adam v35n04 (1963 09.kenmure) - internet archive · adam september•1963 vol.35•no.4 contents...

ADAMSEPTEMBER • 1963

Vol. 35 • No. 4

ContentsFACT:Boss Of Bawdy House Island 6

Murder Comes Easy 10

He Dared A Shark — And Built

a Fortune 14

Recruit For Rebellion 26

FICTION:Alibi For Danger 4Apprentice Killer 22Cult Of The Snake God 30low Of Hellflre Range 36

FEATURES:Pin-Up 3

Our Roman Goddess 20-21

Cartoons 8, 9. 12. 13. 24. 25. 28.

29, 32, 33, 34, 35, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42,

43, 44, 48, 51, 52, 55, 57.

td,rra

!ydney”

DISTRIBUTORS: GORDON & GOTCH(A/SIA) LTD, MELBOURNE • ADAM

MAGAZINE PTY LTD, SYDNEY.

ADAM, September, 1963 3

Maybe he could hurl himself overboard

without being shot. Then, if the shots

missed him and the police in the other

boat didn't catch him, there were only

the sharks . . . always the sharks.

FICTION • BRENT AUDLEY

rPHE drums quickened and the girl’s sway-ing body leapt instantly into the con-

vulsive new rhythm. McKeefry pushed at

the table with his fat belly and his pudgyhand fell away from the tall glass of cold

Dutch beer. There was a flurry of smoothblack hair and the flash of a naked thighas the girl whirled across the beaten-earthfloor.

"She’s something,” McKeefry croakedwithout moving his greedy eyes.

“Yes,” said Jackson quietly, "she really

is something.” He was sitting back from the

table with his long legs stuck out in front

of him. He wasn’t relaxed, though. On the

contrary —- Jackson’s lean, hard figure wasas tense as a coiled steel spring. He waitedin cold silence for the fat engineer to start

the inevitable questions.“What’s her name?” began McKeefry a

moment or two later.

“Stefanie,” supplied Jackson and silently

he cursed the policeman, Herant. If, heswore to himself, that Frenchman managesto keep my liaison-officer ,iob down to this

level of “entertaining visiting engineers,"I’ll kill him.“How old you reckon she’d be?” said

McKeefry. “Seventeen?”“No, Stefanie’s nearly 20.”

“Hey, you know this girl pretty well?”“This is a small island,” side-stepped

Still w’thout moving his eyes from the

girl. McKeefry gestured with one arm.“She’s not like any of these, is she?” His

movement had embraced half the popula-

tion of Jarrot’s Bar. Jackson, to fill time,

looked slowly round the crowded, smokedroom. There were more white men thanusual, but then they always came on the

nights Stefanie was dancing. McKeefry

meant the natives — the local Melanesians,the Asians from French Indo-China, thehalf-castes and the group of broken-downTahitian women drinking beer in one corner.

“No,” said Jackson evenly, “Stefanie’s

mother was half-French, half-Tahitian. Herfather was English — a marine biologist

who came out here a long time ago. They’reboth dead now. Stefanie has a little money— but she loves to dance . .

.”

‘That I can see,” breathed the fat man.The drums were working to a crescendo

now and the girl’s lithe body caught everybeat with her hips, hands and shoulders.

Despite himself, Jackson was caught up in

the general movement as every man in theroom leaned a little closer to the half-nakedgirl. Then he heard a hard, urgent voiceclose by his ear.

“Outside, Mike — quick!”The liaison-officer whipped round and saw

the giant figure of Koro. Without a

moment’s hesitation Jackson followed thebig man.

Part-Asian, part-French, Koro had onceworked for Stefanie’s father. Now. thanksto Mike Jackson, he worked for ConsolidatedMining Industries and was the best friendJackson had in the world.

Outside, in the yellow light of the ver-

anda. Koro looked hard into Jackson’s eyes.

“Where were you this afternoon?” he de-

manded.“At Tulagi.”“You have had no accident?”Jackson shook his head, “What do you

mean?”“Did anyone see you at Tulagi?”“Just about the entire staff of the mines.

I took up that tub of lust-happy lard in

there. He’s a CMI man. Now what’s this

about? Herant?”“Yes. A man was killed out at Bounai

Village about an hour ago. You knowChong’s, the gambling house?”

Jackson nodded and Koro, leading his

friend off the veranda and down into thedarkened road, continued. “A man I knowsaw it — lucky for you, Mike. He heardshouting, then two men came out of

Chong’s. One was a white man, the othera Melanesian. They argued in the street

and it looked as though they were going to

fight. Anywav, the Melanesian ran off downthe road! The white man got into his carand followed him. Just before Bounai bridgethe car ran the native boy down. He waskilled immediately, but the car didn’t stop.

Well, maybe it was an accident. Mike, butHerant’s policemen are up at Bounai nowarranging everything to suit their boss. Bythe time they’re finished it’s going to look

like deliberate murder.”Jackson swore violently. Up until now

he’d thought Herant was out to get him bvkeeping everything so ciuiet and peacefulthat CMI just wouldn’t need a liaison-

officer any more. It had been working too.

That’s how he’d been reduced to playingtourist-guide to slobs like McKeefry. Well,at least he had a job to do now.

"Of course it was a CMI car?" he askedKoro.

“It was a white Citroen.”

“What?” Jackson’s mind reeled. Therewere only two white Citroen’s on the island,

his own and the one belonging to MarshallHilton, CMI’s director. Marshall Hilton wasno more likely to visit Chong’s than he wasto bring his wife into Jarrot’s bar.

Jackson made the quick obvious decision.

(Continued on page 1(1)

4 ADAM, September, 1963

JAKE housman:BOSS OF BAWDY

Run off the US mainland,

he set up the wildest

off-shore "hotel" the world

had ever seen — a

sailor's paradise, loaded

with his own private

collection of the best in

anything-goes women.

"i^ET dressed, damn you! Women^ are coming here. Women, youstupid, lazy, good-for-nothing sav-age. Get me my pants.”

Mack Bingham’s shouted wordsjolted his sleepy Indian partner full

awake. The old man was rub-

bing a knuckle into a bloodshoteye and jabbing a trembling fore-

finger out the door of theSr crude

hut down toward the beach andthe dock. The Indian, a muscularyouth named Harry Big Toe,looked that way and his eyeswidened in disbelief.

A group of women — he wastoo excited :to count them — wereswaggering large as life along thedeck, twirling colorful parasolsand rolling big hips. “Fancywomen!” Bingham said, hoppingoutside on one foot as he tried to

get into his pants and walk at thesame time. ‘‘And on our island,

Hairy!”

The hobbling Bingham was soflustered at the parade of pulchri-

tude on the desolate Florida keythat he failed to notice a man whostood just outside the hut doorwatching Bingham and the Indianwith calculating eyes.

‘‘Not your island, old man,” thestranger said suddenly. “And notyour women.”Bingham tripped and fell down

at the sound of the voice. Fromthe ground he peered up at theman.What 'he saw took the good feel-

ing out of him. The newcomerwas about 27 or 28 years old, notquite as tall as the Indian or asmuscular but with enough heft to

him to merit respect. He had asea captain’s blue cap set rakishlyon dark, curly hair, a lean, sharp-featured face, and hooded eyesthat shifted around suspiciously.Gold eyes.“I’m Jake Housman,” the man

said. “The women belong to meand I’m taking over this hut fornow, and the island for all time.”

Old Bingham got to his feet. Hehad spent half his life living onthe remote Florida isle he hadnamed Indian Key.

“Nobody takes my island, mis-ter,” he said. He gestured im-patiently at the Indian. “All sight,

Harry. Don’t break this fellow, just


FACT • LAWRENCE S. MONROE

HOUSE ISLANDbend him a little. Afterward, youcan have a time with his women,then send them all packing in

their little boat.

Harry Big Toe and Ithe old manhad a nice maritime wrecking busi-

ness going for themselves. Harryliked the way things were. Herelished the easy life on the re-

mote coral reef and he enjoyed the

occasional trip to Key West, wheremoney Bingham gave him boughtwhisky and female companion-ship and where he had fun at

the travelling fairs besting profes-

sional wrestlers and weight-lifters

in the sideshows and proving that

he. Harry Big Toe, was undis-

puted strong -man of the Florida

Keys.Harry gathered his champion-

ship muscles and lunged menac-ingly at Housman.The smaller man -side-stepped

the charge, tripped Harry with abooted foot, hammered a hailed

fist down on to the off-balancedIndian’s nose and smashed it to

pulp. Harry Big Toe screamedand sprawled in the dirt.

“I said I was taking over this

Key. Work with me, odd man, andwe’ll get along. Maybe you’ll get

rich. Fight me, and you’ll lose ahell of a lot.”

The girls, three of them, hadcrossed the beach and arrived atthe hut. They began to throwBingham’s and Harry’s possessionsout of the crude structure whileJake Housman stood grinning,holding his knife pointed casuallyat the two outraged islanders.

“Housman?” old Bingham rasp-ed, “who are you? Who in "he'll

are you?”Jacob Housman wasn’t “in hell”

but in the short span of his younglife his arrival at that destina-tion had already been doubly in-

sured. The son of a wealthy shipoperator, Housman had -been bom

and reared in New York Oity. Hequickly tired of -the unexciting

freight-hauling business his father

took him into. Jake — as his

waterfront friends called him —was a burly six-footer with a sul-

len nature, an easy dominanceover the opposite sex, and a liking

for cards and quick money.

At 21 he came of age and high-

jacked one of his father's

schooners, setting his course for

the West Indies, after hearing on

the waterfront that a man could

live a wild and enjoyable life

there with the expenditure of little

labor. The schooner sprung a leak

and Housman was forced to put

into Key West for repairs.

Immediately -the tail youth sized

up the bustling town as a likely

place for a man without scruples.

The chief activity in Key West in

the 1830s was the business of pro-

fessional marine wrecking — tow-

ing distressed ships for a fat pro-


fit, or salvaging crippled vesselsabandoned during storms. Usinghis schooner, the Yorktoion Lass,

young Housman launched himselfon a career in competition withsome of America’s worst cut-throats and human vultures.

The marine wreckers had anedge on the newcomer since theyknew the geography of ithe greatreef as they knew their own uglyfaces in a mirror. At the first

warning blast of a conch-shellhorn, each man would dash forthe wharf where speedy sloops andschooners were moored.

The mad race for a hapless shipwas on. They ran with their"Georgia bundles’’ — spare cloth-ing and hastily snatched-up food

—

and sailed toward the distressedvessel. This was no game for theweak or the hesitant. Wreckersshot or knifed rivals to death intheir craze to be first to reach afat and helpless prize ship. If askipper baulked at a wrecker’ssalvage terms, there were specialways of handling these businessnegotiations. In one year 16 seacaptains disappeared at sea orwere found dead in Key Westwaters after haggling with wreckers over financial terms or fees forsalvage operations.

Jacob Housman, despite his in-

experience, used his wits, fists,

knife and gun to hack his way intothe wrecker trade. He worked anew angle. If business was slow,he would cast adrift a small boatwith lanterns to lure ships infoggy waters on to the dangerousreefs. Because they were readyand waiting, Housman and hismen were always first to "rescue"these wayward vessels. Distress-ed sea captains found his termsthe worst of all. Frequently theywere forced into awarding 'him asmuch as 90 percent of the total


value of ship and cargo.Within five years, by 1835, Hous-

man owned six speedy vesselswhich he used in the wreckingtrade. At the age of 26 he wascommonly regarded as the richestman in Key West. The St Augus-tine Tribune said editorially: “Thisunscrupulous but able young man

from Manhattan has been able toamass a fortune of 500,000 dollars,thanks ito his harsh methods withcompetitors and his merciless pro-fits extracted from helpless cap-tains. But the greater portion ofhis wealth comes from ithe repul-sive profession of prostitution.Mr Housman has made Key Westa place of Shame with his twobrothels, which operate 24 hoursa day to serve wreckers andmariners who think nothing ofleaving their entire pay with themercenary Housman.’’

The young man from Manhat-tan had been quick to see that KeyWest was an all-male communityexcept for a scattering of Indianwomen and a handful of tawny-skinned bawds from Jamaica. Themore respectable men wrote tochurches or agencies in the Northto obtain mail-order wives. Butother wreckers, .their pockets filled

with money turned in desperationto the Indian and Jamaican pros-titutes who were described by anearly Florida physician, Dr SamuelSumter as “the saddest collectionof disease-ridden female creaturesI have encountered in a 40-yearmedical practice.”

In this sad situation opportunistJake Housman saw Ithe gleam ofgold.

He imported to Key West agroup of young women who liter-

ally knocked the eyes out of thelong-lonely wreckers. Housman’sfirst bagnio was called the Impe-

rial Palace, a swanky name for astructure put together from cedar

and mahogany planks salvaged

from wrecked ships. Lashed by

frequent hurricanes, Key Westwas a builder’s nemesis, yet Hous-man could boast that even duringthe worst storms “business itrans-

aetions” would never toe interrup-

ted in his place.

“Take 'off your hats and see that

your shoes are clean!” Housmanwould roar at nervous male pat-

rons as they entered the place.

“You men are accustomed to pigsties. Pay, up, behave yourselves,

and you’re welcome. Dirty a rug or

start trouble, and you’ll answerto me!”The wreckers, sailors, and towns-

men of Key West gawked respect-

fully around Housman’s play-

house. The Palace was staffed by15 girls Housman had carefully

gathered in New Orleans, Savan-nah, St Augustine, Havana andeven as far north as Boston. Theirsleek bodies gleamed amid 'luxury

furnishings swiped from wreckedvessels and salvaged cargos. Chin-

ese bric-a-brac, statuary, Oriental

rugs, silver, and a highly polished

spinet piano held the men in awe.Even Housman was fascinated

by the piano, the only such instru-

ment in Key West. When in his

cups, he frequently sang ballads

taught to him by his long-deadmother. He impulsively decided to

hold a “musical conceit” and in-

vited Key West’s leading citizens

and their families to attend. Ac-

companied on the piano by a saucybawd named Clara Eldridge, the

king of wreckers presented a pro-

gram of vocal selections.

The town fathers attended onlyout of a disinclination to tangle

with tough Jake Housman, and as

Jake belted out songs in his boom-ing voice, they began to shift un-

easily in their seats and look aboutfor something more interesting.

A hardware store owner namedThomas Traynor slipped awayfrom his battle-axe wife and wascoaxed upstairs by one of Hous-man’s young women. Abel S. How-land, a furniture salesman, step-

ped out onto the front porch to get

some air and smoke a cigar. Hewas collared by a Boston girl,

Nancy Meredith, who had the dis-

tinction of being the youngest pros-

titute in the Palace—she was just

16.

Howland’s wife looked aroundduring an intermission and foundAbel with Nancy in an upstairs

room. The girl’s piercing shriek

and Mrs Howard’s grim pursuit of

her half naked spouse out onto thestreet broke up the concert.

The infuriated vocalist, JakeHousman, canned the two bawdswho had enticed his guests andruined his musical debut.

Aware now that concerts andprostitution didn’t mix, Housmanturned all his attention on his first

love — money. With the profits

raked in from the Imperial Palace,he began building a second estab-lishment. New girls for this housearrived aboard the packet Postboy,

I’m trying to build up my resistance to them!’

to the cheers of men who jammedthe Key West pier.

