Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 2 (1924-05-07).djvu/81

 The eyes of Payne and Worthington met. Subconsciously each had begun to entertain some such weird belief. The entire land reeked with mysticism. Everywhere the occult was apparent. Though good, hard common sense ridiculed the theory of the supernatural as a factor in the deaths of the six men, the fact remained that they were all dead from an unexplainable cause.

They had died from no known disease. There had been no abrasions, not the tiniest pin prick. But they were dead! Something had killed them!

In a row, out there beneath the blossoms of the monkey-bread trees, were five graves. Before the sun went down Arnold would be filling the sixth.

Who would be next? Who wrould occupy the seventh grave?

Payne shook off the incubus of fear that gripped him and looked toward the spot where he had last seen Nanah's bright turban. The place was vacant! The young Hindoo was gone!

Dean, nerves on edge, cried out, pointing toward a banyan grove: "There he goes—the son of a dog!"

In the scramble that followed, in which Indians joined but to circumvent the whites, the Hindoo, Nanah, made good his escape.

When all hope of capturing him was gone, the men returned to camp. Upon one thing they were all agreed. The Hindoo had used black magic. And, also, they all felt the rest were doomed to go the same way unless Nanah was caught and summarily dealt with.

Worthington, head bent, sat and smoked innumerable pipes of strong tobacco. When he spoke his companions listened intently.

"I am going to the Temple of Indra," he began. "I am going to ask the monk, the surgeon, you know to come over and take a look at poor old Arnold. If he is the man they say he is I believe he'll be able to tell us how they've passed out."

He paused and tamped more tobacco into his pipe.

"I do not believe these deaths have occurred naturally. I've seen lots of dead men but—boys, what makes that purple ring about the mouth?"

He sprang up and paced excitedly about.

Dean, eyes filled with dread, took up the question.

"Aye," he said huskily, "what makes it? No common death leaves a mark like that. There's black magic back of all this."

He sank again into moody silence, shaking fingers describing a circle about his lips.

"Purple," he murmured. "Purple death!"

Payne and his comrades exchanged glances. It was patent that Dean was wavering on the brink of a collapse, hovering above the narrow line which separates the sane from the insane.

Worthington, shoving his own dread to the back of his mind, spoke almost cheerfully.

"Come on, Dean, let's walk over to the temple. I've a hunch the priests of Indra will be able to put their finger on the trouble."

Dean, still running a stodgy finger around his lips, arose and followed Worthington.

Three hours later they returned, accompanied by the surgeon-priest. On the way back Worthington had given the Hindoo all the known facts in the mysterious series of deaths.

When the camp was reached the priest entered Arnold's tent, paused beside the cot and stood looking intently at the corpse.

Payne, to whom the waiting had been soul-sapping, spoke.

"What do you think of this, taken in connection with the five other deaths?"

The turbaned devotee of Indra turned, and for a fleeting instant Payne almost cowered beneath the look in the gleaming eyes.

"Think?" he said softly, "What is there to think? Death comes to all alike. Perhaps not in the same manner. But it comes. And there are many things much worse than death. To the good—Sworga."

He lifted his eyes rapturously. After a short pause he resumed.

"This man, no doubt, suffered terribly. I am quite certain he did."

He smiled and Payne could have sworn he detected a diabolically exultant expression on the brown face.

"But he did not die from disease. He, from all indications, died from—fright!"

The eyes, which Payne had thought malicious, were melting with sympathy. The white man felt a revulsion of feeling as he gazed upon the kindly face.

"It was the uncertain light," he mused, "and my nerves. I must get a better grip on myself."

The Indian again spoke.

"There are no signs of disease."

He ran his long, taper fingers over the body.

"No abrasions, no contusions, no fractured bones."

With a shake of the head he stepped back.

"I could perform an autopsy. But it would tell you nothing. Nothing that I cannot from the signs here tell. Fear—fear alone—killed your friend."

"Oh, but see here!" expostulated Hunt, "that is preposterous! All six of the men who' have passed out were—men. There was not one weakling, not one coward, among the whole lot. For the most part they were ex-service men. Men who never turned a hair at such little pleasure parties as St. Mihiel or Chateau-Thierry. Men who have roughed it all their lives. No sissies nor perfumed dandies in the bunch. Men that would have fought their weight in wild cats—"

He broke off and cast a puzzled, miserable look about.

"Hunt's right," said Payne. "Those boys weren't the scarey stripe. I, like Dean, think there's something mighty rotten about the whole business. And I think that damned black-skinned Nanah's at the bottom of it. Get him and fill his black hide full of lead and the rest of us will be able to get out of this hole alive."

For Payne, usually dubbed "The Silent," this was a long speech.

"It may be," acquiesced the priest, "Nanah's father was a sorcerer."

His eyes held a rapt expression. The twisted thing upon the cot seemed to have lost interest for him. His mind, plainly, was elsewhere. Some scene, conjured up from the past, gripped him.

Worthington jerked impatiently about.

"See here," he demanded, "can't you, if you are as learned as they claim, tell us just what caused the boys' deaths? It's idiotic to suggest anything frightful enough to scare six husky, daredevil rounders to death. I believe it's just what Dean says. Some sort of hoodoo work. And I believe you, as an Indian priest, are hep to the whole thing!"

The priest's face went livid, but his self control was admirable. He bowed profoundly, smiled graciously and turned to Payne.

"I can do neither the living nor the dead any service by remaining. My watch at the sacred shrine of Indra commences with the sunset. Therefore, I must be on my way."

Payne inclined his head.

"We had hoped you could help us in our trouble," he said, quietly. "Anyway, we thank you for coming. Let me offer you refreshments before you begin your return journey."

The priest stiffened and his face became convulsed with passion.