Page:Weird Tales Volume 2 Number 2 (1923-09).djvu/36

 An Unseen, Terrifying "Thing" Dwelt in

SHALL never forget those torturing days we spent in the nightmare jungle near the Jalan river.

Placer gold we obtained, to be sure; but there were other things that left their indelible imprints upon the memory. Chief among these was the fiend Rodriquez and the manner in which he was known as "La Fiera," the beast!

As a trail man and master of camp, Rodriquez probably never had an equal. But a thorough knowledge of pack, and the superhuman understanding of a mule, is not everything.

A halfbreed of Mexican peonage and Yaqui Indian was Rodriquez. Never shaven, his fat, swarthy countenance was indicative of the blood that flowed in his veins. His neck was short and powerful, like a gorilla's. Jet-black, greasy hair grew far down on his forehead to a slight space above the cruel, pig-like eyes. Everything about Rodriquez—every move, every attitude of his body—was that of a vicious animal.

He was commonly known as "a killer." Some proclaimed that he was possessed by a devil. Others that he was mad.

But not until we had obtained from our guide, the mozo, the cause of his scorpion-like hatred of Rodriquez did we learn for ourselves, Bill and I, the reason why he was feared and dreaded among the natives.

The incident had occurred several years before when the halfbreed made camp near the casa where Alamondo lived with his wife. There was no reason for the native to mistrust the man, never having heard of La Fiera before. But one day his wife complained of advances Rodriquez had made toward her.

The mozo demanded an explanation, but the halfbreed merely laughed in his beastly way and said nothing.

That night, when Alamondo returned to his casa, he found his wife dead, a stiletto in her breast. La Fiera had attacked her, and she, in her distress, had thrust the dagger into her heart.

Alamondo swore vengeance!

Then came the moment of reckoning. A curse—the flash of steel—! But the little mozo lost his nerve. When he recovered, there was an ear missing!

After that, Alamondo never could summon sufficient courage to repeat the attack. He lived in fear of the beast. And so it was, when we emerged from the jungle into a small clearing where stood the "devil's cabin!"

It was late in the evening, and I proposed that we bunk for the night in the deserted, log-adobe hut. But the mozo instantly fell upon his knees at my feet, seemingly terror-stricken at the suggestion.

"Hay diablo, senor!" he warned. "Si, gran diablo!"

Not knowing the significance of his fright, I laughed and said to Bill, my partner, jocularly:

"Do you hear? Gran diablo, says the mozo. A big devil. Eh, Alamondo? A big devil!"

But the next instant, I stood speechless.

On the still, hot air of the approaching night, came the shrill scream of Felis Discolor, the black leopard.

"And I heard that, too," spoke up Bill, reaching for his Winchester. "I'm no coward, but I be dog-goned if I'm going to sleep in any ramshackle cabin even a native won't go near. Mebbe there's a devil in it and mebbe there isn't; but I'm not going to bunk in it to find out. No, siree! My hammock in the open is good enough for me."

Bill always was an obstinate cuss, so I paid no heed to what he said. I began questioning the mozo as to what he thought was lurking in the lonely hut.

It seemed that the cabin had not been inhabited for many years, perhaps hundreds—"quien sabe"—Alamondo did not know. Stray natives and travelers who had slept within its walls, seeking shelter from the poisonous jungle air, had invariably been all but murdered by some invisible devil. Several had been found terribly mutilated, and one native, whom the mozo knew personally, had died from wounds that would not heal.

No one ever had possessed courage sufficient to enter the hut and discover what the evil "thing" might be. Thus, in the uncertainty as to just what the "thing" was, everyone, light-footed and alert, swerved past the cabin at a respectable distance, crossing themselves and muttering: "Hay diablo!"

"Well, Bill, old-timer," I said, after turning the guide's story over in my mind; "here's where I tucker-it-out alone. Might as well die by the hand of the devil as the fever from sleeping in the open. Here goes!"

Bill stood looking in the direction of the cabin, rather chagrined. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. He was no coward, this partner of mine. Back in the mining days of Klondyke, on a bet, he had gone into a cage with a mountain lion and bled the cat with a butcher knife.

However, this was physical bravery. Bill was not so certain of himself mentally. So he kept peace with his soul and had nothing further to say. Save that it was poor judgment to seek risks that even a native declined.

This slur upon my judgment sealed the question right then and there. I was going to sleep in that haunted cabin, devil or no devil, or know the reason why.