With two bawdyhouses goingfull blast, - Jake Housman nowturned to the development of hiswrecking business. His strong-armmen forced Key West shippers

and businessmen into awardinghim profitable contracts for div-

ing, lightering, warehousing andstorage. With this, in addition to

his wrecking take, Housman wasriding high and handsome. Successupon success made him more arro-

gant than ever, and his boldnessbecame unbearable.On August 15, 1837, an auction

of salvaged merchandise was heldto dispose of the cargo of awrecked brig, the New LondonQueen. It was a rich haul—cedarfrom Cuba, cochineal, sugar,

molasses and coffee from Mexico.

Jake Housman estimated thevalue of these goods at 125,000

dollars, and he was furious that

his own men had failed to reachthe New London Queen in time, to

claim her cargo.He tried to rig the bidding

through the auctioneer. “I'll make

it worth your while, Charlie,” hetold 60-year-old Charles Ellison,

“if you can think up some way to

disqualify the other bidders. Saythey’re not financially responsible

or their permits aren’t valid—any-way you can do it, it’s worth athousand to me if you knock that

cargo down to 25,000 dollars.”

Ellison was a dignified Savan-nah operator with a reputation

for honesty. “Submit a decent bid

and you’ll have a chance,” he said

flatly to the king of the Key West.“All I ask is a favor. There's

plenty in it for you,” Housmansaid.

“That’s cheating, Housman,’Ellison snapped. “I’m not stealing

a cargo for you by ruling out theothers.”The auctioneer used a school-

teacher-ito-errant boy tone, andthis was a mistake.Choking with anger, Housman

grabbed up a belaying pin andswung it at Ellison’s head. Theblow caught the auctioneer onthe left temple.

(Continued on page 54)


Thousands of men and women are murdered each year,

and their killers have gone scot-free because of one

small loophole in America's crime fighting setup . . .

JOHN Henry Jordan got awaywith murder. He got away

with it 12 times to be exact. Some-thing that could never happen inAustralia.A not too successful rock ’n roll

singer who worked the cheapernightclubs and roadhouses in theSouthwest, the 23-year-old Jordandevised a peculiar scheme tosupplement his skimpy income.Whenever he ran low on the cashhe needed for women, booze orclothing, he killed.Jordan picked his victims with

care, which was one ingredient ofhas success.No matter what town he was

in, Jordan headed for the localSkid Row when the time came forhim to kill again. He’d hangaround a bar, liquor store orgrocery and wait until an elderlyman cashed a cheque. For, Jordanknew thousands of aged personseked out an existence on tiny pen-sion cheques, living on Skid Rowbecause rents were cheap.When Jordan spotted a victim,

he would follow as the man stag-

gered out with a pint of gin in hishand, a dozen shots under his belt,or a package of groceries underhis arm.At a dark alley, or a vacant lot,

Jordan would slip up behind theman and grab him in a mug lockaround the throat. And he wouldn’tlet go until he choked the life outof his weak, unresisting victim.After rifling his pockets, Jordanwould pull out a flask from underIns shirt and force about a pintof cheap wine into the dead man’smouth.

In each of his dozen murders,Whether in Texas, Oklahoma orNew Mexico, the coroner wouldautomatically bring in a verdictof death due to overindulgence ofalcohol. After all, the deaths ofelderly winos are common. Any

Murder Comes


commonsense coroner was able to

recognise the symptoms of a SkidRow death.

This was the basic ingredient ofJordan's success.But Jordan struck out on his

13th killing. His victim, JosephSnider was no different from theothers. There was nothing abouthim to set off an investigation.Jordan’s only mistake was thatthis time he killed in Houston,Texas.Unlike the large majority of

communities in the United States,Houston has abolished the coronerand replaced him with a trainedstaff of medical examiners.And when he performed a rou-

tine autopsy on Jordan’s latest

victim, Houston’s Chief MedicalExaminer, Dr Joseph A. Jachim-

czky, discovered a tiny beak in

the hyoid, a small bone, located

in the upper part of the neck, to

which the tongue muscles are at-

tached.Dr Jachimczky immediately

alerted detectives.

“It looks like a murder,” hesaid. “That bone is pretty toughand only an extreme amount ofpressure or a sharp blow couldhave cracked it. I’d say this manwas strangled.”Homicide investigators rounded

up the dead man’s companions andneighbors. Among them was amiddle-aged prostitute who fre-

quented the run-down club in

which Jordan was then entertain-

ing, and who had seen the singerstalk the old man through thestreets the night before. Taken

to headquarters, Jordan promptlybroke down and confessed. He alsodescribed in detail the murder ofhis 12 previous victims.“I’m glad you got me,” Jordan

said. “I was gonna keep killing

until I got caught.”Jordan pleaded guilty to murder

and is now serving 35 years in theState penitentiary.

The strange case of John HenryJordan points up a terrifying fact— in most communities in thecountry, anyone with a smidgin ofbrainpower can get away withmurder because local officials

don’t spot the crime when they seeit.

In fact, more than 5000 personsget away with murder every yearin the 50 States, just as Jordandid, simply because their crimegoes unrecognised for the pre-

meditated murder it is.

In about 40 States, and in sometwo-thirds of the more than 3000counties in the nation, county cor-

oners have the sole responsibility

for investigating and determiningthe cause of sudden or suspiciousdeaths. But a US county coronerdoesn’t have to have a drop ofmedical knowledge to get his job,

and as things work out, 'he rarelyknows anything about scientific

crime detection.

And even when a coroner as adoctor, it’s a mistake to thinkhe’s any more qualified ait detect-

ing murder than a farmer is. Fewmedical men can perform anautopsy properly. Few doc-

tors have ever tried it at all.

Forensic medicine, the art of de-

termining the cause of deaththrough scientific examination ofinternal organs, blood and micro-scopic tissues, is a highly special-

ised art, and takes specialised

knowledge and years of experi-ence. Some of John Jordan’s vic-

tims were actually autopsied bycoroners who were general prac-titioners, but who missed murderas the cause of death as 'badly asthe non-medical coroners did. Aswe’ve seen, it took a trained path-

ologist to spot Jordan’s murderinghand.

What the widespread prevalenceof unskilled coroners means, ofcourse, is that a big loophole formurder exists in America.

Clever killers simply can’t becaught unless all unexplained orsudden deaths are carefully inves-

tigated through post mortems andchemical analysis. But few coron-ers ever bother to consult medicalexperts.

“When a man is dead a doctorwon’t do him any good,” one Mid-western coroner recently said in

one of the most remarkable state-

ments of the century. "When I goto the death scene I try to get thefacts. I don’t give the body morethan a quick look.”

A few years ago, for example,a man’s body was found lying faceup on the floor of Ms oabin in arural area of Kentucky. The cor-

oner was summoned and took onefast look at the dead man froma few feet away.“Died of 'heart failure,” he pro-

ADAM, September, 1963 I I

nounced. Then he returned to 'his

full-time job — pig farming.When an ambulance attendant

later lifted the body to a! stretcherhe was horrified to find a knifeburied deep in the man’s back.Survey after survey by medical

and criminological groups haveturned up the same kind of thingevery year now for generations.Coroners often list “heart failure”as the cause of death for any manover 40 as long as there’s no knifein his heart, or if he died in bed.Actually, in the Alice in Wonder-land world of the coroner, almostanyone found dead in bed is as-

sumed to have died from naturalcauses.Death certificates signed by cor-

oners have listed such variedcauses of death as: “Found deadin a shanty,” or “Found dead onthe street.” Many coroners reportshave said of suspicious deaths:“Could be tuberculosis, diabetes orindigestion.”And then the cases were marked

closed, with no further investiga-tions conducted. Naturally, all this

is an engraved invitation to mur-der.


The consequences of the ante-quated coroner system, which be-

gan in the Middle Ages and hasbarely changed since then, aredramatically illustrated by thebizarre case of Henry Marshall,the Agriculture Departmentofficial who investigated the wheel-ing and dealing of Billie Sol Estes.

Marshall apparently was one ofthe first to smell illegality inEstes’ operations and he quietlybegan an investigation. On theevening of June 3, 1961, Marshall’sbattered, bullet-riddled body wasfound in a lonely pasture on his1500 acre ranch near Franklin,Texas. He had been shot five timesin the stomach with his own .22

rifle.

A Justice of the Peace — one ofthose medically untrained menwho sits as coroner in most partsof Texas, Oklahoma, Arizona andNew Mexico — examined the bodyby flashlight. He glanced at thecontact wounds in the abdomen.He examined the right eye, pro-

truding out of its socket from asharp blow on the forehead. Thenhe ruled the death a suicide!

Henry Marshall was promptlyburied and forgotten.But not forever. Within a

couple of months Billie Sol’s

bubble had burst and Congres-sional investigations into hisoperations created national 'headlines. In May, 1962, a Texas grandjury started digging into Mar-shall’s strange death, and ithe bodywas ordered exhumed. Marshall'sremains were sent to Houstonwhere Dr Jachimczky — the sameMedical Examiner who broke JohnHenry Jordan’s string of murdersat No 13 — performed an autopsy.The verdict: "probable homi-

cide.”“If, in fact, this is suicide,” Dr

Jachimczky concluded, “it is themost unusual one I have seen dur-ing the examination of about15,000 dead persons.”For one thing, the pathologist

pointed out, there were the woundsthemselves. Marshall was killed

with a rifle which has to be manu-ally loaded to get each shell in

the firing chamber. He would havehad to shoot 'himself, eject theshell and get another into position,

shoot himself again, and repeatthe movements until he had fired

five shots.But at least three of the shots,

the Medical Examiner found, were“incapacitating.” Which meansthat any one of them would haveknocked Marshall out of commis-sion so that it would have beenphysically impossible for 'him to

have fired ,the other two.

That’s not all Dr Jachimczkyfound. Marshall’s lungs, it turnedout, had about 30 percent concen-tration of carbon monoxide in

them at the time of death. That’salmost enough to kill, and cer-

tainly enough to knock a man un-conscious. Yet the motor in his

pick-up truck was turned off whenhis body was found, so he couldnot have inhaled the fumes as helay dying some 50 feet away fromthe vehicle. And if he had inhaledthe fumes before being shot, andthrough some superhuman effort

not lost consciousness, then he cer-

tainly would not have had enoughco-ordination left to put five

closely-spaced slugs into his ownbody.

Henry Marshall simply couldn’thave committed suicide.

It’s too late now, to do muchabout it. Billie Sol was recentlysentenced to eight years at hardlabor in one swindle and facesabout 100 years more if convicted

on a dozen other State and Fed-eral indictments. And the killer

of Henry Marshall had almost ayear’s start on the FBI and the

Texas Rangers.Contrast Marshall’s death with

the case of Sally Rossbey.

Lovely Sally, a shapely blondesecretary, never got more than afew hours head start on policewhen she killed her boyfriend.Her carefully plotted murder blewup in her face because she made aghastly mistake — she killed theguy in New York, a town whichpioneered in the Medical Examin-er system by abolishing the cor-

nipt coroner’s office in 1918 andreplacing it with skilled medicaldetectives.In New York, as in most cities

with a Medical Examiner, anydeath away from home, hospitalor where no doctor is in attend-ance, or which is unexpected,legally requires the attention of aMedical Examiner.

"In the morgue,’’ Dr MiltonHelpern, New York Chief Medicaltxaminer says, “secrets have noplace to hide.”

Sally Rossbey’s secret had lost

its hiding place in the morgue. A26-vear-old divorcee, she hit theheadlines in November, 1958, whenshe was found lying in the parkinglot of a hospital in Brooklyn, twobullet wounds in her abdomen andone in her thigh.Four feet away lay the body of

her fiancee, Arthur Billt, 28, whohad been honorably dischargedfrom the Air Force a month earl-

ier. There were two bullets in his

chest. A .22 calibre Beretta auto-matic rested lightly in his openpalm.“Art shot me,” Sal moaned when

she was found by guards. “1 don'tknow why.”As doctors operated, detectives

found the motive for the shootingin her handbag. A note she hadwritten to Billt, but had nevermailed, said: “I’m sorry, Art, I will

not stay engaged or be your girl

any longer.”

Obviously Billt had become en-

raged at the broken engagementand shot Sally. Then he turnedthe gun on himself.

“Jilted Suitor Shoots Blonde andKills Self,” headlines screamedlater that day.

In 2000 coroner “counties”throughout the nation, that head-line would have been the final

verdict. But not in New York.

Billt’s body was taken to themorgue at Bellevue Hospital, whereDr Erling S. Wedding, an Assist-

ant Medical Examiner, performedthe post mortem.

On opening the ex-flier’s body DrWedding discovered that one slug

had cut through the upper rightarm, right chest, lung and wind-pipe and lodged at the fourth rib

on the left side. The other slughad cut through the right chestlung and heart, coming to a stopin 'the left lung. Dr Weddingcarefully traced the trajectories of

the slugs again and again. Thenhe issued Ms report.

“Billt could not have shot him-self with either Ms left or righthand,” the doctor said. “The bul-

lets entered the body at such anangle that it was impossible forMm to have fired the shots him-self.”

As a result of the medical re-

port, detectives and the FBI be-

gan a murder investigation less

than one day after Billt's death.The first step was tracing thegun. In Atlanta, Georgia, Fede-ral agents located a gun dealerwho recalled selling the Berettato Sally Rossbey two weeks be-

fore the shooting. She had usedan assumed name, but the dealerwas able to identify her picture.

Her elaborate plans blown to

pieces by the Medical Examiner,Sally was charged with man-slaughter. A jury agreed withthe prosecutor’s charge that shehad murdered her boyfriend andthen carefully fired three bullets

into non-vital areas of her bodyto make it appear that she wasthe victim, and She was sent tothe pen.

(Continued on page Jf6)


''

That’s Sally for you . . . always fishing for complimentsl"

HE DARED A SHARK-Sir Frank Beaurepaire

was a three-Olympics

representative swimmer and

a top-level Australian

industrialist. He has an eminent

place in sporting history

as the most durable of the

nation's great swimmers

at International level.

SPORT • KEN RAYMOND

By 1905 young Frank Beaurepairehail won numerous swimming tro-

phies. Here he is shown at the age

of 15 proudly displaying his well-

Two years before the war, FrankBeaurepaire was a keen motor-cyclist. It helpeil to keep him fit

and in training.

ADAM, September, 1963

AND BUILT A FORTUNEF the early afternoon of Satur-

day, January 4, 1922, lifesavers

of Coogee, Bondi and North BondiClubs were busy in the Coogeeclubhouse with last-minute pre-

parations for an interclub carni-

val at the local beach.

Some of their colleagues al-

ready had taken the plunge for aloosening-up swim. One of thesewas 18-year-old Coogee clubmanMilton Singleton Coughlan, son ofthe Randwick postmaster.

Coughlan swam well out fromthe beach to "The Reef,” 30 to

40 yards off the rocks at the foot

of Coogee’s southern headland,where big breakers were rising to

give surfshooters long rides to thebeach. He cracked it for oneshoot, swam back and caught asecond then battled once morethrough the pounding surf to

await yet another. This time hehad gone out a little too far to

catch a ride on waves .that passedhim as big green swells to pickup surfers a few yards closer in-

shore.

