The Face in the Abyss | Page 9

any grudge. Drunk last night. I'll help you, if--" He
broke off, abruptly;
busied himself with the burning logs. Out of the tent came Soames.
"I'm goin' to give you one last chance, Graydon," he began, without preliminary. "Come
through clean with us on your dicker with the girl, and we'll take you back with us, and
all work together and all share together. You had the edge on us yesterday, and I don't
know that I blame
you. But it's three to one now and the plain truth is you can't get away with it. So why not
be reasonable?"
"What's the use of going over all that again, Soames?" Graydon asked, wearily. "I've told
you everything. If you're wise, you'll .let me loose, give me my guns and I'll fight for you
when the trouble comes. For trouble is coming, man, sure--big trouble."

"Yeah!" snarled the New Englander. "Tryin' to scare us, are you? All right--there's a nice
little trick of drivin' a wedge under each of your finger nails and a-keepin' drivin' 'em in.
It makes 'most anybody talk after awhile. And if it don't, there's the good old fire dodge.
Rollin' your feet up to it, closer and closer and closer. Yeah, anybody'll talk when their
toes begin to crisp up and toast."
Suddenly he bent over and sniffed at Graydon's lips.
"So that's it!" he faced Starrett, tense, gun leveled from his hip pocket. "Been feedin' him
liquor, have you? Been talkin' to him, have you? After we'd settled it last night that I was
to do all the talkin'. All right, that settles you, Starrett. Dancret! Danc'! Come here,
quick!" he roared.
The Frenchman came running out of the tent.
"Tie him up," Soames nodded toward Starrett. "Another damned double-crosser in the
camp. Gave him liquor. Got their heads together while we were inside. Tie him."
"But, Soames," the Frenchman hesitated, "if we have to fight, it is not well to have half of
us helpless, non. Perhaps Starrett he did nothing--"
"If we have to fight, two men will do as well as three," said Soames. "I ain't goin' to let
this thing slip through my fingers, Danc'. I don't think we'll have to do any fightin'. If they
come, I think it's goin' to be a tradin' job. Starrett's turnin' traitor, too. Tie him, I say."
"Well, I don't like it--" began Dancret; Soames made an impatient motion with his
automatic; the little Frenchman went to the tent, returned with a coil of rope, and sidled
up to Starrett.
"Put up your hands," ordered Soames. Starrett swung them up. But in mid- swing they
closed on Dancret, lifted
him like a doll and held him between himself and the gaunt New Englander.
"Now shoot, damn you!" he cried, and bore down on Soames, meeting every move of his
pistol arm with Dancret's wriggling body. His own right hand swept down to the
Frenchman's belt, drew from the holster his automatic, leveled it over the twisting
shoulder at Soames.
"Drop your gun. Yank," grinned Starrett, triumphantly. "Or shoot if you want. But before
your bullet's half through Dancret here, by Christ, I'll have you drilled clean."
There was a momentary, sinister silence--it was broken by a sudden pealing of tiny
golden bells.
Their chiming cleft through the murk of murder that had fallen on the camp; lightened it;
dissolved it as the sunshine does a cloud. Soames' pistol dropped; Starrett's iron grip upon
Dancret relaxed.

Through the trees, not a hundred yards away, came Suarra.
A cloak of green covered the girl from neck almost to slender feet. In her hair gleamed a
twisted string of emeralds. Bandlets of gold studded with the same gems circled her
wrists and ankles. Behind her a snow-white llama paced, sedately. There was a broad
golden collar around its neck from which dropped strands of little golden bells. At each
of its silvery sides a pannier hung, woven it seemed from shining yellow rushes.
And there was no warrior host around her. She had brought neither avengers nor
executioners. At the llama's side was a single attendant. Swathed in a voluminous robe of
red and yellow, the hood of which covered his face. His only weapon was a long staff,
vermilion. He was bent, and he fluttered and danced as he came on, taking little steps
backward and forward--movements that carried the suggestion that his robes clothed less
a human being than some huge bird. They drew closer, and Graydon saw that the hand
that clutched the staff was thin and white with the transparent pallor of old, old age.
He strained at his bonds, a sick horror at his heart. Why had she come back--like this?
Without strong men to guard her? With none but this one ancient?