Red Shadows by Robert E. Howard (best black authors TXT) 📕

prepared to meet your God?”

“Why, Monsieur,” Le Loup answered, bowing, “I assure you I am as

ready as I ever will be. I might ask Monsieur the same question.”

“No doubt I stated my inquiry wrongly,” Kane said grimly. “I will

change it: Are you prepared to meet your master, the Devil?”

“As to that, Monsieur“—Le Loup examined his finger nails with

elaborate unconcern—“I must say that I can at present render a most

satisfactory account to his Horned Excellency, though really I have no

intention of so doing—for a while at least.”

Le Loup did not wonder as to the fate of La Mon; Kane’s presence

in the cave was sufficient answer that did not need the trace of blood

on his rapier to verify it.

“What I wish to know, Monsieur,” said the bandit, “is why in the

Devil’s name have you harassed my band as you have, and how did you

destroy that last set of fools?”

“Your last question is easily answered, sir,” Kane replied. “I

myself had the tale spread that the hermit possessed a store of gold,

knowing that would draw your scum as carrion draws vultures. For days

and nights I have watched the hut, and tonight, when I saw your

villains coming, I warned the hermit, and together we went among the

trees back of the hut. Then, when the rogues were inside, I struck

flint and steel to the train I had laid, and flame ran through the

trees like a red snake until it reached the powder I had placed

beneath the hut floor. Then the hut and thirteen sinners went to Hell

in a great roar of flame and smoke. True, one escaped, but him I had

slain in the forest had not I stumbled and fallen upon a broken root,

which gave him time to elude me.”

“Monsieur,” said Le Loup with another low bow, “I grant you the

admiration I must needs bestow on a brave and shrewd foeman. Yet tell

me this: Why have you followed me as a wolf follows deer?”

“Some moons ago,” said Kane, his frown becoming more menacing,

“you and your fiends raided a small village down the valley. You know

the details better than I. There was a girl there, a mere child, who,

hoping to escape your lust, fled up the valley; but you, you jackal of

Hell, you caught her and left her, violated and dying. I found her

there, and above her dead form I made up my mind to hunt you down and

kill you.”

“H’m,” mused the Wolf. “Yes, I remember the wench. Mon Dieu, so

the softer sentiments enter into the affair! Monsieur, I had not

thought you an amorous man; be not jealous, good fellow, there are

many more wenches.”

“Le Loup, take care!” Kane exclaimed, a terrible menace in his

voice, “I have never yet done a man to death by torture, but by God,

sir, you tempt me!”

The tone, and more especially the unexpected oath, coming as it

did from Kane, slightly sobered Le Loup; his eyes narrowed and his

hand moved toward his rapier. The air was tense for an instant; then

the Wolf relaxed elaborately.

“Who was the girl?” he asked idly. “Your wife?”

“I never saw her before,” answered Kane.

“Nom d’un nom!” swore the bandit. “What sort of a man are you,

Monsieur, who takes up a feud of this sort merely to avenge a wench

unknown to you?”

“That, sir, is my own affair; it is sufficient that I do so.”

Kane could not have explained, even to himself, nor did he ever

seek an explanation within himself. A true fanatic, his promptings

were reasons enough for his actions.

“You are right, Monsieur.” Le Loup was sparring now for time;

casually he edged backward inch by inch, with such consummate acting

skill that he aroused no suspicion even in the hawk who watched him.

“Monsieur,” said he, “possibly you will say that you are merely a

noble cavalier, wandering about like a true Galahad, protecting the

weaker; but you and I know different. There on the floor is the

equivalent to an emperor’s ransom. Let us divide it peaceably; then if

you like not my company, why—_nom d’un nom!_—we can go our separate

ways.”

Kane leaned forward, a terrible brooding threat growing in his

cold eyes. He seemed like a great condor about to launch himself upon

his victim.

“Sir, do you assume me to be as great a villain as yourself?”

Suddenly Le Loup threw back his head, his eyes dancing and leaping

with a wild mockery and a kind of insane recklessness. His shout of

laughter sent the echoes flying.

“Gods of Hell! No, you fool, I do not class you with myself! _Mon

Dieu, Monsieur_ Kane, you have a task indeed if you intend to avenge

all the wenches who have known my favors!”

“Shades of death! Shall I waste time in parleying with this base

scoundrel!” Kane snarled in a voice suddenly blood-thirsting, and his

lean frame flashed forward like a bent bow suddenly released.

At the same instant Le Loup with a wild laugh bounded backward

with a movement as swift as Kane’s. His timing was perfect; his back-flung hands struck the table and hurled it aside, plunging the cave

into darkness as the candle toppled and went out.

Kane’s rapier sang like an arrow in the dark as he thrust blindly

and ferociously.

“Adieu, Monsieur Galahad!” The taunt came from somewhere in

front of him, but Kane, plunging toward the sound with the savage fury

of baffled wrath, caromed against a blank wall that did not yield to

his blow. From somewhere seemed to come an echo of a mocking laugh.