For a few moments Coughlanwas alone, rising and falling withthe swell as he .awaited the

“howler” that comes along everynow and then. At last he saw it

rising and turned to swim hard in

its sucking trough.

Lifesavers .watching from theclubhouse on' the rocks, saw thewave break and expected Cough-lan's head and shouldei-s to Shoot

out from its racing white foam.He did not appear. One or .two

glanced back to where he had be-

gun to swim to catch the wave.They saw him struggling with ashark in a patch of his own bloodspreading on the sea.

Jack Chalmers, of the NorthBondi Club, was the first to re-

cover from the stunning horror of

the sight.

"Good God,” he cried. “A shark’s

got 'him. Come on! Grab that

reel.”

Only one reel was in reservein the clubhouse, the others hav-ing been taken to the beach forthe surf carnival. This one lacked

a belt, but Chalmers knotted the

line (around his waist as he ranacross the rocks, with other life-

savers bearing the reel runningbehind 'him. In 'his 'haste Chalm-ers slipped and his head struck a

rock. He was momentarily dazedbut recovered quickly and ran onto the edge of the rocks. Almostwithout missing a stride he plung-

ed into the sea as a receding wavesucked back from the rocks. Heswam toward Coughlan, who wasstill trying to fight off the shark.

The shark had bitten off Cough-ian’s right arm at the elbow in

its first attack. He was now try-

ing .to batter it with his left fist.

He punched it a few times beforethe Shark seized the left arm andhung on to it. Coughlan was help-less as Chalmers reached 'him andliterally tore him from the shark’sjaws. Blood gushed from thestump of Coughlan’s right armand from .the mangled left arm,hanging lifeless by a strip of flesh.

"Don’t let go of me, Jack,”Coughlan pleaded as Chalmerstook him firmly under the armpitsand the reel team began to haulon the line.

Meanwhile, Frank Beaurepaire,ia clubmate of Chalmers and atwo-Olympics representative swim-mer, heard the commotion andran to the clubhouse’s first-floor

veranda. When he saw what wasgoing on he vaulted the verandarail and ran across the rocks to

plunge in and join Chalmers in

the rescue. Three .times crashingwaves hurled him back on to

jagged rocks that Chopped andsliced into his flesh. At the fourthattempt he swam clear andstroked powerfully toward Chalm-ers, who was just about to reachCoughlan. Henry Fletcher, also

a member of the North BondiClub, was swimming out from thebeach.

Chalmers’ plight was desperate.

Without a lifesaving belt to give

him buoyancy and with the weightof the dying Coughlan in his armshe sank beneath the surface at

ADAM, Ssptember, 1963 15

which raised £5000 from publicsubscription. Beaurepaire andChalmers each received half.

Frank Beaurepaire was then 31years old, tand well on the way toan eminent place in Australia’ssporting history as the most dur-able of the nation’s imposing list

of great competitive swimmers atinternational level. It is astonish-ing today, when most world-classswimmers are "burned out" intheir early 20s, to reflect thatBeaurepaire when in 'his mid-30swas swimming against and beat-ing often enough, such celebratedperformers as Sweden’s ArneBorg (then half Beaurepaire’sage), America’s Johnny Weismul-ler, Australia’s “Boy” Charlton,Moss Christie and others of greatrenown. In a career lasting nearly30 years Beaurepaire won morethan 200 first-class championshipsin many countries and representedAustralia at three Olympic Games—the last 16 years after the first.

The remarkable qualities thatenabled him to brush aside a child-

hood physical handicap and ad-vancing yelars to establish such arare record carried him to equalsuccess as a businessman — in-

deed, to the topmost level of Aus-tralia’s industrialists. One doesnot underrate the man’s achieve-ments in business and public life

in wondering if these could havebeen quite so spectacular if thepublic hlad not recognised his brav-ery in the Coughlan rescue witha substantial cash gift.

For this money gave him thecapital to establish the beginningsof a vast Australian industry indefiance of immense American in-

terests then dominating . theworld’s tyre markets. This wasthe Beaurepaire Tyre Service,from which he built a personalfortune of £1 million and an indus-try whose assets exceeded £20million when he died in 1956. Inthumbing his nose at tremendously wealthy and powerful Americanrubber companies Beaurepaireagain demonstrated the courageand determination to succeed thatbrought him outstanding sport-ing success and sent him racingto Milton Coughlan’s aid on thatawful day in the Coogee surf.

As he progressed in business hebecame increasingly dedicated topublic service, for which he wasjustly -rewarded with a knight-hood, membership of the VictorianParliament and the Lord Mayor-alty of Melbourne. As a philan-thropist he gave unpublicised andoften anonymous help to manycauses. Among his known bene-factions was a £200,000 gift tofound the Beaurepaire PhysicalEducation Centre at the Univer-sity of Melbourne. Not surpris-ingly, the basis of this Centre wasan Olympic-standard swimmingpool but it included also a gym-nasium, assembly hall, study facili-

ties and other amenities.

Appalled by shockingly highdrowning fatality figures summerafter summer, Beaurepaire wasthe moving force in Victoria'sleam-to-swim campaign for chil-

HE DARED A SHARK — AND BUILT A FORTUNE

Australia's 1924 Games stvimmers: Beaurepaire, lower right with

Eve. Standing, l. to r., Christie, Stedman, Henry and Charlton.

each haul on the line. He wasnear exhaustion from his dashacross the rocks, his hard swimthrough the heavy surf and hisvigorous kicking to scare off thebloodhungry shark now circlinghim and Coughlan. He was in

danger of drowning or of havingto fight off another attack fromthe shark.Then Beaurepaire reached him.

He seized the back of Chalmers’full length costume with one handand with his free arm and his

powerful trudgeon kick, kept.

Chalmers and Coughlan afloat

while they were hauled to therocks. The attacking shark andtwo others that had scented theblood followed them all the way.As the three men were drawnclose to the rocks an onlookernamed Charles Green, fullyclothed, jumped into the wlater to

help lift them out and to splashabout to keep the sharks at bay.When Coughlan was borne away

on a stretcher to a waiting ambu-lance, in which he died on the way


to hospital, Chalmers said toBeaurepaire, “I was about donewhen you got to us, Frank.Thanks.”

This was Sydney’s first surfbeach tragedy.In its mourning for Coughlan

the city did not forget to acknow-ledge Hie incredible bravery ofthose who had exposed themselvesto imminent risk of the samehorrifying death in trying to savehim.

The. Royal Shipwreck and ReliefHumane Society of NSW awardedBeaurepaire and Chalmers eachits gold medal and certificate ofmerit for “exceptional and unex-celled bravery”. Fletcher andGreen each received the Society’scertificate. The Australian SurfLife Saving Association bestowedupon Beaurepaire and Chalmersits Silver Medal of Merit and theHon Hugh D. McIntosh made apersonal gift to Beaurepaire of agold medal set with diamonds landpearls.A newspaper opened a fund

1 Iplii fl r •

rmm iiL;ifef

The stvimming pool at the Beaurepaire physical education centre, MelbourneUniversity. Sir Frank made this possible with a £200,000 grant to the

University.

The first headquarters of the Beaure-paire Tyre Service, in Latrobe

Street, Melbourne. The parkingmeter came long after 1922.

dren and adults that has savedmany thousands of lives. Alsonoteworthy among his public ser-

vices is the dominant part 'he play-

ed. by persistent lobbying andpersuasive argument in helping to

obtain for Melbourne the honorof being host city for the 1956Olvmpic Games.In his distinguished swimming

career Frank Beaurepaire started

far behind scratch in many 'handi-

eao races. Inviariably, though, hekept a stroke or two ahead of thehandicapper, even when he 'had to

concede opponents such greatstarts that it seemed he could notpossibly win.Yet in none of those races was

he as far behind scratch as in his

first entry into business, with avirtually empty pocket and no as-

sets but a fierce determination to

succeed. Author Graham Lomas,in his fascinating Beaurepairebiography aptly titled “The WillTo Win,” describes how he wonthis race, too.

Any attempt in this article tolook more thian briefly at Beaure-paire the businessman would beredundant to Lomas’ excellentbiography. But as a matter ofgeneral interest, and particularlyfor younger-generation Austra-lians, we review in more detailedflashback the extraordinaryachievements of Beaurepaire theswimmer.Francis Joseph Edmund Beaure-

paire was born in Melbourne onMay 13, 1891, of a sire from whomhe inherited an almost aggressivedetermination to get somewherein this world, against any odds.Papa Beaurepaire first saw Aus-tralia at the age of 14, when hesailed here, as a midshipman,from 'his native England. Mel-bourne, and the attractions of apioneering life in the colony socaptivated him that he signed offhis ship and stayed. He married,before his 20th birthday, MaryEdith Inman, who was bom atMount Gambier of Yorkshire par-ents. Frank was their first child.

Lily (who swam her way into the1920 Olympic team with Frank)arrived two years afterwards.Ernest David was their third andlast child.

Beaurepaire Senior’s first job in

his married life was as a gripmanon Melbourne's cable cars. Thiswas hardly the calling for a manof his burning ambition so, to ac-

cumulate finance for a morerewarding enterprise, he began to

peddle tea among workmates.Soon this extended to selling tea

and general groceries to SouthMelbourne housewives in a door-to-door run for which he acquireda horse and buggy. Later he set

up a grocery store which was to

become a most prosperous busi-

ness. Later still he acquired the50-room guest house Cumberland,on the Lome seafront. When hedied, aged 90, in June, 1959, hewas a man of considerable wealth.

It is characteristic of bothfather and son that at no stage of

their respective business careers,

which developed simultaneouslyfor many years, did either seekthe financial help of the other.

Each was much too independent-minded for that.When Frank was four years old

his father took 'him to Stubbs’ seawater baths in South Melbourneand taught him to dog-paddle bythe simple expedient of tying arope around the boy’s middle anddangling him in deep water.Frank so loved the water that hequickly became an excellent swim-mer. Within a few years he wasracing against, and often beat-

ing, boys much bigger and olderthan himself.Mr Beaurepaire similarly intro-

duced Lily to the water and she,

too, showed remarkable naturaltalent for the art of swimming.As a pupil at Albert Park State

School Frank gave more attention

to physical than to academic exer-

cises. His favorite winter sportwas Australian Rules football atwhich he was such a good per-

former that he won representationin a Victoria v NSW schools’match in Sydney.

In summer he carried his bath-

ing costume in his schoolbag so


HE DARED A SHARK —AND BUILT A FORTUNE

that he should lose no time in get-ting into the water when the day'slessons had ended. More oftenthan not he lacked the twopencefor admission to Stubbs' baths. Hethen swam in the open sea nearby.Without the protection of thebaths the water often was choppyarid daily exercise in these condi-tions developed him into an un-usually powerful swimmer. Whenhe could afford the fare into thebaths he stayed in the water longafter his companions, swimmingbackward and forward across thebaths until he had covered greatdistances. Sometimes he relievedthe monotony of onepaee swim-ming with short bursts from oneset of steps to another. Thus helaid the foundation for the middleand long distance swimming, withability to sprint at any stage,which was to make him a versatilechampion.Young Beaurepaire developed

his own swimming style. This wasa modification of the popular trud-geon stroke, closely resemblingthe crawl Which Australian cham-pions Alex Wickham and Cecil

Healy recently had demonstrated.The crawl, at that stage, was aface-down-and-go-for-your-life tech-nique, lacking today’s refinementsof the comfortable beat kick andease of breathing. Most peopleconsidered the style so exhaustingthat it could be used only forsprint racing up to about 100yards. Frank, whose interests

were in greater distances, sensiblyadapted features of the crawl andtrudgeon strokes to his ownspecial style.

At 10 years of age Frank waswidely recognised as a swimmingprodigy-. A South Melbourne bar-

ber named Tom Horlock, a swim-ming enthusiast, took the young-ster in hand and organised atraining program for 'him. Theroutine included swims against astopwatch over a Variety of dis-

tances.

Then, when it appeared that hewas about to burst sensationallyupon the competitive swimmingscene, Frank was stricken withrheumatic fever, which kept himin Melbourne’s Homeopathic (late

Prince Henry’s) Hospital for

nearly a year. He was desperately

ill and at one stage doctors fearedthat he would die.

When he recovered and was dis-

charged from hospital 'his doctorwarned that he must not swimuntil his weakened body had re-

gained its strength. But Frankhad no patience for long convales-cence. So, against doctor’s orders,

he soon returned to the water.This had no ill effect — to .the

contrary, the exercise rebuiltwasted muscles so that beforelong he was again swimmingfarther, faster and better than his

companions. He resumed .training

with Tom Horlock and, as a mem-ber of the Albert Park Swimming


Club, made his entry into opencompetition not long afterwards.

In 1906, when only about 145years old, he won the Victorian220 yards and 440 yards cham-pionships.Frank never forgot the thrill of

winning that 440 yards to take hisfirst State title. Many years afterhis competitive swimming dayshad ended he recalled: “From thetime that the big pistol frightenedthe life out of me, till I was about40 yards from the finish I did notknow where I was in the race. Atthe last .turn I knew I was up withthe field. Putting my head downI went for my life. When I couldregain my breath I asked whowon. I could not be convincedthat I had until I was nearly pum-melled to death by my enthusias-tic clubmates.”

In 1908, as Victoria 440 yardschampion, Frank was chosen torepresent the State in the Aus-tralian championships, in WesternAustralia. His schoolmate, TrevorRichardson, was in the same team.Tom Horlock went with them, asmanager and trainer, at has ownexpense.In a series of articles published

in the Melbourne Sporting Globe,R. M. Collins, former secretary ofthe Victorian Amateur SwimmingAssociation and manager of FrankBeaurepaire’s world tour in 1910,wrote, “The VASA (in 1908) wasa struggling body, lacking funds.I have a vivid recollection of tell-

ing Frank and Trevor to get intoshort pants and put on their schoolcaps and come with me to thesteamship company to get theirtickets. Trevor was rather a .tall

boy for his years, so I told himthat when we went to the coun-ter he was to bend his knees. Bythis doubtful procedure we got the

steamship company to take thetwo boys to the West at half fare.

Had the booking clerk been look-

ing when Trevor walked out onstraight legs he might have calledus back. We got through thatoffice door in double quick time.”

In the championships youngBeaurepaire, not yet 17 years oldand little known outside Mel-bourne, won the Australian titles

in the mile, half-mile and 440yards. He was runner-up in the220 yards and 100 yards. Has 440yards time — 5 minutes, 28.4

seconds — was remarkable bycontemporary standards, particu-larly considering he was hamper-ed by collision with another swim-mer at one turn. Though ithis

time is more than a minute out-

side the current Australian recordthose who would criticise it shouldbear an mind that swimming tech-

niques .then were extremely crudeby comparison with today’s time-

trimming methods.

Frank's remarkable success at

the championships in Perth —quite apart from his astonishingversatility — automatically won.him selection in Australia’s swim-ming team for the 1908 OlympicGames in London. The team actu-ally was Australasian, since it wasa combination of Australian andNew Zealand swimmers.The VASA organised a series of

functions, including several swim-ming carnivals at which Frankmade exhibition swims, to raisefunds for young Beaurepaire’s pas-

sage to England and back. Whenthe time had come for sailing, .the

money in hand was sufficient onlyfor his return fare in third-class

accommodation and to give him£16 pocket money. Tom Horlock,again travelling at his own ex-

pense, went with him as trainer.

