Black Hounds of Death Read online

  My thoughts reverted to Richard Brent. It was surely no friend who had sought guidance to his cabin! The man’s frantic fear had bordered on insanity. I wondered if it had been to escape this man that Brent had exiled himself in this lonely stretch of pinelands and river. Surely it had been to escape something that he had come; for he never concealed his hatred of the country nor his contempt for the native people, white and black. But I had never believed that he was a criminal, hiding from the law.

  The light fell away behind me, vanished among the black trees. A curious, chill, sinking feeling obsessed me, as if the disappearance of that light, hostile as was its source, had severed the only link that connected this nightmarish adventure with the world of sanity and humanity. Grimly taking hold of my nerves, I strode on up the trail. But I had not gone far when again I halted.

  This time it was the unmistakable sound of horses running; the rumble of wheels mingled with the pounding of hoofs. Who would be coming along that nighted trail in a rig but Ashley? But instantly I realized that the team was headed in the other direction. The sound receded rapidly, and soon became only a distant blur of noise.

  I quickened my pace, much puzzled, and presently I heard hurried, stumbling footsteps ahead of me, and a quick, breathless panting that seemed indicative of panic. I distinguished the footsteps of two people, though I could see nothing in the intense darkness. At that point the branches interlaced over the trail, forming a black arch through which not even the stars gleamed.

  “Ho, there!” I called cautiously. “Who are you?”

  Instantly the sounds ceased abruptly, and I could picture two shadowy figures standing tensely still, with bated breath.

  “Who’s there?” I repeated. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me—Kirby Garfield.”

  “Stand where you are!” came a hard voice I recognized as Ashley’s. “You sound like Garfield—but I want to be sure. If you move you’ll get a slug through you.”

  There was a scratching sound and a tiny flame leaped up. A human hand was etched in its glow, and behind it the square, hard face of Ashley peering in my direction. A pistol in his other hand caught the glint of the fire; and on that arm rested another hand—a slim, white hand, with a jewel sparkling on one finger. Dimly I made out the slender figure of a woman; her face was like a pale blossom in the gloom.

  “Yes, it’s you, all right,” Ashley grunted. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to warn Brent about Tope Braxton,” I answered shortly; I do not relish being called on to account for my actions to anybody. “You’ve heard about it, naturally. If I’d known you were in town, it would have saved me a trip. What are you-all doing on foot?”

  “Our horses ran away a short distance back,” he answered. “There was a dead Negro in the trail. But that’s not what frightened the horses. When we got out to investigate, they snorted and wheeled and bolted with the rig. We had to come on on foot. It’s been a pretty nasty experience. From the looks of the Negro I judge a pack of wolves killed him, and the scent frightened the horses. We’ve been expecting an attack any minute.”

  “Wolves don’t hunt in packs and drag down human beings in these woods. It was a man that killed Jim Tike.”

  In the waning glow of the match Ashley stood staring at me in amazement, and then I saw the astonishment ebb from his countenance and horror grow there. Slowly his color ebbed, leaving his bronzed face as ashy as that of his master had been. The match went out, and we stood silent.

  “Well,” I said impatiently, “speak up, man! Who’s the lady with you?”

  “She’s Mr. Brent’s niece.” The answer came tonelessly through dry lips.

  “I am Gloria Brent!” she exclaimed in a voice whose cultured accent was not lost in the fear that caused it to tremble. “Uncle Richard wired for me to come to him at once—”

  “I’ve seen the wire,” Ashley muttered. “You showed it to me. But I don’t know how he sent it. He hasn’t been to the village, to my knowledge, in months.”

  “I came on from New York as fast as I could!” she exclaimed. “I can’t understand why the telegram was sent to me, instead of to somebody else in the family—”

  “You were always your uncle’s favorite, Miss,” said Ashley.

  “Well, when I got off the boat at the village just before nightfall, I found Ashley, just getting ready to drive home. He was surprized to see me, but of course he brought me on out; and then—that— that dead man—”

  She seemed considerably shaken by the experience. It was obvious that she had been raised in a very refined and sheltered atmosphere. If she had been born in the piney woods, as I was, the sight of a dead man, white or black, would not have been an uncommon phenomenon to her.

