Page:Weird Tales Volume 23 Issue 5 (1934 05).djvu/102

 face, more from fury than fear, however. Then his words spilled out fast.

"You mean to stand there and admit, Lieutenant Natheshire," he snapped, "that you have allowed nine murders in this district where you say you keep the peace? And also, you offer gratuitous insult to company officials who come here upon their legitimate business?

"I shall go to my room, and write out a report of your insolence and inefficiency, tonight! Perhaps your superiors will have something to say about this!"

Natheshire finished buckling his belt. Then he grimaced as at something distasteful.

"Report and be damned!" he said in a level tone, and went forth into the night.

hours later young Bisbee Alden still lay awake. He heard the policeman returning from his grim task, and stepped out into the dimness of the gallery.

"Find what you expected. Lieutenant?" he asked, wondering at the quiver of excitement in his voice.

"Yes, one of your Cuyunis," said Natheshire. "I expect he will be the last—Indio! There's no evidence I could dis-cover by flashlight. I'll go out and make a thorough examination in the morning."

He stepped on past the new agent, entered his own quarters and speedily re-tired. He guessed well enough who had beheaded the native, a murderous rascal who had been one of the raiding nine of whom he had spoken. But in this particular case Lieutenant Natlieshire was apt to be an obtuse Sherlock Holmes. This was the jungle, after all. And Natheshire sympathized deeply with the man named Smith.

Bisbee Alden had difficulty controlling the tingly chills which skittered across

his shoulder-blades. Good land alive, what a job he had undertaken! After peaceful Trinidad, it was like being plunged into another world. For a second he glanced down at the end of the shando, where bright light in crossbars fell from the lattice of Landrigan's window. No doubt the manager was still scribbling his vitriolic report.

Alden shrugged, ashamed of a momentary impulse to chuck the job. He went to his room and determinedly lay down. This time he slept.

One hour later a man came noiselessly from the jungle. He showed only as a tall shadow, striding swiftly toward the stilted gallery. Without a sound he mounted the steps, let himself in the screen door, and then stopped outside the lattice of Landrigan's window.

There he crouched, peering in. The barred light gave him as a tall man, spare but sinewy. He was clad in cap, flannel shirt, khaki trousers and sneakers—the fatigue uniform of the jungle trader, used when at home, or when travelling in country not infested with fer-de-lances and bushmasters. A wide leather cartridge-belt holding a bolstered Colt automatic encircled his waist.

Ten, twelve seconds ticked past. In-side the lighted room, Landrigan signed his name with a scratchy flourish. Then he got to his feet, stretching cramped muscles. He shook one fist in the general direction of Natheshire's room. The arrogant manager looked vindictively pleased with himself.

Five seconds later a slight sound made him turn. Then a shudder of surprize and apprehension convulsed Landrigan. A tall, bleak-featured man with levelled automatic stood in the open door to the gallery.

"S-smith!" the manager whispered, his eyes wide and apprehensively staring. He