Olympic Games organisation in

those days was much less effici-

ent than today. Competitors fromvarious countries made their wayto London separately and not as ateam. The London authority for

each sport was obliged to meetvisiting athletes as they arrivedand to arrange their billeting.

But, possibly because of misunder-standing, no Amateur SwimmingAssociation representative metBeaurepaire and Horlock.

The two did not report them-selves to the Association until amonth after their arrival. Thiswas because Horlock consideredFrank needed special training to

compensate for his long inactivity

on the trip from Australia.

Young Beaurepaire found accom-modation for both of them at thehome of his father’s brother andimmediately restricted himself to

a severe training diet consistingmainly of unleavened bread,cheese and ginger beer.

Because of their limited spend-ing money Frank trained in theopen at Highgate Ponds ratherthan spend the cost of admissionto the baths for two or three train-

ing sessions daily. The Pondswater was “dead” and of little as-

sistance to a swimmer attempting

last times, and its summer tem-perature did not exceed 57 degrees.

Consequently Frank could not re-

cover his sharp condition quickly

enough to satisfy himself that hewould reach top form in time for

the Games.

To speed the process he entereda 15-mile race in the RiverThames. The water was icy coldand Beaurepaire, numbed and be-

low top condition, was forced to

retire after leading the field for

six miles.

In spite of this 'he entered thefive-mile championship of Englanda week later. This was also swumin the Thames. Again lack of

condition caused him to pull outafter racing well up with the field

for more than ‘half way.In the following week 'he proved

the benefit of these two testing

swims when ihe went to Bradfordand won the half-mile champion-ship of England. A few days later

he won the 220 yards nationalchampionship.

Then came the Games. In his

first event, the 400 metres (437.4

yards) Frank swam second to

Britain’s 23-year-old champion,Henry Taylor, in time 8.4 secondsslower than in Beaurepaire’s ownAustralian 440 yards Champion-ship. He swam third to Taylor in

the 1500 metres and was a mem-ber of the Australasian team thattook third place in the teams’race.

A few days after the Games, J.

A. Jarvis, a former champion of

England, declared that he believedBeaurepaire a better swimmer thanthe brilliant Taylor. Taylor scoffed

at this opinion.

To prove himself right J'arvis

took Beaurepaire in hand and puthim through an intensive trainingcourse for a week before Taylorwas to defend his one mile Eng-lish championship. Swimming in

open water before 20,000 peopleat Abbey Park, Leicester, Beaure-paire won the title, with Taylorin third place. A few days later

Beaurepaire again beat Taylor,this time in the 440 yards nationalchampionship at Weston-super-Mare.Beaurepaire then went to the

Continent where he won the onemile North Sea Championship, a200 metres international race atOstend, the Belgian 100 metresand mile championships, and a530 metres international champion-ship race at Joinville-le-Pont.

Australia welcomed Beaurepairehome with a speoial carnival at

the Melbourne City Baths. Frankprovided a special treat for all

present by winning, from scratch,

the 300 yards first-class champion-ship in 3 min 42.8 sec — nearlyseven seconds faster than theworld record.Frank, then 18 years old, gladly

accepted the offer of a half-

scholarship at Wesley College. Anumber of private citizens sub-

scribed the balance of his collegefees.

in that swimming season Beau-repaire won the Victorian 100, 220,

300 and 440 yards championships

The last picture of Sir Frank Beaure-paire, taken in a newspaper office,

only four days before he died onMay 29, 1956.

and easily took the half-mile eventin a Victoria-NSW carnival in

Sydney.Then, in the Australian cham-

pionships in Melbourne, heequalled the world record (2 min28.4 sec) to win the 220 yards. Healso held his 440 yards title andwon the mile championship.

In 1910 Beaurepaire sailed fromAustralia — this time as a first-

class passenger -— with Mr Col-lins, to compete in an internation-ally-planned “intermediate OlympicGames” at Athens. An appeal hadraised a substantial sum toy publicsubscription to pay their expenses.After .they had sailed, the pro-posed Games were called off be-

cause of a political crisis inGreece. Collins consulted thefund organising committee bycable and obtained its permissionto convert the trip into a Europeantour for Beaurepaire.

This tour was a remarkabletriumph. Swimming in Englandand in many parts of Europe,Beaurepaire started in 41 racesover varied distances and wonthem all. His wins in England in-

cluded these championships: 100yards (in 59.8 sec), 200 metres, 200yards, 300 yards, 300 metres, 440yards, 500 yards and one mile.

In winning the 100 yards invita-

tion scratch race against .the

world’s best sprinters, Beaurepaireswam 59.05 seconds.The tour, which extended over

six months, took heavy toll ofBeaurepaire’s physical condition.Though beautifully trained in thetoning of his muscles he wasphysically and mentally fatiguedwhen he returned to Australia. Soit is not surprising that he shouldthen have suffered his first defeatin three years. This was in athree-quarter mile race in theSydney Domain Baths at a NSW-

Victoria carnival. Beaurepairefinished third, 25 yards behind thewinner, Billy Longworth, 19-year-

old champion of the Rose BayClub. Cecil Healy filled secondplace.

In spite of his obvious fatigue

from overmuch competitive swim-ming, Beaurepaire swam soonafterwards in defence of his Aus-tralian 440 yards title. In the thirdlap he collapsed. On doctor’s

orders he gave up competitiveswimming for nearly two years.

The penalty for continuing to

race, the doctor warned him, prob-

ably would be complete physicalbreakdown.But he was not to lose contact

with his beloved sport. The Vic-

torian Education Department ap-pointed him to its staff as a swim-ming and physical training in-

structor — at a salary of £3 aweek. The NSW Swimming As-

sociation then moved to haveBeaurepaire declared a profes-

sional, because of his job. In a

letter to the Victorian Association

the NSWASA said its memberswould not compete against Beau-repaire, if and when he returnedto competitive swimming, on theground that competition with aprofessional would infringe their

own amateur status.

Some time l'ater, when Beaure-paire had recovered sufficiently, to

re-enter racing, the referee at aBrighton (Melbourne) carnivaldisqualified 'him as he was aboutto start in a race. The mattereventually was referred to theInternational Swimming Federa-tion, which declared Beaurepairea pro and suspended him fromcompetition with amateurs.

The suspension made him inelig-

ible for selection in Australia’s

team for the 1912 Olympic Games,in Stockholm. For the following

eight years Beaurepaire was de-

barred from amateur swimming.Meanwhile, he began his cam-

paign to encourage a leam-to-swim drive throughout Victoria.

He travelled to many parts of theState encouraging local municipalbodies to build swimming poolsand the Education authorities to

introduce swimming tuition in theschools. He gave demonstrations,formed committees and appointedinstructors. Thus began the swim-ming education campaign that is

now becoming Australia-wide andsaving countless lives.

In 1914 Frank rejected an invi-

tation from the Springfield Uni-versity, in USA, to take a post as

a swimming coach with facilities

to study medicine.

When World War I began in

that same year he enlisted in thethe AIF and was commissioned, in

May, 1915, as a second lieutenant

posted to the 7th Battalion. Justbefore he was due to go overseashe was stricken with appendicitis.

A severe operation left him withcomplications which caused him to

be declared unfit for active ser-

vice. However, he served in

France as a WCA amenities officer

with the AIF.(Continued on page 5k)


OUR ROMAN^GODDESS~

When Roman gals went roamin’ 1Across the Appian way,

They set a style for beautyThat lasts until today —

We see it in the shape of chairs,

the pool, the flowered hair —But best of all, to modern man,We see it here — not there


FICTION • RODERIC J. FITTOCK

apprentice killerHe was thin as a whip and would prove himself

just as deadly. He had been taught to handle

a gun — and he'd learned his lesson well . . .

HE’D lived 17 summers of

scorching heat and swirling

dust. He knew the desert as only

one born to it can know it. Andhe knew from the first light of

dawn that this day would bringtrouble.For a week there had been an

intense chill to the morning air as

winter drew closer about them.But this day the air was warmand still, tensed as though wait-

ing for the violence that was to

follow.He looked toward the huddled

figure of the old man and Ms gazetravelled by the grey ashes of thecamp-fire. The picket line coiled

in a broken loop over the sand.

The horses were gone. He sat upquickly and pulled on his boots.

They’d been two months roundingup brumbies for a drive south andthey’d done pretty well. Now theywere headed back With the moneysewn into the lining of the old

man’s saddle. Maybe with luck

they’d make another drive be-

fore the wet set in.

It wasn’t easy rounding up wildhorses from the rugged northernranges and trekking them across

this flat haven of hell to reach the

stockyards at Dorn’s Creek — but

that was the old man’s way of liv-

ing. The boy reckoned it was goodenough also for him. They’dformed an 'attachment for eachother in the few short months of

their acquaintance that was some-how all the more binding when heconsidered the reluctance of the

old man to take him along in the

beginning. Old Pete wasn’t a manto grant favors or to ask for them.He was old and it was hard to

remember his own youth. He pre-

ferred the solitude and the peaceof his own company. But despite

all this he had taken the home-less youth under his wing. Outof the sweat and the dust and the

dangers they experienced hadgrown this bond of affection. Theyhad grown to understand each

other.The horses might have been

scared off by a prowling dog or

they might have caught the scent

of water in the night air. Or the


mare might have responded to the

call of some wild stallion whilethe gelding followed. He walkedby Pete’s sleeping figure and in-

spected the broken fine. Therewere no tracks in the dust andnothing to indicate the cause of

their flight.

The sense of danger was strong

in him — a shadowy premonitionthat grew out of the shadows of

the dawn. He looked back at Peteand considered waking 'him. Thenhe changed his mind and movedon. The shod hooves of Ihds geld-

ing and the old man’s mare wereclearly defined and easy to follow,

Maybe he could find them beforethe old man woke.

He trod away among the clumpsof spinifex and the strugglingdesert oaks. All the while his eyesscanned the lightening sandsaround him. Already the day washot, a full half hour before ithe

sun would lift up from the eastern

rim. He knew that unless hefound the horses before the daywas many hours old he would notfind them at all.

They would he forced to aban-don their packs and go on on foot.

Tough as Pete was he knew the

old man would not last long undersuch conditions. The desert knewno mercy. It’s code was survival

of the fittest, and like old Pete

it would grant no favors nor askfor one.The sand gave way to rock —

pebbles hard-packed and wornsmooth by the friction of windover countless centuries. Here andthere he caught the slight graze ashod hoof made on the stone. Heknew then that it was fear thatprovoked the horses over suchterrain. He could eliminate all

other possibilities now with the

certainty that it was a dog in pur-

suit of them. He knew they wouldnot stop until they had either lost

the dingo or been killed by it.

He came upon the carcase of

the mare less than an hour after

leaving camp. From the wayshe’d been torn, he knew the doghad abandoned all thought of asecond kill and concentrated solely

on his feast. Probably the animal

was still near, crouched down and'blending his color with the stones,

waiting for him to leave. Hestraightened from the dead mareand searched the wide sweep of

country around him. Growing out

of the pebble plains was a thicket

of thorn and oak about a mile

to the south. He knew he wouldfind the gelding there or not at

all.

He walked on and the rising

heat soaked him with his sweat.

He’d have a long trek back .if the

gelding was maimed or if he failed

to find .the horse at all. Now ‘and

then he paused to look back. Fin-

ally he saw the dull outline of the

dog slink forward over the pebbles

to its kill. He would have risked

a shot had it not been for thefact tot if the gelding did shelter

among the oaks the sound of the

gun might spook it to further

flight.

He walked until finally he sawthe horse standing tense in the

shade. With a quiet soothingmurmur to his voice he approach-

ed. When the horse had beencaimed he mounted and turned it

out in a wide circle away from the

dead mare and the ravaging dog.

In all its fiery splendor the sunlifted a great balloon to burst its

full heat over .the barren wastes.

The day was born — and the nag-

ging premonition of disaster wasagain with him. This was to be a

day unlike any other in all his

life.

The ride back seemed hours.

Every yard of each mile the feel-

ing of apprehension grew stronger.

He should never have left the old

man alone. He should haveawakened him and gone in search

of the horses together. Perhapsthe wild dog was only one of a

pack. Perhaps the pack wouldrush in and tear the old man to

pieces..

Even before he came in full

sight of the camp he knew there’d

been trouble. Then he saw the

horses and the three men whostood there while old Pete re-

mained motionless on the ground.

His heart slowed almost to a stop

as he realised what had happened.The money! They'd robbed the

old man and stolen his money!On a savage impulse he raised

his rifle and then reluctantly helet it drop down. They werewatching him and they all heldguns — ready to blast him to

eternity.

Tf jlNFORMATIO^]

“Sporting Goods must be over in this direction.”

He reined the gelding to a haltand looked down at Pete. Theold man’s face was ashen but hewas conscious and able to sit up.They’d jabbed him in the stomachwith the butts of their rifles. Hecould see the bruises beginning to

show where they’d stripped awayhis shirt. They’d worked hard atfinding wthere Pete earned hismoney. From the satisfied smirkson their faces he knew they’d gotit.

They talked among themselvesalmost as though he wasn’t there,ignoring him because they con-sidered him no threat at all. Aman he learned was Colby laugh-ed and another they called Griffith

spat into the dust. They weredebating whether to kill the oldman and boy or leave them in thesun to fry. The third man, Sim-mons, voted for a bullet. It wasquick, and it was certain.

And while they argued Petestaggered to his feet and movedforward. “Johnny,” he said,

“You’re a damn young fool. Youshoulda stayed and helped mefight . . . instead o’ sneakin’ awaylike a yeller-bellied coward. Whatkind of a lily-livered brat are ya. . . aintcha got no guts at all . .

.!”

The old man’s words were like

the slash of a knife He couldn’tbelieve Pete could mean suchtilings. The men stopped arguingand grinned at him. They had it

figured Pete didn’t think much ofthis kid. Pete said, “All the timepesterin’ me for money . . . andthen not havin’ the gut’s t’help meprotect it. You’re no better thanthey are ... I reckon ya worsebecause ya never even had spunkenough t’try and steal it. Sure,let ’em kill me if they want.You’re their kind. Go with ’em.

Go and rob some poor damnsaddle-poundin’ old goat like me


who ain’t got a chance t’defendhimself. Go on. Go with ’em . .

.”

He tried to find words to defendhimself but .the old man’s wrathleft him speechless. Colby grinned.“Well kid, how about it? Youwant to stay here and rot withthis old desert rat or d’ya want

to live with real men for achange?”

Pete’s eyes 'burned into him, butnot with hate. It was as thoughhis mouth spoke words that hiseyes denied. There was a note likedesperation in 'his voice. “Go . . .

d'ya hear! Go with ’em. Youain’t no good to me here ... Gowith ’em!”He looked away from Pete and

met Colby’s careful scrutiny. Theman was like a huge rat, sharp-featured and mean. “You’ll learna few things from us, boy, thatyou won’t never learn with thisold goat. Maybe some day you’lleven get yourself a notch on thatthere pea-shooter you carry.”