  “The—the dead man—” she stammered, and then she was answered most hideously.

  From the black woods beside the trail rose a shriek of blood-curdling laughter. Slavering, mouthing sounds followed it, so strange and garbled that at first I did not recognize them as human words. Their unhuman intonations sent a chill down my spine.

  “Dead men!” the inhuman voice chanted. “Dead men with torn throats! There will be dead men among the pines before dawn! Dead men! Fools, you are all dead!”

  Ashley and I both fired in the direction of the voice, and in the crashing reverberations of our shots the ghastly chant was drowned. But the weird laugh rang out again, deeper in the woods, and then silence closed down like a black fog, in which I heard the semi-hysterical gasping of the girl. She had released Ashley and was clinging frantically to me. I could feel the quivering of her lithe body against mine. Probably she had merely followed her feminine instinct to seek refuge with the strongest; the light of the match had shown her that I was a bigger man than Ashley.

  “Hurry, for God’s sake!” Ashley’s voice sounded strangled. “It can’t be far to the cabin. Hurry! You’ll come with us, Mr. Garfield?”

  “What was it?” the girl was panting. “Oh, what was it?”

  “A madman, I think,” I answered, tucking her trembling little hand under my left arm. But at the back of my mind was whispering the grisly realization that no madman ever had a voice like that. It sounded—God!—it sounded like some bestial creature speaking with human words, but not with a human tongue!

  “Get on the other side of Miss Brent, Ashley,” I directed. “Keep as far from the trees as you can. If anything moves on that side, shoot first and ask questions later. I’ll do the same on this side. Now come on!”

  He made no reply as he complied; his fright seemed deeper than that of the girl; his breath came in shuddering gasps. The trail seemed endless, the darkness abysmal. Fear stalked along the trail on either hand, and slunk grinning at our backs. My flesh crawled with the thought of a demoniacal clawed and fanged thing hurling itself upon my shoulders.

  The girl’s little feet scarcely touched the ground, as we almost carried her between us. Ashley was almost as tall as I, though not so heavy, and was strongly made.

  Ahead of us a light glimmered between the trees at last, and a gusty sigh of relief burst from his lips. He increased his pace until we were almost running.

  “The cabin at last, thank God!” he gasped, as we plunged out of the trees.

  “Hail your employer, Ashley,” I grunted. “He’s driven me off with a gun once tonight. I don’t want to be shot by the old—” I stopped, remembering the girl.

  “Mr. Brent!” shouted Ashley. “Mr. Brent! Open the door quick! It’s me—Ashley!”

  Instantly light flooded from the door as the upper half was drawn back, and Brent peered out, shotgun in hand, blinking into the darkness.

  “Hurry and get in!” Panic still thrummed in his voice. Then: “Who’s that standing beside you?” he shouted furiously.

  “Mr. Garfield and your niece, Miss Gloria.”

  “Uncle Richard!” she cried, her voice catching in a sob. Pulling loose from us, she ran forward and threw her lithe body half-over the lower door, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Uncle Richard, I’m so afraid! What does this all mean?”

  He seemed thunderstruck.

  “Gloria!” he repeated. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  “Why, you sent for me!” She fumbled out a crumpled yellow telegraph form. “See? You said for me to come at once!”

  He went livid again.

  “I never sent that, Gloria! Good God, why should I drag you into my particular hell? There’s something devilish here. Come in—come in quickly!”

  He jerked open the door and pulled her inside, never relinquishing the shotgun. He seemed to fumble in a daze. Ashley shouldered in after her, and exclaimed to me: “Come in, Mr. Garfield! Come in—come in!”

  I had made no move to follow them. At the mention of my name, Brent, who seemed to have forgotten my presence, jerked loose from the girl with a choking cry and wheeled, throwing up the shotgun. But this time I was ready for him. My nerves were too much on edge to let me submit to any more bullying. Before he could bring the gun into position, he was looking in the muzzle of my .45.

  “Put it down, Brent,” I snapped. “Drop it, before I break your arm. I’m fed up on your idiotic suspicions.”

