulder,
and through the apertures the pirate felt the stir of fresh air, and caught
the scent of a damp river-reek. He drew back to smash again at the door, when
a chorus of fierce yells brought him about snarling like a trapped wolf.
Swift feet pattered up the tunnel, torches waved, and barbaric shouts
re-echoed under the vaulted roof. The white men saw a mass of fierce faces
and flashing spears, thrown into relief by the flaring torches, surging up
the tunnel. The light of their coming streamed before them. They had heard
and interpreted the sounds of combat as they hurried up the tunnel, and now
they had sighted their enemies, and they burst into a run, howling like
"Break the door, quick!" cried Wentyard!
"No time now," grunted Vulmea. "They'd be on us before we could get
through. We'll make our stand here."
He ran across the chamber to meet them before they could emerge from the
comparatively narrow archway, and Wentyard followed him. Despair gripped the
Englishman and in a spasm of futile rage he hurled the half-necklace from
him. The glint of its jewels was mockery. He fought down the sick memory of
those who waited for him in Englnad as he took his place at the door beside
the giant pirate.
As they saw their prey at bay the howls of the oncoming blacks grew
wilder. Spears were brandished among the torches—then a shriek of
different timbre cut the din. The foremost blacks had almost reached the
point where the corridor branched off the tunnel—and out of the
corridor raced a frantic figure. It was one of the black men who had gone
down it exploring. And behind him came a blood-smeared nightmare. The great
serpent had turned at bay at last.
It was among the blacks before they knew what was happening. Yells of hate
changed to screams of terror, and in an instant all was madness, a clustering
tangle of struggling black bodies and limbs, and that great sinuous
cable-like trunk writhing and whipping among them, the wedge-shaped head
darting and battering. Torches were knocked against the walls, scattering
sparks. One man, caught in the squirming coils, was crushed and killed almost
instantly, and others were dashed to the floor or hurled with
bone-splintering force against the walls by the battering-ram head, or the
lashing, beam-like tail. Shot and slashed as it was, wounded mortally, the
great snake clung to life with the horrible vitality of its kind, and in the
blind fury of its death-throes it became an appalling engine of
Within a matter of moments the blacks who survived had broken away and
were fleeing down the tunnel, screaming their fear. Half a dozen limp and
broken bodies lay sprawled behind them, and the serpent, unlooping himself
from these victims, swept down the tunnel after the living who fled from him.
Fugitives and pursuer vanished into the darkness, from which frantic yells
came back faintly.
"God!" Wentyard wiped his brow with a trembling hand. "That might have
happened to us!"
"Those men who went groping down the corridor must have stumbled onto him
lying in the dark," muttered Vulmea. "I guess he got tired of running. Or
maybe he knew he had his death-wound and turned back to kill somebody before
he died. He'll chase those blacks until either he's killed them all, or died
himself. They may turn on him and spear him to death when they get into the
open. Pick up your part of the necklace. I'm going to try that door
Three powerful drives of his shoulder were required before the ancient
door finally gave way. Fresh, damp air poured through, though the interior
was dark. But Vulmea entered without hesitation, and Wentyard followed him.
After a few yards of groping in the dark, the narrow corridor turned sharply
to the left, and they emerged into a somewhat wider passage, where a
familiar, nauseating reek made Wentyard shudder.
"The snake used this tunnel," said Vulmea. "This must be the corridor that
branches off the tunnel on the other side of the idol-room. There must be a
regular network of subterranean rooms and tunnels under these cliffs. I
wonder what we'd find if we explored all of them."
Wentyard fervently disavowed any curiosity in that direction, and an
instant later jumped convulsively when Vulmea snapped suddenly: "Look
"Where? How can a man look anywhere in this darkness?"
"Ahead of us, damn it! It's light at the other end of this tunnel!"
"Your eyes are better than mine," muttered Wentyard, but he followed the
pirate with new eagerness, and soon he too could see the tiny disk of grey
that seemed set in a solid black wall. After that it seemed to the Englishman
that they walked for miles. It was not that far in reality, but the disk grew
slowly in size and clarity, and Wentyard knew that they had come a long way
from the idol-room when at last they thrust their heads through a round,
vine-crossed opening and saw the stars reflected in the black water of a
sullen river flowing beneath them.
"This is the way he came and went, all right," grunted Vulmea.
The tunnel opened in the steep bank and there was a narrow strip of beach
below it, probably existent only in dry seasons. They dropped down to it and
looked about at the dense jungle walls which hung over the river.
"Where are we?" asked Wentyard helplessly, his sense of direction entirely
"Beyond the foot of the slopes," answered Vulmea, "and that means we're
outside the cordon the Indians have strung around the cliffs. The coast lies
in that direction; come on!"
The sun hung high above the western horizon when two men emerged from the
jungle that fringed the beach, and saw the tiny bay stretching before
Vulmea stopped in the shadow of the trees.
"There's your ship, lying at anchor where we left her. All you've got to
do now is hail her for a boat to be sent ashore, and your part of the
adventure is over."
Wentyard looked at his companion. The Englishman was bruised, scratched by
briars, his clothing hanging in tatters. He could hardly have been recognized
as the trim captain of the Redoubtable. But the change was not limited to his
appearance. It went deeper. He was a different man than the one who marched
his prisoner ashore in quest of a mythical hoard of gems.
"What of you? I owe you a debt that I can never—"
"You owe me nothing," Vulmea broke in. "I don't trust you, Wentyard."
The other winced. Vulmea did not know that it was the cruelest thing he
could have said. He did not mean it as cruelty. He was simply speaking his
mind, and it did not occur to him that it would hurt the Englishman.
"Do you think I could ever harm you now, after this?" exclaimed Wentyard.
"Pirate or not, I could never—"
"You're grateful and full of the milk of human kindness now," answered
Vulmea, and laughed hardly. "But you might change your mind after you got
back on your decks. John Wentyard lost in the jungle is one man; Captain
Wentyard aboard his king's warship is another."
"I swear—" began Wentyard desperately, and then stopped, realizing
the futility of his protestations. He realized, with an almost physical pain,
that a man can never escape the consequences of a wrong, even though the
victim may forgive him. His punishment now was an inability to convince
Vulmea of his sincerity, and it hurt him far more bitterly than the Irishman
could ever realize. But he could not expect Vulmea to trust him, he realized
miserably. In that moment he loathed himself for what he had been, and for
the smug, self-sufficient arrogance which had caused him to ruthlessly
trample on all who fell outside the charmed circle of his approval. At that
moment there was nothing in the world he desired more than the firm handclasp
of the man who had fought and wrought so tremendously for him; but he knew he
did not deserve it.
"You can't stay here!" he protested weakly.
"The Indians never come to this coast," answered Vulmea. "I'm not afraid
of the Cimarroons. Don't worry about me." He laughed again, at what he
considered the jest of anyone worrying about his safety. "I've lived in the
wilds before now. I'm not the only pirate in these seas. There's a rendezvous
you know nothing about. I can reach it easily. I'll be back on the Main with
a ship and a crew the next time you hear about me."
And turning supply, he strode into the foliage and vanished, while
Wentyard, dangling in his hand a jeweled strip of gold, stared helplessly