It seemed the old man gave analmost imperceptible nod. Or per-haps it was simply his imagina-tion playing tricks. He wanted tobelieve there was a reason hecouldn’t grasp behind Pete’s scath-ing criticism. And then suddenlyhe understood. As things werethey were helpless against thesemen. But if they could catchthem off guard they stood achance. If Colby and his croniestook 'him along he could wait hisopportunity and grab the moneyback. This was what Pete triedso desperately to communicate. Gowith them . . . nothing could bedone 'by staying ... go withthem . . .

He slid down from the gelding’sback and moved to where his saddlelay propped on the sand. Withouta word he picked it up. The manSimmons moved forward a bit, ob-

serving shrewdly. The idea of a

-•ew recruit held little appeal for—

n

“Kid ... if you ihate this old

goat so much let’s see you dosomethin’ about it ... ”

Johnny hesitated, knowing theywatched' him. Casually he saddled

The gelding and turned to Pete.

The old man stood waiting. Therewas nothing else to do but hit

him. His fist crashed againstPete s chin and he wanted to cry

out in protest as the old manfell Simmons laughed.He turned away hating them all

so much he would willingly havedied right there and then rather-ban go on with it. But he knewthe only hope the old man hadrested with him. If he went, likely

they'd leave the old man alone.

Tight lipped he put his foot to thestirrup and lifted himself intothe saddle. Pete propped himselfon one elbow and wiped the bloodfrom his mouth. They were readyto leave.The men mounted and swung

away from the camp with Colbyleading and Griffith close behind.Simmons lagged at the rear asthough reluctant to ride off andleave the old man alive. Of thesethree men the boy recognisedSimmons as his greatest threat.

Tne killer urge was strong in him.

It was obvious that thoughColby was their leader it was byvirtue of his superior strengthand not ‘his cunning. One daySimmons would probably try tokill him. The violence and lust ofhis hate-filled brain was writteninto every line of his face.

They rode until the heat forcedthem to halt. There was no shadeand no water. They rigged a tar-

paulin over sticks and lay ex-

hausted to wait the day out. Hecould have .told them of the windbecause he’d sensed it from thefirst moments of dawn, but he heldquiet and hoped in some way it

might help him. They heard it

coming but there was little theycould do but tether the horsesand force them down on theirknees while they got behind them.

Out of the north the dust camein a spiralling screeching wave.The horses cried in terror and themen cursed. All was a swirlingroaring madness with .the sandpeppering them and driving themdown. The world suddenly con-tracted to a few yards of rednesswith all the voices of Hell shriek-ing tormented in their ears.

He felt a hand on his arm andhe knew it was Colby. And thenabruptly the hand was snatchedaway and he felt Colby’s horsestruggling in panic to rise.

Through eyes choked with sandhe saw Colby striving vainly to

drag the animal down. Instinctiv-

ely he flung himself forward to

help. Between them they quietenedthe frantic beast and got it downagain onto the ground. All thewhile the wind threatened tosnatch them from the face of theearth and hurl them headlong intoobscurity.

Then finally it was gone andthey were left there, raw andbeaten beneath the waning sun.

Colby looked at him and grinned.“You’re OK kid, you know that.You’re OK.”He had nothing to say. He was

thinking of Pete and wonderinghow the old man had fared inthe wind. Pete knew the desertbetter than anyone -— but he washurt and he was on foot. He'dsense the coming of the windbut where could he seek protectionfrom it? Johnny thought of thedingo and wondered again. They’dtaken Pete’s gun and left him de-fenceless. What chance of survivaldid he have?Hate scalded Johnny's insides.

He should have let Colby’s horsego. Maybe the wind would haveextracted vengeance for him. Nowthey were three again and he washelpless against them.They saddled the horses and

rode bn. He guessed where theywere heading. The only water here-abouts was at Logan's Lagoon.Whatever their plans the lagoonhad to be included. They had nowater and few supplies. They hadto reach .the lagoon or they werefinished.Night came and the air was

still and hot. He knew that meant

the wind had not completely gone.It could rush on them almost with-out any warning, twisting andscreeching over the sand like someimpossible demon that wouldswallow them up. He found him-self hoping that it would. At leastthen he would know they diedbefore they could squander theold man’s money.Simmons sat 'alone and • stared

sullenly at the fire. His thoughtswere all of a concentrated hateand a means to exercise it. Colbylay quiet and looked up at thestars. Griffith shuffled over tothe boy and sat beside him. “In alittle while when we go to sleepyou could make a run for it . .

.

that is if you had anywhere torun to. The only place you couldgo is the lagoon and we’d sooncatch up with you there. I reckonyou’re stuck with us, eh . . .

whether you like it or not.”Johnny recognised the harsh

truth of the words and nodded.Right now he could only bide histime. Sooner or later the chancewould come when he could 'hit

back at them.

(Continued on page Ifi)


|FACT • EARL JOUBERT

Because he had allowed his passions for the doll-like

beauties to betray his sworn duty as a naval officer,

1 1 1 innocent men were now marching to certain death.

ENSIGN Jethro Faulkner, in

command of a small navycrew assigned to the 111-manUnited States Marine detachment,rolled pained eyes upward andgloomily inclined his blond head to-

ward the rear of the passenger

coach in which he was riding.

"If ever we have to fire that

thing,” he told Gunnery Mate First

Class Sam Caxton, “it will prob-

ably kick the train right off therails.”

Lashed on the roof of the last

car in a five-train military caravanwas a smooth-bore cannon, a hefty

12-pounder dismantled from its

turret on the man-of-war USSMonooacy, and sent with its crewto give 'the Marines heavy calibre

support in their daring mission to

rescue the besieged members of

the Foreign Legations at the Chin-

ese capital city, Peking. TheMonocacy skipper had made theassignment almost ceremonial.

••No need to remind you how im-

portant this gun will be at

Peking,” he had said. “This is acroud ship of great tradition. I

want you to get the gun through

at all" costs. The old Monocacydeserves one last shot at the

enemy.” ,

The enemy was a group of

Chinese religious fanatics, called

: Boxers. Although not officially

sanctioned by the Chinese Govern-

ment, they had vowed to drive all

Westerners from the land andstamp out the influx of Christian-

ity. The first stamp had been at

Peking, where the Legation staffs

of the Western powers were trap-

ped, some already dead, and wait-

ing desperately for the relief ex-

pedition of which Ensign Faulk-

ner and his crew were a smallpart. With so many lives depend-

ing on them, with the Monocacy’stradition to be upheld, Faulknerfelt as if he were carrying battle-

ship anchors across each shoulder.

He glared with annoyance at thefixed manner in which Mate Cax-ton stared out one dirty window of

the car across the great plain of

Chihli. “What do you make of

that, sir?” Caxton suddenly asked.Faulkner, a gangling figure in

dark blues, got up and lookedthrough the window next to Cax-ton’ s. A quarter mile off the left

flank of the train he saw a stand-

ing row of Chinese ponies, with-

out riders. The horsemen haddismounted, were on their kneeswith arms raised to the heavens.

“Boxers!” Faulkner shouted.

“They’re praying before attack!”

Their appeals to their God of Warquickly finished the Boxers hop-

ped ponies and charged en massetoward the first train of the cara-

van Faulkner heard the shrill

blast of train whistles, felt the for-

ward surge of added speed. All

along the coach up ahead, Marinescranked down windows and pokedout their Krag-Jorgenson rifles. Astiff-backed British lieutenant

dashed through the car, calling

out: “Prepare for attack! Fire at

will!” x ,

The scrappy Marines took over

the windows. Rifles began to

crack. Ensign Faulkner’s small

crew was elbowed into the wash-

room “Get the window down,”

the ensign said. “Start shooting.

I’m going back to check BigBetsy.”He yanked open the rear door

of the coach and stepped into the

box oar behind it. The coach

reeked with the smell of unbathedbodies. Tobacco smoke hungmotionless in the air. A fewChinese coolies sitting near the

door glanced questioningly at the

American, then resumed their jab-

bering conversation. They looked

back again, surprised to seeFaulk-neris drawn revolver. The en-

sign snapped a stream of Chinese

at them, opened up a passage to

the rear. He went out the door

on to the train, and climbed hand-

over-hand up the iron ladder. Thewindstream blasted his face 'as hereached the top. He ducked his

head for an instant, saw the rac-

ing streams of charging Chinese

Boxer cavalry and the flash of

rifle fire. „ ,

Americans and Brutish wereriding in the first train. Thesecond contained the entire Ger-

man contingent, 512 strong. Backof them, in the third train, rode

312 Russians, 54 Japanese, 42

Italians. Those of the 915-manBritish force not riding in the for-

ward train were sharing the

fourth with 157 French sailors.

The fifth train carried supplies, awork-gang of coolie laborers, the

12-pounder cannon, Faulkner’s guncrew, and a Marine guard com-pany. The attacking force of

Boxers, it seemed to the ensign,

numbered not more than six or

seven hundred.He hauled himself up on to the

car top and lurched rearwardunder the wind blast along the twofoot width of catwalk. He could

see the 12-pounder’s canvas cover

billowing in the breeze, and one or

two of its thick hemp cables wrap-

ping free. Wondering what waswrong, the ensign dropped to his

hands and knees and began to

crawl The riding Boxers hadreached the rear car now and weregalloping alongside, firing up at

He was too open a target. Heemptied his revolver futilely, hur-

ried forward and grabbed the top

rung of the ladder. Looking down

he saw a coolie standing on the

platform, reaching for the coup-

ling lever. Faulkner went for his

revolver but remembered it wasempty. Before he could move the

coolie had pulled the lever and the

coupling device opened. The rear

car, with Faulkner on it, was de-

tached from the train.

Momentum carried the boxcar

forward for a hundred yards, but

the main section of the tram pulled

away rapidly. Remembering the

skipper’s speech, and the tradi-

tion of the Monocacy, Faulkner be-

gan to reload his Navy Colt. ‘Don t

bother,” a voice said in perfect

English. “Just drop the gun. ’

Faulkner carefully stowed ithe

weapon in its holster, then turned

around to stare in the wrong end

of a pistol held by a slim coolie.

Tlie car had stopped. A band of

horsemen were jogging toward it.

“Climb down,” the coolie sand. Goinside the car.”

He descended the ladder as the

shouting Boxer cavalrymen cameup. The muzzle of the pistol

nudged him into the car. Stacks


“I cut my finger.”

of spare rails and ties took upmost of the space. Only a dozencoolies (had been jammed aroundor on top of the equipment. Theywere all holding guns in their

hands. Faulkner’s captor removedthe wide, flat coolie hat. Lustrousblack hair was bound in a tight

bun, dark eyes 'highlighted thesmooth planes of a quiet face, theclassic pale gold perfection of

female beauty.

"We are all women,” she said,

waving a hand towards ithe others.

“I am Yehala. We are Manohuwomen sold to the weakling Em-peror, Kuang Hsu, and trained to

serve in his harem. Tzu Sian, ourleader, promised to free us fromthe life of concubines if we helpedhim. It was quite simple to poseas coolies.

“You have a gun,” Faulknersaid. “You don’t need a story.

Turn me over to Tzu Sian.”

He could hear footfalls on thetop of the car, the sound of tools

ringing against metal. The womansmiled when he glanced up. “Theywill take the barrel of the can-non and replace it with a railroadtie, so your superiors will notknow the gun is useless.”Faulkner heard the heavy thud

of the cannon barrel as it wastossed to the roadbed. Boxer sol-

diers came into the car, and car-

ried out a railroad tie. They paidno attention to 'him. The ensignwas baffled. “What’s the idea?"he said. ‘Why not chop off myhead and go home with it?”

‘We will stay here to await thereturn of the train,” Yehala said.

“The immortal Tzu Sian will pur-sue them through the night. Theywill not come back till dawn. Bythen you'll be one of us.”

“A Boxer? Me?” Faulkner


laughed. He was no barbarian. Arecent graduate of the serviceschool, he dressed formally for

dinner at the officers’ mess, usedthe proper fork, carried his full-

dress uniform with him at all

times, and had once taught Sun-day school.

She regarded him with languidhumor. “Few Westerners areaware of the real beauty of theEmperor’s chosen concubines.”

Yehala snapped her fingers. Fiveof the other women gathered upall the 'guns and went outside withYehala. The remaining six

solemnly stripped off their coolie

garb. The sound of horses andshouting men faded away. Faulk-ner knew he was alone now withthe concubines . . .

When dawn arrived the ensignhad a mild understanding of whythe Emperor was considered aweakling. Yehala came into theboxcar. She carried a keen-edgedaxe and a gleaming dagger. Theother concubines swiftly dressedand slipped outside. Yehala beganto chant in sing-song Chinese:"Foreigners being insolent to thegods, and extinguishing sanctity,

rendering no obedience to Buddha,enraging Heaven and Earth, eightmillion Spirit Soldiers will descendfrom Heaven and sweep the Em-pire Clean of all foreigners. TheBuddhist Patriotic League of

Boxers, immortal all, will protectthe Empire and its people."

She seemed in a trance as sheraised the axe and dagger highabove where Faulkner wasstretched out on the floor. Faulk-ner sat up to watch her, decidedto go along with the gag, butwondered why she was doing this.

She lowered the axe until it press-

‘Td slap your face only I deplore physical violence.’

ed flat against 'his head, the sharpedge resting on his ear. The dag-ger was held against his throat.Repeat these words with me,” shesaid, and Faulkner, feeling a tinybite from the dagger, recited afterher: "This Disciple is studying theBoxer art to save China and de-stroy its enemies. If cut withknife or chopped with axe, he willfeel no pain. Cannon cannot in-jure, water cannot drown.”The dagger pricked his throat;

the axe cut his ear shallowly.Faulkner forced 'his face to re-main expressionless. Yehala smileddown at him. “You are a SpiritSoldier,” she said. ‘You cannotbe slain.”

Faulkner bowed humbly untilhis brow touched her toes. "Thereis still an hour before the trainarrives,” she said. “Time forfurther instructions.”She left the car and Faulkner

leaned back, a wide grin spreadingover his thin face. He snappedthe smile into hiding when fiveconcubines, the ones he had not yetslept with, came into the boxcarand undressed.An hour later, on schedule, the

main section of the train chuggedand hooted into sight. The concu-bines donned coolie garb. In alittle while Faulkner was flourish-ing his empty revolver and tellingMarine Captain Nelson Rade: “Ifought them off, sir.”

Riade, bullet head sunk intobroad, epauletted shoulders,chunky face contorted with sus-picion, glared up at the canvas-covered mound on the freight carroof. “Is the cannon intact?”

“It’s been well taken care ofsir,” Faulkner replied.

Rade inspected the coupling,which .the Boxers had rigged toappear uncoupled by gunshot. "Itcan be fixed,” Rade said. Grudg-ingly, he added, “Well done, MrFaulkner.”

In 10 minutes the car was re-coupled to the tail-end of the trainand the entire caravan was under-way again. Yehala touched themuzzle of her gun to Faulkner’sneck. “You are one of us, ofcourse,” she said. "But since thecannon is so valuable I think it

best if a single guard, one of yourmen, is posted at the car door —where we can shoot him shouldyou violate your oath as a Boxer.”

The ensign obligingly postedMate Caxton as guard. Away fromthe 12 concubines, he began tobreathe easier. The train movedat a slow pace but in a few hoursthey would arrive at Langfang,the midway point between Tient-sin, their point of departure onthe coast, and Peking, No troublewas anticipated at Langfang. Heplanned to relieve Caxton, per-gonally, at that time.