  He hesitated, glaring wildly, and behind him the girl shrank away. I suppose that in the full flood of the light from the doorway I was not a figure to inspire confidence in a young girl, with my frame which is built for strength and not looks, and my dark face, scarred by many a brutal river battle.

  “He’s our friend, Mr. Brent,” interposed Ashley. “He helped us, in the woods.”

  “He’s a devil!” raved Brent, clinging to his gun, though not trying to lift it. “He came here to murder us! He lied when he said he came to warn us against a black man. What man would be fool enough to come into Egypt at night, just to warn a stranger? My God, has he got you both fooled? I tell you, he wears the brand of the hound!”

  “Then you know he’s here!” cried Ashley.

  “Yes; this fiend told me, trying to worm his way into the house. God, Ashley, he’s tracked us down, in spite of all our cleverness. We have trapped ourselves! In a city, we might buy protection; but here, in this accursed forest, who will hear our cries or come to our aid when the fiend closes in upon us? What fools—what fools we were to think to hide from him in this wilderness!”

  “I heard him laugh,” shuddered Ashley. “He taunted us from the bushes in his beast’s voice. I saw the man he killed—ripped and mangled as if by the fangs of Satan himself. What—what are we to do?”

  “What can we do except lock ourselves in and fight to the last?” shrieked Brent. His nerves were in frightful shape.

  “Please tell me what it is all about?” pleaded the trembling girl.

  With a terrible despairing laugh Brent threw out his arm, gesturing toward the black woods beyond the faint light. “A devil in human form is lurking out there!” he exclaimed. “He has tracked me across the world, and has cornered me at last! Do you remember Adam Grimm?”

  “The man who went with you to Mongolia five years ago? But he died, you said. You came back without him.”

  “I thought he was dead,” muttered Brent. “Listen, I will tell you. Among the black mountains of Inner Mongolia, where no white man had ever penetrated, our expedition was attacked by fanatical devil-worshippers—the black monks of Erlik who dwell in the forgotten and accursed city of Yahlgan. Our guides and servants were killed, and all our stock driven off but one small camel.

  “Grimm and I stood them off all day, firing from behind the rocks when they tried to rush us. That night we planned to make a break for it, on the camel that remained to us. But it was evident to me that the beast could not carry us both to safety. One man might have a chance. When darkness fell, I struck Grimm from behind with my gun butt, knocking him senseless. Then I mounted the camel and fled—”

  He did not heed the look of sick amazement and abhorrence growing in the girl’s lovely face. Her wide eyes were fixed on her uncle as if she were seeing the real man for the first time, and was stricken by what she saw. He plunged on, too obsessed and engulfed by fear to care or heed what she thought of him. The sight of a soul stripped of its conventional veneer and surface pretense is not always pleasant.

  “I broke through the lines of the besiegers and escaped in the night. Grimm, naturally, fell into the hands of the devil-worshippers, and for years I supposed that he was dead. They had the reputation of slaying, by torture, every alien that they captured. Years passed, and I had almost forgotten the episode. Then, seven months ago, I learned that he was alive—was, indeed, back in America, thirsting for my life. The monks had not killed him; through their damnable arts they had altered him. The man is no longer wholly human, but his whole soul is bent on my destruction. To appeal to the police would have been useless; he would have tricked them and wreaked his vengeance in spite of them. I fled from him up and down across the country for more than a month, like a hunted animal, and finally, when I thought I had thrown him off the track, I took refuge in this God-forsaken wilderness, among these barbarians, of whom that man Kirby Garfield is a typical example.”

  “You can talk of barbarians!” she flamed, and her scorn would have cut the soul of any man who was not so totally engrossed in his own fears.

  She turned to me. “Mr. Garfield, please come in. You must not try to traverse this forest at night, with that fiend at large.”

  “No!” shrieked Brent. “Get back from that door, you little fool! Ashley, hold your tongue. I tell you, he is one of Adam Grimm’s creatures! He shall not set foot in this cabin!”

  She looked at me, pale, helpless and forlorn, and I pitied her as I despised Richard Brent; she looked so small and bewildered.