Kane whirled, eyes fixed on the dimly outlined entrance, thinking

his foe would try to slip past him and out of the cave; but no form

bulked there, and when his groping hands found the candle and lighted

it, the cave was empty, save for himself and the dead men on the

floor.

Chapter 3. The Chant of the Drums

Across the dusky waters the whisper came: boom, boom, boom!—a

sullen reiteration. Far away and more faintly sounded a whisper of

different timbre: thrum, throom, thrum! Back and forth went the

vibrations as the throbbing drums spoke to each other. What tales did

they carry? What monstrous secrets whispered across the sullen,

shadowy reaches of the unmapped jungle?

“This, you are sure, is the bay where the Spanish ship put in?”

“Yes, Senhor; the Negro swears this is the bay where the white

man left the ship alone and went into the jungle.”

Kane nodded grimly.

“Then put me ashore here, alone. Wait seven days; then if I have

not returned and if you have no word of me, set sail wherever you

will.”

“Yes, Senhor.”

The waves slapped lazily against the sides of the boat that

carried Kane ashore. The village that he sought was on the river bank

but set back from the bay shore, the jungle hiding it from sight of

the ship.

Kane had adopted what seemed the most hazardous course, that of

going ashore by night, for the reason that he knew, if the man he

sought were in the village, he would never reach it by day. As it was,

he was taking a most desperate chance in daring the nighttime jungle,

but all his life he had been used to taking desperate chances. Now he

gambled his life upon the slim chance of gaining the Negro village

under cover of darkness and unknown to the villagers.

At the beach he left the boat with a few muttered commands, and as

the rowers put back to the ship which lay anchored some distance out

in the bay, he turned and engulfed himself in the blackness of the

jungle. Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, he stole forward,

seeking to keep pointed in the direction from which the drums still

muttered and grumbled.

He went with the stealth and easy movement of a leopard, feeling

his way cautiously, every nerve alert and straining, but the way was

not easy. Vines tripped him and slapped him in the face, impeding his

progress; he was forced to grope his way between the huge boles of

towering trees, and all through the underbrush about him sounded vague

and menacing rustlings and shadows of movement. Thrice his foot

touched something that moved beneath it and writhed away, and once he

glimpsed the baleful glimmer of feline eyes among the trees. They

vanished, however, as he advanced.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, came the ceaseless monotone of the drums: war

and death (they said); blood and lust; human sacrifice and human

feast! The soul of Africa (said the drums); the spirit of the jungle;

the chant of the gods of outer darkness, the gods that roar and

gibber, the gods men knew when dawns were young, beast-eyed, gaping-mouthed, huge-bellied, bloody-handed, the Black Gods (sang the drums).

All this and more the drums roared and bellowed to Kane as he

worked his way through the forest. Somewhere in his soul a responsive

chord was smitten and answered. You too are of the night (sang the

drums); there is the strength of darkness, the strength of the

primitive in you; come back down the ages; let us teach you, let us

teach you (chanted the drums).

Kane stepped out of the thick jungle and came upon a plainly

defined trail. Beyond through the trees came the gleam of the village

fires, flames glowing through the palisades. Kane walked down the

trail swiftly.

He went silently and warily, sword extended in front of him, eyes

straining to catch any hint of movement in the darkness ahead, for the

trees loomed like sullen giants on each hand; sometimes their great

branches intertwined above the trail and he could see only a slight

way ahead of him.

Like a dark ghost he moved along the shadowed trail; alertly he

stared and harkened; yet no warning came first to him, as a great,

vague bulk rose up out of the shadows and struck him down, silently.

Chapter 4. The Black God

Thrum, thrum, thrum! Somewhere, with deadening monotony, a cadence

was repeated, over and over, bearing out the same theme: “Fool—fool—

fool!” Now it was far away, now he could stretch out his hand and

almost reach it. Now it merged with the throbbing in his head until

the two vibrations were as one: “Fool—fool—fool—fool—”

The fogs faded and vanished. Kane sought to raise his hand to his

head, but found that he was bound hand and foot. He lay on the floor

of a hut—alone? He twisted about to view the place. No, two eyes

glimmered at him from the darkness. Now a form took shape, and Kane,

still mazed, believed that he looked on the man who had struck him

unconscious. Yet no; this man could never strike such a blow. He was

lean, withered and wrinkled. The only thing that seemed alive about

him were his eyes, and they seemed like the eyes of a snake.

The man squatted on the floor of the hut, near the doorway, naked

save for a loin-cloth and the usual paraphernalia of bracelets,

anklets and armlets. Weird fetishes of ivory, bone and hide, animal

and human, adorned his arms and legs. Suddenly and unexpectedly he

spoke in English.

“Ha, you wake, white man? Why you come here, eh?”

Kane asked the inevitable question, following the habit of