The train caravan drew intoLangfang that evening. Everyoneaboard was dismayed to see thatthe railroad station had beenburned to the ground, the watertanks chopped down and splitopen. Admiral Sir Edward Sey-mour, in charge of the expedition,set up guards at every well to pre-serve water for the engine boilers.The ensign hurried back to therear car to relieve Mate Caxton.

After the mate had gone Yehalafished her gun from (her loosejacket a'nd waved it idly at Faulk-ner. “Tzu Sian has done well,”she said. “Now that he has burn-ed the station the foreign officerswill gather to discuss what is tobe done about it. You will beamong them. So, strip off yourcoat and trousers.”

Faulkner grinned, still wonder-ing what was up, and shucked hisclothes. As he had anticipated,several of the concubines stood upand moved toward hm. They werecarrying sticks of dynamite intheir hands, something he hadn’tanticipated. “Of course you sec-retly laughed at my attempts toindoctrinate you as a Boxer,”Yehala said. “It was only to letyou think you had us fooled, soyou would elect to enjoy the situa-tion and do nothing about it.”

The concubines were bindingsticks of explosive to each of hislegs, tying another stick to hisback. “A very short fuse for theback stick,” Yehala told the girls.She jabbed a small hole in the rearof his tunic, others in the legs ofhis trousers, then told him todress. After he had, he could feelthem pulling the fuses throughthe holes. “When you are sum-moned to the conference,” Yehalasaid, “you will be the last to ar-rive. I will walk just behind you,a simple coolie carrying some mapsand papers for his master. Hiddenunder these will be a dozen sticksof dynamite.”

(Continued on •page 49)


FICTION • W. H. PERCIVAl

CULT Of TH£ snout GOD

I thought I knew Baldrotti's face. Yet I couldn't place him

at first. Why should I connect the disappearance of a dozen

beautiful girls with the fact Baldrotti kept pet snakes?

yV’E pushed through the jungle” fringe to the edge of the lakethen my guide refused to go asingle step further. He was anunshaven, truculent Ceylonese I

had hired in Talpe village afterbeing turned down by a dozenothers. He jabbed a stubby fore-finger toward the small, jungle-covered island lying close to theshore. The white cupola of a Budd-hist dagoba and the roof of atemple showed between the itrees.

“There it is,” he grunted. "SnakeIsland! Very bad place. Toomany demons live there. You pay.I go.” He thrust a dirty hand to-ward me, palm uppermost.

I paid him and he disappearedinto the jungle without a back-ward glance. It was the south-west monsoon season, the sky wasovercast, and I felt as if I wasbeing slowly cooked in the steamyheat. As I plodded toward thebamboo bridge that connected thehilly little island to the mainlandI wondered if I was not being atrifle foolhardy.

I had stopped off in Ceylon dur-ing the course of a leisurely tourof South-East Asia hoping to findadditional background material formy next novel. While doing someresearch in Colombo I happenedacross an old copy of the Timesof Ceylon, which contained a storythat had set my inquiring mindon fire.

A European called Baldrotti hadsettled in Ceylon some years pre-viously and had bought SnakeIsland, situated in a large lakenear Ceylon’s southern tip. Theplace had once been a religiouscentre but had acquired ithe repu-tation of being demon-haunted.The superstitious locals had aban-doned it to the jungle.

Baldrotti, who appeared to be awealthy eccentric, had establishedhimself there with about a dozenservants — all pretty young girls—all Moon maidens.These Moon maidens were the

offspring of English planters andtheir Ceylonese mistresses. Dur-

ing the British occupation (theMoon children were well educated.Some of the boys were sent toEngland, others were trained to beplanters or members of other pro-fessions. The girls were usuallyeducated in Christian convents.Some became .teachers and othersmarried into the Anglo-Ceyloneseset.

When Ceylon gained her inde-pendence, life for the Moon chil-

dren became 'highly unpleasant.The Eurasians whose parents hadbeen legally married, shunnedthem. The natives treated themwith open contempt. Many of theMoon maidens were forced intoprostitution. Others became vir-tual slaves of the rich men whobought them.Over the years Baldrotti’s Moon

maidens began to disappear.Rumors of foul play got aroundand finally the police were com-pelled to investigate. Baldrottitold them that the girls had de-serted him for the bright lights ofColombo. But no trace of themwas ever found — in Colombo,Snake Island, or anywhere else.The case was dropped. The girlswere social outcasts and nobodyreally oared a damn about them.The bamboo bridge creaked and

swayed alarmingly under my 12stone burden. I made it acrossand plugged up a track of redclay, sticky from recent rains. Thetrack was hemmed in with aricapalms, fan palms, coconut trees,and indigenous forest giants half-strangled with huge leafed creep-ers and serial vines. The track ledto the crest of the hill which domi-nated the island and on which theruined temple stood. Fallenbranches and coconut fronds lit-

tered the path.I stepped on the butt of a fallen

frond.’ The other end lifted and athree foot viper wriggled out fromunder it. I froze, cursing myselffor not having a gun, for not evencarrying a stick. The mottled rep-tile slithered away into the en-croaching bush. I dabbed sweatfrom my face.

“Did my little friend frightenyou?” a deep voice said.A strange looking man stared

at me from a bend a few yardsahead. He wore a loose whiteshirt, a sarong and sandals. Hisblack hair was close-cropped andblue beard showed beneath 'his

pale, clean-shaven skin. His eyeswere cold and black and glittering—'like a snake’s. They were sodark that the pupils were invisible.In spite of the heat I shivered.“You must be Baldrotti,” I said.“That is correct. Who are

you?”“Rex Soarbe. I’m a writer look-

ing for material for my next book.I heard about the old Buddhisttemple here and hoped you wouldallow me to look it over.”Suspicion looked out of his mag-

netic eyes. “You look more like aprize-fighter than an author.”“Maybe so. I used to be an

amateur wrestler, but I’ve alwaysbeen a professional writer. Usedto be a crime reporter before Iturned to books.”That seemed to satisfy him. He

nodded curtly. “Very well. Youcan come along with me.”As we trudged up the hill to-

gether I began to wonder where Ihad seen this man before. I havea good memory for faces andBaldrotti’s features seemed fami-liar. Yet I could not place Mm.“They say this island is lousy

with poisonous snakes,” I saidchattily. “Aren’t you scared ofbeing bitten?”“No. I’m not frightened of

snakes. It is they who are fright-ened of me. They know me fortheir master.”

Baldrotti’s odd words werematched fay Ms tone. I looked athim.

“I see you do not believe me,”he said coldly. “Before we visitthe temple I must show you some-thing else.”

The track led to a small grassyplateau ringed in by trees and oc-cupied by the temple buildings, acluster of palm-thatch shacks anda wMte-walled cottage with a wideveranda.

Baldrotti took them in with alordly sweep of Ms arm. "The cot-

tage is my home. The cadjanshacks are my servants’ quarters.Come along, my friend.” He ledme into the cool dimness of thecottage. He pushed through a


black hair was tied in the tradi-

tional Ceylonese bun and her

creamy skin was several shades

lighter than my own. Only the

centers of her cheeks and 'her ex-

quisitely slanting, lynx-like eyes,i. nr-ifmtal strain in

“Watch it. He may just be playing dead"

bead curtain into a room leading

off the central hall. "Come andsee my pets,” he smiled

I entered the room and came to

a sudden stop, appalled by whatI saw. The walls were hned with

glass-fronted boxes each of which

contained a deadly reptile. There

were cobras, king cobras, Russell s

vipers, and many others I could

not name. In glass-sided tanks

filled with sea water swam browncoral snakes and banded sea

snakes of brilliant blue and yel-

low. This man — this madman —•

slept in a room only a few feet

away, separated from potential

and agonising death .by a few

sheets of fragile glass.

Baldrotti smiled at my expres-

sion, exposing discolored and rot-

ten teeth. “Beautiful, are they

I gulped. “Not my idea of

beauty. Did you catch them your-

Se^Yes,” he said proudly. “A fas-

cinating hobby." His strange eyes

glowed. “Would you like to see

them fed? It gives me great

aesthetic pleasure to feed my1

“Really? Then you’re Italian?

“Half Italian, half Irish. But I

forget my duties as host. Comeand rest on the veranda.”

We relaxed in comfortable rat-

tan chairs and Baldrotti rang asmall silver handbell. A fewminutes later a girl appeared.

She wore a light, flowing sari

that clung to her slim, full-

breasted figure. Her gleaming

quisitely slanting, lynx-like eyes,

betrayed the Oriental strain in

her Moon maidens are noted for

their beauty — and she was the

loveliest I had seen.

She stood before Baldrotti, her

eyes downcast. “You rang, mas-

ter?” I thought I detected a hint

of fear in her voice.

“I rang twice,” he said softly.

"You are becoming lazy, Nomi.Have you forgotten your last les-

son so soon?”

Anger and pity rose in me. I

opened my mouth in protest —

-

then changed my mind. Baldrotti

had rung once, not twice. There

was a sadistic light in his eyes as

he looked at the trembling girl.

He enjoyed feeding live rodents

to venomous snakes and terroris-

ing helpless girls. But if I an-

tagonised him now it would ruin

any chances I might have of dis-

covering what had happened to

the missing girls.

“I heard the bell ring only once,

Nomi said. “I came as quickly

as I could.”

“But not quickly enough,” Baldrotti snapped. “Now — bring us

sliced pineapple and coconut juice.

"Yes, master.” She turned andglided silently away.

I unclenched my fists and tried

to make my voice sound friendly.

“You were saying that you studied

lovely pets.’„ ,

Before I could answer he movedto the far comer of the room and,

for the first time, I became aware

of the cages that held live rats

and Ceylon squirrels.

Nausea threatened to humiliate

me “No! No thanks,” I said

quickly. "Snakes give me the

creeps. Let’s go outside.”

“As you wish,” he said sulkily.

He sounded like a small boy denied

a special treat.

In the fresh air I felt better.

“I’m planning a book dealing with

Oriental religions,” I lied, “especi-

ally Buddhism and the cult <3f the

Veddahs. But I suppose religions

bore you?”He brightened at once. “On the

contrary, my dear fellow. In point

of fact I studied for the priesthood

in Rome.”

“I’ve decided not > marry you, Stanley, but, of course, that’s i

to spoil our honeymoon plans.”


lor the priesthood. Did you takeyour orders?”

“Yes. I was a priest for manyyears near Rome. Then there wasa slight misunderstanding withhigher authorities. I was defrock-ed.”

His words 'hit me like a blow.Now I remembered. I rememberedBaldrotti’s picture in the Londondailies several years before. I

even recalled the banner head-line — “Priest Exposed as LeadingSnake Worshipper.”

Baldrotti, or whatever his realname was, had been the highDriest of a weird snake worship-ping cult with headquarters inItaly. Several children had dis-

anpeared from local farmhousesand it was believed they had beenkidnapped by the fanatics andused as human sacrifices. But nosolid evidence had been producedand the murder charges collapsed.

“Being defrocked must havebeen a terrible blow to you,” I

managed to say.

“Not at all,” he grinned. “It left

me free to go into business formyself — on the black market. I

have a flair for organisation andwithin three years I had madeenough to retire on.”

Nomi came back with a trayladen with a jug of coconut fluid,

glasses, and plates of pineapple.As she placed the tray on the tableshe leaned toward me and I

caught the pleading, urgent lookin her tilted grey eyes.

I gave her a barely perceptiblenod. She went away on silent,

naked feet.

“You may be able to tell mesomething about the Nagas andtiie Veddahs,” I said betweenmouthfuls of pineapple. “I under-stand they still practise a debasedform of snake and demon wor-ship.”

“Those aborigines!” Baldrottisaid. “The pure religion of theSnake was only understood by theAncient Egyptians and some of

the Romans.” He talked on andon. Once launched on 'his favoritetopic there was no stopping him.

The sun lost some of its fierce

heat as it dipped toward thejungle’s western rim. In one ofthe rare pauses in Baldrotti’smonologue I got in an importantquestion.

“Could you possibly put me upfor the night? It will soon bedark, and I won’t be able to find

my way back to Talpe throughthe jungle.”

“I don’t normally encourage visi-

tors,” he said slowly, “but I mustconfess I find your company stimu-lating. Besides, you haven’t seenthe temple yet. Yes, you can stay.

Ill tell Nomi to make up a bedfor you in one of the servant'shuts. Most of them are empty.Will that suit you?”

“That will do splendidly,” I saidwith enthusiasm. It was exactlywhat I wanted.

By 10 o’clock that night theovercast had cleared and the lakeshimmered in the silver-blue light

of the moon. The windless night

was alive with the croaking offrogs, the whine of insects andoccasional cries from the jungle.

I stood at the open shutter windowof my cadjan hut and staredacross the compound at the flicker-

ing light of an oil lamp that camefrom Nomi’s shack. The rest ofthe 'huts were dark and empty. Ofthe 12 Moon maidens Baldrottihad originally owned, only Nomiremained. An odd and ominousfact.The enervating heat and my

jungle hike had tired me, but I

was too tensed-up for sleep. I

caught glimpses of Nomi throughher open window as she movedabout preparing 'her bed and lower-ing the mosquito net. Then shestood before the window. Slowly,she took off her sari and drapedIt over a! chair. The dress wasfollowed by her bra and panties.

My heart was thumping as I

took in her beauty in a long andgreedy stare — her full, firm andpointed breasts, her straight backand flat stomach, the curve of herthighs. She let down her hairand wriggled into a flimsy night-

dress. Then she blew out thelight.Twenty minutes later the lights

in Baldrotti’s cottage were extin-

guished. I made myself wait an-other hour — the longest hour I

had ever spent — then I easedacross to Nomi’s hut.The door swung open under my

touch. I held my breath. Was shesleeping? Would she scream if I

awakened her?Her voice came softly from the

shadowed bed. “Who is that?”“Rex Scarbe.”“I thought you would never

come.” She lifted the net andcame out from under it.

She stood before me in themoonlight, so close that I caughtthe fragrance of her jasmin scent-

ed hair and read the troubled lookin her long grey eyes.“What is it?” I said — .although

I thought I already knew.She clutched my arm. “Take

me away with you. Please! I will

serve you faithfully. I will do thehousework for your wife and lookafter your children."“I’m not married,” I said gently.


EJ

r

»

c just left here with a lot of dictation and her chair is cold1”

She lowered her eyes. ‘‘Then

—

then I'll toe your lover — if youwant me. I’ll do my best to makeyou happy.”

‘You’re really desperate, arentyou.”

,

“Yes. I must get away, lmfrightened of Baldrotti. Terribly

frightened.”“You’re seared you might disap-

pear like the other girls?”

She started as if she had been

stung. “Yes,” she whispered. Howdid you know about them? Areyou a policeman?”

“No. I read about the disappear-

ances in ia!n old newspaper. Thatswhy I’m here, to try and find out

what happened to those girls. I

want you to tell me everything

you can about them.”She was silent for some mo-

ments, then she began in a low,

tremulous voice. "They were all

Moon maidens, like myself. WhenI came here there were five of

them, all pretty girls. They used

to sleep with Baldrotti m turn,

although they all hated and feared

him.”

“Why didn’t they run away?Why haven’t you run away?”

She twisted her fingers together.