  “I wouldn’t sleep in your cabin if all the wolves of Hell were howling outside,” I snarled at Brent. “I’m going, and if you shoot me in the back, I’ll kill you before I die. I wouldn’t have come back at all, but the young lady needed my protection. She needs it now, but it’s your privilege to deny her that. Miss Brent,” I said, “if you wish, I’ll come back tomorrow with a buckboard and carry you to the village. You’d better go back to New York.”

  “Ashley will take her to the village,” roared Brent, “Damn you, will you go?”

  With a sneer that brought the blood purpling his countenance, I turned squarely upon him and strode off. The door banged behind me, and I heard his falsetto voice mingled with the tearful accents of his niece. Poor girl, it must have been like a nightmare to her: to have been snatched out of her sheltered urban life and dropped down in a country strange and primitive to her, among people whose ways seemed incredibly savage and violent, and into a bloody episode of wrong and menace and vengeance. The deep pinelands of the Southwest seem strange and alien enough at any time to the average Eastern city-dweller; and added to their gloomy mystery and primordial wildness was this grim phantom out of an unsuspected past, like the figment of a nightmare.

  I turned squarely about, stood motionless in the black trail, staring back at the pinpoint of light which still winked through the trees. Peril hovered over the cabin in that tiny clearing, and it was no part of a white man to leave that girl with the protection of none but her half-lunatic uncle and his servant. Ashley looked like a fighter. But Brent was an unpredictable quantity. I believed he was tinged with madness. His insane rages and equally insane suspicions seemed to indicate as much. I had no sympathy for him. A man who would sacrifice his friend to save his own life deserves death.

  But evidently Grimm was mad. His slaughter of Jim Tike suggested homicidal insanity. Poor Jim Tike had never wronged him. I would have killed Grimm for that murder, alone, if I had had the opportunity. And I did not intend that the girl should suffer for the sins of her uncle. If Brent had not sent that telegram, as he swore, then it looked much as if she had been summoned for a sinister purpose. Who but Grimm himself would have summoned her, to share the doom he planned for Richard Brent?

  Turning, I strode back down the trail. If I could n
ot enter the cabin, I could at least lurk in the shadows ready at hand if my help was needed. A few moments later I was under the fringe of trees that ringed the clearing.

  Light still shone through the cracks in the shutters, and at one place a portion of the windowpane was visible. And even as I looked, this pane was shattered, as if something had been hurled through it. Instantly the night was split by a sheet of flame that burst in a blinding flash out of the doors and windows and chimney of the cabin. For one infinitesimal instant I saw the cabin limned blackly against the tongues of flame that flashed from it. With the flash came the thought that the cabin had been blown up—but no sound accompanied the explosion.

  Even while the blaze was still in my eyes, another explosion filled the universe with blinding sparks, and this one was accompanied by a thunderous reverberation. Consciousness was blotted out too suddenly for me to know that I had been struck on the head from behind, terrifically and without warning.

  3. Black Hands

  A flickering light was the first thing that impressed itself upon my awakening faculties. I blinked, shook my head, came suddenly fully awake. I was lying on my back in a small glade, walled by towering black trees which fitfully reflected the uncertain light that emanated from a torch stuck upright in the earth near me. My head throbbed, and blood clotted my scalp; my hands were fastened together before me by a pair of handcuffs. My clothes were torn and my skin scratched as if I had been dragged brutally through the brush.

  A huge black shape squatted over me—a black man of medium height but of gigantic breadth and thickness, clad only in ragged, muddy breeches—Tope Braxton. He held a gun in each hand, and alternately aimed first one and then the other at me, squinting along the barrel. One pistol was mine; the other had once belonged to the constable that Braxton had brained.

  I lay silent for a moment, studying the play of the torchlight on the great black torso. His huge body gleamed shiny ebony or dull bronze as the light flickered. He was like a shape from the abyss whence mankind crawled ages ago. His primitive ferocity was reflected in the bulging knots of muscles that corded his long, massive apish arms, his huge sloping shoulders; above all the bullet-shaped head that jutted forward on a column-like neck. The wide, flat nostrils, murky eyes, thick lips that writhed back from tusk-like teeth—all proclaimed the man’s kinship with the primordial.