"They had nowhere to run to.

They had no proper — no legal

parents to protect them. Theirguardians were so poor that they

sold them to syndicates calling

themselves ‘servant agencies.

These aigencies sold them to Bald-

rotti as slaves and concubines —for a very high price. Legally,

they were Baldrotti’s property. If

they had tried to run away hewould have found them, brought

them back and punished them. Helied when he told the police they

had run off to Colombo. I feel

sure they never left this island.’

I stared at her. “How can you

be so sure?”

“Because I tried to escape once

myself. But there is no escape for

a Moon maiden in Ceylon. I hadn t

got very far when Baldrotti found

me and had me brought back.

Then he beat me almost to death.

She turned round, pulled the

nightdress over her head and flung

it on the chair. “Look!” she said

savagely.. _

My breath caught m my throat

as I saw the lash marks that criss-

crossed her shapely back. Someof the wounds had healed butothers were still fresh.

“My God!” My voice sounded like

a stranger’s. “The swine! He’s

whipped you many times.”

“Yes.”I balled my fists. I had to help

her But to do that I would haveto take her away from Ceylon. I

was due to leave for Hong Kongvery shortly, but how could I take

Nomi? Money was no problem,

tout the legalities were. You can’t

travel with a woman unless she is

your wife or daughter. Then I

took another look at her lacerated

back, and that decided me.“Okay Nomi. I’ll take you with

me. First to Hong Kong and thenhome to Australia—to hell with

the complications.”She swung round and I had a

brief vision of female loveliness

before she came into my arms.

She pressed herself hard against

me and her arms wound round myneck. She pulled my head downand our lips met in a long, fierce

kiss Desire took hold of me andall awareness of our surroundings

faded. I was only conscious of

Nomi's fiery kiss and her eager,

straining body.Something cold and slimy

brushed the nape of my neck.

I let go of her and swung round,

heart pounding and musclestensed.

Baldrotti stood less than a yard

away, his black eyes wide andglaring In his hands he held a

live cobra, fingers gripping it just

behind the head so that it could

not bite.,, ,

“If you try to attack me,

Scarbe,” he said, “you die.”

My glance lifted from thesquirming obscenity to the face of

the madman holding it. Husstrange eyes seemed to glow with

an unholy, inner light. I itried to

force my eyes away from his —and failed.

, , , ^ ,

“You have sinned, he intoned

slowly “You have come here to

spy on me and repay my hospital-

ity with deceit. You have offended

Priatus, the Snake God, with your

immoral ways. As High Priest of

Priatus, it is my duty to mete out

due punishment . . _His deep voice droned on. i he

moonlit room grew dim. Mystrength drained away. There wereonly Baldrotti’s great luminous

eyes and his commanding voice.

“Come with me . . . come with mecome with me.”

Then total blackness camedown.

I was standing in a pit. A con-

crete pit about 20 feet long and12 across. Torches, stuck in wall

brackets high above my head, gave

a ruddy, flickering light. The light

winked back from a hideous metalimage facing me at the far end of

the pit It stood about eight feet

high. It had a man’s body and a

python’s 'head. The head wasagape, showing teeth-filled jaws.


"ear grew in me as I examinedprison. The concrete wallsover 12 feet high, glass-

ith and quite unelimbable.

ttd must have ordered me,hypnosis, to descend a lad-

- and then withdrawn the•. A deep, malicious chucklefrom the shadows above.

Baldrotti leered down at me.fou fool, Scarbe! You dared to

=:ch your simpleton’s wits withire You wish to find out whatcame of my missing slaves,

'ell, you will soon find out.”

Where’s Nomi?” I shouted.

That have you done ito her?’

He went away without bother-:r to reply. Soon the scent of

horning incense reached me.“aidrotti began to chant in Latin.

I listened carefully. Two de-

bad passed since I learned

.. at college, but since then I

acquired reasonable fluency in

nish and Italian and those

iguages had helped me to re-

•mber a lot of Latin. Many of

urotti’s phrases were incompre-:sible — just esoteric gibberish,

t soon got the main drift. Myturned to ice water.

I was to be sacrificed to Piiatus,

se Snake God.After a while the chanting

ased. Baldrotti appeared at the

ire of the pit carrying a long

jdfnboo pole. Three times hestruck the metal idol on the head.

The idol was 'hollow, for it boom-ed like a gong — like a gong of

doom.The echoes died and utter silence

settled round me like a shroud —oppressive, choking silence. For

: first time I realised that I

could no longer hear the normalnight noises of the jungle. It wasif I were already standing in myburial vault.My mouth and lips were dry.

Nervously. I flexed my muscles.

Whatever lay ahead, I wished it

to come soon. Nothing could beworse than this waiting — this

fear of the unknown.I heard the thudding of my

heart, and then another sound —a slight metallic creaking, as if

the idol were coming to life.

It was coming to life. I blinked

in disbelief. It rocked slightly

“Dooley has had it. He thinks she’s wearing a mask.”

heavy on its base. And then it

grew a second head!

The searching head of a real

python appeared between the gap-

ing metal jaws. The creatureshypnotically piercing eyes fixed onme The forked tongue flickered

in and out between small, rotten

teeth.

The devil-snake slithered out of

its sleeping place, yards and yards

of it The big, spade-shaped headreared up from the concrete floor.

As it glided toward me the sweetincense smell was overcome byits foul, sickening odour.

I swallowed hard. It was amonster, all of 30 feet. But I’d

be damned if I'd die like la terri-

fied animal. During my wrestling

career I’d come up against a lot

of very tough customers — but

never one like this.

When the light shone right in

the creature’s eyes, I sprang. Myfingers locked just behind the

scaly head and I squeezed with all

my strength.

The python convulsed into amass of whipping coils. I hit

the floor with a spine-jarring

crash, but still retained my grip.

The brute rolled me over ahd over,

but still I held the lethal headaway, still I tried to strangle.

A noose of cold steel looped

round my lower legs and beganto squeeze. A second coil whippedaround my thighs. The great

snake hissed. It began to work its

tail toward the idol.

If it got a purchase with its

tail I was dead. With a supremeeffort, I wrestled it away. But I

was tiring. Hold on my brain

screamed. Hold on.

The constrictor flung a coil

about my shoulders and exerted

so much pressure that I groaned.

Desperation gave me new strength.

Somehow I broke free, but the

additional effort left me panting

iahd much weaker.

(Continued on page Jf5)


Law of

Hellfire RangeUp the long trail the vanquished Sam Quinby rode back to Arapahoe . . . only to find he

couldn't live down his past — except by dying!

npms town he was approaching,this town of Arapahoe that

was a grey huddle of buildings in

the heat of early summer,wouldn’t hold much threat to SamQuinby because the name he wasriding under was not known here.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be warmlywelcomed; but he wouldn’t bemolested either. Unless he slipped.

Worn down to 150 pounds byfour years of war, he rode notwith the triumphant assurance of

the victor but with the cautiousvigilance of the vanquished. It

was a vigilance that he had learn-

ed dearly, in a crucible of smokeand flame, and one which hewould never relax again, ever.

And so he rode, a narrow-backedyoung man with old eyes, astride

a trail-worn horse heading forArapahoe under a name of his

own defensive choosing. Medary,he’d decided to call himself.

He hoped he wouldn’t slip.

The warm drowse of the dayhad its enervating effect on him— Mississippi-born and new to

this western part of the nationthat had just conquered his

South.

Or thought it had conquered his

South, for already the rumors ofmore violence to come were run-

ning across the land with thewinds. It was spoken through thehills that Jefferson Davis was or-

ganising the Confederacy again,

this time in Alabama, and that hewould fort the place up and bedamned with the paperwork at

Appomattox. It was whisperedthat agents of the reborn Southwere already at work obtainingfunds by force from the mines of

the West.And here in Arapahoe, those

whispers were directed at the highand narrow shoulders of red-hair-

ed Sam Quinby himself, so that

he was continually turning, as herode into the street, to stare at

pale, hostile eyes. His hat didn’t

show it, he’d bought that beforehe crossed the Missouri River —and his shirt didn’t show it, either,

he’d picked that up from the

wreckage of a wagon that hadlong since been abandoned. Buthis trousers did — resewn andpatched and ragged as they were,


they showed the cut and color of

the Confederacy to a discerningeye. And something else showedit, too — the hard lines aroundhis mouth, where the flesh waschannelled in eternal whitegrooves. Battle grooves, born of

fear and nourished on determina-tion.Arapahoe was smaller than he d

expected, though no different froma score of towns he’d riddenthrough on the long, long roadfrom the east. It was a ruttedstreet fronted on each side byrickety buildings, a stage station

that gave promise of occasionalcontact with the outer world, afew shabby stores, a lifeless hotel

and a saloon.Sam chose the saloon. It was

pleasantly cool, after the furnace-

like heat of the prairie, and it

smelled of stale beer, stale

tobacco and stale clothing.

A bald-headed man with suspi-

cious eyes stood immobile behindthe bar.“Yes?”“Barley an’ water, please.”

“That'll be 10 cents.” The manwaited until he saw Sam’s moneybefore he set out the drink. “Rid-

ing through?”Sam started to say, “No," but

held it back as he noted that all

talk had stopped. Some silent menat the rear tables were waiting for

his answer too. So he said, “I

haven’t decided yet.”

What he wanted to say was.How do you get to the Broken Keyranch from here? But for someunaccountable reason he didn’t

dare, even though the Broken Keywas his own property. A letter

dated March 11, 1865 -— last

March — had apprised him of

that. His uncle, his mother’s onlybrother, had left it to him. UncleRoyce, of the Lockrey strain. Abig, happy man who’d supplied theConfederacy with horses. So Samtold the bald man behind the bar,

“Thought I might find work withRoyce Lockrey.”The barman stared at him. Then

a bearded man at one of the backtables said, evenly and slowly,

“Lockrey’s dead of the fevers.”

Sam faced around, pretendinggreat surprise.

FICTION • GEORGE C. APPELL

“When’d that happen?”“Three-four months ago.” The

bearded man was wearing aslouch hat and a leather vest.

“You knew him?”‘T—” Sam faced around to the

barman — “heard of him.” Helifted his drink.The barman said, “He left the

Broken Key to a nephew, nameof Quinby.”“Who’s runnin’ the spread now?”The barman waited for several

moments before he said, “DaveDrings.” Then he said, “And hedon’t take to strangers.”An uneasy cough sounded from

the rear. A boot scraped ner-

vously. The bearded man said, “I

don’t suppose you’d know this

Quinby? He was with the 18th Mis-sissipi, according to the lawyer —You look like you’d served withthe Rebs.”Quickly Sam said, “My name’s

Medary.” He finished his drinkand added, ‘T was with the 5thTexas.” He waited, braced fortrouble, but still it didn’t come.The reputation of Sam Quinby, herealised, was already bad. It

wasn’t because the Broken Keywas reportedly the base of opera-tions from which the wagon trains

were being raided for their mineassays, which were then sentdown to Alabama for the Cause.He’d heard those things more andmore frequently as he adventuredwest, and now that he was as farwest as he wanted to be, all hewas getting was suspicious ques-

tioning.The doors flapped open and a

short, stocky man with blondmoustache walked in and noddedto those at the rear tables. Therewere no answering nods. Heleaned on the bar, ordered sourmash and appraised Sam with aglance.“Ten cents,” the barman said.

The talk at the tables was still

dead. And then the bearded manrose and started toward the bar,

fists swinging slowly backwardand forward, face down and eyesraised. Sam thought, here comestrouble.The stocky youngster with the

blond moustache paid for his

drink but did not lift it. He Was

watching Sam and, beyond him,the bearded man’s approach. Heasked Sam pleasantly. “Newhere?”

“Yeh. Lookin’ for work. Name’sMedary.”“Mine’s Trask.” He nodded to-

ward the bearded man. “An’ yon-

der you’ll see Mistuh Quarles, thelocal peace officer.” Trask addedunder his breath, "Careful,

Med’ry.”Quarles was standing next to

Sam now. His black eyes wereluminous and his knuckles weregleaming white. There was nobadge on his leather vest, but hewore a heavy gun strapped lowon his hip."Medary, huh?” Quarles asked.

“I don’t suppose you know DaveDrings any better'n you knowSam Quinby.”“Drings?” Sam’s heart was

pumping loudly through his ears.

“The foreman at the BrokenKey.”

“Oh.” Sam glanced at Trask for

a hint of help. “No, I don’t knowhim.” He didn’t either. Suddenlyhe asked, “Do you?”Harsh laughter sounded from

the tables, and the barman smiled

behind his hand. Then Traskswigged his sour mash, crackedthe glass down on the bar andsaid, “Leave him alone Quarles.”

Quarles glared at Trask.“Keep out of this, Lardbelly.

Why hell, if you’d give some of

that hog fat of yours to Jeffie

Davis, he'd probably live longerthan he would on raw gold.”

More laughter sounded — .ner-

vous laughter, with no gaiety in it.

Trask stepped toward Quarles butSam got between them, facing

Quarles. The laughter stopped as

abruptly as it had begun.“Cook your temper somewheres

else, Quarles. For a peace officer,

you got a mighty low boilin'

point.”Quarles studied him for a mom-

ent. There was no hatred in him,only anger.He was confronted in Arapahoe

with a situation that he didn’t

know how to control— the BrokenKey raids — so he blustered, hechallenged, he dared, in the hopeof getting his hands on somethingconcrete, on something beside

rumors.Sam could not dislike the man.

In fact, while returning his stare

he found respect for his courageand sympathy for his bewilder-

ment But Quarles would have hadno use for those emotions, evenif he had recognised them. Hesaid, “If you're teaming up withTrask in any way, I'll know aboutit.” His hand fell to his holster.

“And when I know about it, I’ll

break up the partnership."“Partnership in what?”Quarles took a deep breath.

"In spotting assay trains for

Dave Drings.That was too much for Trask.

His shoulder dropped and his

hand blurred to his gun and hewould have whipped it out if Samhadn’t grabbed his wrist andwrenched it down and around,

leaving him helpless. Then he let

Trask go and turned on Quarles,

who had his gun out and levelled.

“Put it back, Quarles."Quarles hesitated. He wasn’t a

coward and he wasn’t a fool, butstanding there with a gun on twomen whose hands were emptymade him feel foolish. So he hol-

stered.“You’ve been warned, so

—

A rider slashed past the racksoutside and jumped down andflung himself through the doorsshouting violently for Quarles.

Then he saw him and pointed be-

hind him with nervous jerks of

his arm.“The Marietta Mine wagons just

got jumped an’ burned south o’

here! Whoever done it got awaywith a hundred sacks of un-

smelted—’’

But Quarles was runnmgthrough the doors and the men at

the tables were hurrying after

him and the barman was gasping,“Land o’ Goshen!” and Trask wasnudging Sam and saying, “Comeon, Med’ry, let’s watch ’em go.’

The street was empty except

for high-flying dust that wasswirling from the hoofs of a dozenhorses that even now were gallop-

ing south.“Maybe,” Sam said, “we better

go with ’em.”"Lissen, Med’ry, you’re a South-

ener like me. They’d never b’lieve

anythin’ we tried to do, or tried

to ten ’em we did. An’ I workfor the Broken Key, which makesit worse.”

Sam turned full on him, face

alight with surprise.

“The Broken Key? Why, lead

me to it, man.”"You sure you want to go? It’s

not the most pleasant place in the

world since Royce Lockrey died.”

Sam threw off the halter hitch

and stepped into his saddle.

“This town’ll be somewhat less

pleasant than the Broken Key,once that posse gets back. Leadon, man!”Dave Drings was thick-set, bow-

legged and ham-handed. Arrogantblack moustaches accentuated the

high arch of his nose. He gaveSam no welcome, no invitation to

sit. Pie merely listened whileTrask explained what had hap-,

pened in Arapahoe. Outside, acouple of riders were teasing ayearling toward the pens. A Chin-


Kpso'6"'"''

“What are you, man or tcoman?”

ese cook was cautiously roundingup a chicken. But those were theonly signs ol life that Sam saw.Dave Drings considered what

Trask had told him. He glancedangrily at Sam, almost accusingly,as if in that glance he could breakthrough whatever deception mightbe in him.“Medary?” Drings’ eye wandered

to Trask, and something passedbetween them, some glint of ap-proval. Finally Drings nodded andsaid, “You're on at 30 a month,Medary — 'til the new owner getshere, at least.”

“When does the new owner gethere?”Drings shrugged irritably.

“He was last heard of in theArmy. Name’s Quinby, nephew of

the late owner.” He added withsome bitterness, "Major SamuelQuinby, 18th Mississippi.” And hespat.“You don’t seem to like him

much.”Tire foreman frowned blackly.

“Why should I, when he’ll comewaddlin’ out here full of wrongideas about how to run a ranch?Why should I, when I’ve got theplace paying all by myself?”

“By yourself? Or for yourself?”Sam wanted a showdown now, be-

fore the rest of the riders returnedfrom southward. He was con-

vinced that that’s where theywere, hovering near the spotWhere the Marietta train 'had beenhit.

Trask said, “Come on, Med’ry,I’ll show you the .bunk—

”

"Wait a minute.” Drings stalk-

ed forward. “What did you justsay?”

Sam grinned coldly.

“I s^id that maybe you had this

place payin’ for you, not by you.

It looks awfully prosperous for aspread that’s just wintered-up an’

hasn’t had time yet to brand or

ship. It looks mighty clean, withonly two pokes an' a cook to police

it.”

Drings reached smoothly and

swifly for Sam’s neckerchief knotand held it.

“I don’t answer questions here,

I ask ’em.” He shook the necker-chief once. “Come to think of it,

I’ll save the new owner the trouble,and fire you right now.” He shookthe neckerchief again and saidthrough his side teeth to Trask,“You got hoodwinked. This man’sno cowpoke, he’s probably asheriff.”

Sam broke free and took a longstep backward.“Why should that worry you,

Drings?” He was still grinning,though there was no humor inhim.

Drang’s anger broke and he side-

swept a fist into Trask’s mouthand lunged at Sam and hatchetedhim across the jaws and slammedhim against the door and hit himbrutally in the lower stomach.Trask came at him from behindbut Drings whirled and jabbed upa knee to break Trask’s comingand sent him spinning 'into a table.

Sam shoved himself away fromthe door and drove a right hookinto Dring’s ribs, crossed with aleft and slashed him twice acrossthe cheeks. Drings charged himand they locked grips for 20seconds grappled each other, fling-

ing themselves in a mad dance


that had no rhythm, no pattern.

Then Brings tore himself looseand clawed for his gun and that’s

when Sam connected with a swift

right hook to the jaw that laid the

man flat on the seat of his pantswith his eyes rolling white and his

fingers twitching numbly.“I hereby give notice,” Sam

Quintoy growled. “Trask, youcornin’?”Trask disentangled 'himself from

the wreckage of the table.

“Reckon I better. I figure wegot five minutes, maybe less, to

seek the realm of free movement,as Jeb Stuart used to say.”

They catapulted the semi-conscious Brings and hit their

saddles, spurred across the areaand out through the gates andaway toward the northern hills.

On the first upgrade they stoppedto blow their horses and 'listen

for the signals of pursuit.Trask rubbed his mouth tender-

ly and winced.“That’s one I owe him—Hear!Hoofs were drumming the hard-

pack trail behind them, cominglouder.“Trask, there's three of ’em any-

way. What d’you propose?”“Ambush.” Trask blew out his

breath and shook his head “We’reat our rope’s end anyway, Med'ry,

so there’s no use runnin’ anymore.”But Sam didn’t think so.

“We’re near it. not at it. I pro-

oose we let ’em chase us aways.What’s the old sayin’? ‘He whoruns to fight again—' Somethin’like that — Let’s run to fight

again!”They spurred up to the higher

bench and galloped across a flat,

oiny stretch and pressed on upInto the first timber. Behind andbelow them, Brings and two riders

aopeared on the bench. Threefihv fluffs of white smoke spurted

and faded — the bullets stopped

short. Trask fired and missed.

Then they were riding upwardagain, seeking deeper timber. Theiav was getting old and trees wereturning from green to purple.

Once, Drings shortened the dis-

tance at a crazy gallop on his

natch-colored poiiy and fired fourtimes and then circled back into

the lower rocks. Another time,

>am and Trask lagged until less

man a hundred yards separated

mem from the pursuit, when eachfired and one of the riders yelped

and rose in his saddle and thensagged over the pommel, hangingon to it. His horse crow-boppedand threw him, and Sam andTrask whirled away through the

timber and were gone.

It was twilight in the valleys

thought not yet on the slopeswhen they paused to rest their

horses again, and to 'listen. Butthe pursuit had ended, and thetying day was quiet.

Trask noddded happily.

“With a wounded man to pack,

they figured to turn back, an’

damned glad of it Til bet.”

Suddenly he yanked on his

bridles and turned, staring belowinto a wooded vale where half a

dozen canvas-topped wagons hadbeen drawn into a quick defensivecircle.

“Med’ry, there’s the reasonDrings didn’t want to come anyfurther!” He pointed. “He didn’t

want to spook his next target,

'til he had enough strength to

hit it.”

Sam eyed him curiously.“You know a lot about Drings,

don't you?”Trask looked away. His horse,

switching its tail, suddenly tensed,

came together and backed againstSam’s animal, bumping it aside.

A gaunt-faced man wearing ablue kepi and jackboots rose fromsome bushes and threw a Spenceron them.

“Well, boys,” he twanged, “just

what’re you doin’ up here all

alone on the hot end of gunfire?”Sam hauled his bits around and

squinted through the dusk.‘We got fired off the Broken

Key, that’s what.”“Fired, is right” The man held

the Spencer higher. “The BrokenKey?” He grimaced with distaste.

“I didn’t know they fired menwith Southern accents. You bet-

ter come down an’ explain— Getoff an’ walk, I’ll be right behindyou.”One by one, figures began to

crawl from the wagons. The first

were men with rifles — the last

were females — two of them. Thelargest had 'grey hair tucked be-

neath a bonnet, a firm mouth andan understanding eye—the small-

est had dark hair and lots of it, asmooth skin and sparkling blueeyes.The man with the kepi lowered

Ms Spencer and beckoned to aburly man wearing side-whiskersand a black coat.

“Peter, I flushed these two onthe bench yonder. They say theyjust got kicked off the BrokenKey.”

Peter Meservey examined Samand Trask with great care.“Where'd you come from?”“We just told your outpost

•here.” Sam went on, “You soundas if we’re culprits. Let me ask aquestion — where’d you comefrom?”The 'bonneted woman made

clucking noises and climbed backinto her wagon. The youngerwoman, the pretty one, continuedto stare at Sam.‘We’re from California,” Peter

Meservey said firmly. “We teamedup two days ago with the SantaMaria Mining wagons, here. We’releaving them at the town of Ara-pahoe, where we hope to settle.” Hecleared his throat. "That satisfy

* Sam, nodding, dragged Ms eyesfrom the pretty girL

“They’re Davis agents, Peter.

That’s my guess.”The girl folded her arms across

her breast and eyed Sam balefully.

“You’d think that folks’d realise

the war is over, and that theYdstop all this shooting and robbing—intelligent folks, that is.”

Sam winked at her, but before

she could say anything ‘her mothercalled her into the wagon. Herfather, Peter Meservey, tugged at

his side-wMskers and cleared his

throat again.“We have no evidence against

them, we’ll 'have to let them go.

But mind you — don’t get caughtskulking!”The man with the Spencer cock-

ed it, and Trask made a move for

Ms own gun. But Sam pushedhim toward their horses.


"Odds’re too high. Let's pull

loot.”They trotted off into the deepen-

ing dusk, pointing toward town.Trask stayed mad for a mile, thenbegan to soften.

“It does seem kinda crazy,

keepin’ the war goin’ on an’ on,

with all this country to build up.”

“Yeh,” Sam Quinby agreed, “it

sure does.” They rode in guilty

silence for another mile, whenSam asked, “You were with JebStuart?”

“Until Richmond. I got hit witha Minie ball at Yellow Tavern, themomin’ Jeb was killed, an’ I neverdid go back — war does strangethings to folks, don’t it?”

“Yeh.” Another mile, and thestars were low and bright andbrittle. “Like makin’ ’em supporta new one— Sounds crazy.” Sa.mswallowed uneasily. That girl

back there had had an uncom-mon effect on him.“Crazy for sure, tryin’ to con-

tinue fightin’.” Trask was ob-


viously impressed with this richland, with its warm fallownessand fertile promise. When thelights of Arapahoe were in the dis-

tance, he asked, “You aimin’ to

meet that girl in town?”Sam was shocked.“I'm aimin’ for a steak an'

onions! I’ve been on Army rations

for so long that I can't rememberWhat good food tastes like.”

"Where, suh,” Trask inquired,

“did you say you served?”“With the 18th Mississippi—

Come on, let’s get that steak.

But they didn’t get it. All theygot in Arapahoe was a grim-lipped greeting from men withhostile eyes — men who had just

packed the charred bodies of theMarietta wagon train drivers into

town. The tarpaulin burial sackswere on the plankwalk in front of

the stage station.Quarles carried a lamp from the

saloon and held it high over theheads of Sam Quinby and Trask.“Broken Key riders, returning

to check up on the results, eh?Without turning he called, “Pike!Grease up a rope and choose atree! We’ll hold a court in the bar-

room.”The man called Pike spun out a

riata and shook it a few times,

then coiled it in. Others crowdedthe two accused men from the

rear and hazed them into the

saloon.Trask had a chance to murmur,

"Med’ry, maybe we should’ve am-bushed Drings, after all.”

“Maybe we still can,” Sam lean-

ed backward against the bar,

elbows on the wood, legs crossed.

The ring of faces confronting 'him

in. the smoky lamplight was like asiient jury from hell. The manPike was seated in a corner, greas-

ing his riata.

Quarles thrust his way throughthe crowd and opened the indict-

ment with a few short words as

to how Trask had been suspectsince he’d begun riding for theBroken Key the week before, andhow he’d contrived to meet Med-ary, here, on the very day of theMarietta raid, those two takingcare to be seen in town at the timeof the raid.

“But,” Quarles added, “theyplanned it for Drings.”Sam held up a finger, schoolboy-

fashion.“Can the accused speak?”

"Briefly,” Quarles sneered dis-

tastefully.

“Well then, that’s a pretty story,

but you can’t prove it. It so hap-pens that Trask an’ me just got

run off the Broken Key by DaveDrings, for askin’ too many ques-

tions. Your proof. Mist’ Quarles,

lies with Drings, not with us.” Arough murmur of agreement an-

\

swered that — but the man Pikecontinued to grease his riata. Samconsidered tipping his hand all the

the way and disclosing himself as

owner of the Broken Key, butquickly rejected it. The nephewof the man who had sold horses to

the old Confederacy would auto-

matically be condemned of furth-

ering the fortunes of the reborn-Confederacy.

Quarles looked at the faces for

support.

“If we visit Drings again, all

we’ll get is the same old lullaby.

I say, let’s string these two nowas an example to all the others.”

Sam Quinby played his last card

on a long chance.

“If you want to visit Drings,

you’ll find him at dawn in a vale .

12 miles north of here, fixin’ to

jump a wagon train that’s beddedfor the night.” It got the surprise

that he wanted. “It’s a Santa MariaMine train, bound past here for

the river and some Californians

are with it. H they ever reachj

here, they’ll settle here.”

Even Trask was startled to hearthat. Quarles studied his jury

again, and he knew that he’d lost.

The men wanted to ride. But still

Quarles delayed with, “There’s noproof of what Medary says. He’sprobably decoying us into the hills

so Drings can hit somewhereselse.”

And Sam got angry.“At the risk of my life? Is

Drings worth that to me?” Hepushed with 'his elbows and con-fronted Quarles. "If your prooflies with Datings, so does mine!”The jury was for it. 'Men were

already striding out to the racksto take their horses. Quarles sud-denly whipped out 'his gun andheld it on Sam.

“you’ll ride 'in front with me,all the way.” He waved the muzzletoward Trask. “And you’ll ridebeside him, all the way.”Trask stared accusingly at Sam

and in his expression was written,Now look what you’ve done . . .

Sam muttered, “You know moreabout Drings' habits than I do.’’

He was indifferent to the accusa-tion, he had more reason for re-turning to that wagon train thanhe had for staying in town.

As they filed out of town intothe darkness, Pike kept flickingthe end of his riata at the prison-ers, as if to get accustomed to thefeel of their skins. He kept doingthat until Quarles, surly of mood,commanded him to stop it. Therest of the posse was strung outbehind 'him, their ‘horses heavingand straining on the steepergrades, hoofs clicking and girthswhispering.Sometime after midnight they

came to the place where the manwith the Spencer had thrown downon them. Below in the vale, weakmoonlight showed the wagonhoods as grey blobs.

“Well,” Quarles whispered,"where's Drings?”

"He’ll be here 'before dawn.”

And Sam added silently, 7 hope.His thoughts went to the dark-haired girl who undoubtedly wassound asleep in a wagon bed,wrapped in a dream fabric of anew home this side of the moun-tains. He wondered if she hadthought of him at all.

Objects were becoming distinctnow. Tree boles shone with thedawn dampness •— hides glimmer-ed brownly. Quarles’ featureseroded from the greyness — nose.

beard and shoulder, cut there likestone. Then a rasping, “Hsst!”ripped from the further trees.Every man braced himself, kneesstraight down along cinches, 'gunsout.There was movement to the

south, in the direction of theBroken Key. Men were leadinghorses on foot, then stopping andmilling — then mounting at awhispered order.Dave Drings was a squat lump

on his patch-colored range pony.His undertones were rowel-sharp,“Pick off the guards first, then theothers . . . Stampede the remuda. . . Ed, you and Utterho andMax cut in and snag the bullion. . . Get the women if you can,they make good hostages . . . Allset?”They started forward, horses’

heads held high on tautenedbridles because of the steep slopeof the value. Sam was suddenlyaware that Quarles was watchinghim, and waiting for him to openthe ball. So he filled 'his lungsand let go with the Rebel yell —“Ha-yi-yi-yi-yi-!’’ and plunged out ofthe trees and crashed through theunderbush into flank of the raid.

Trask was beside him, bouncingand twisting and trying to 'find aclear target. Guns flared throughthe dawnlight and the raid buck-led, broke and collapsed back into

itself. Bullets whickered sicken-ingly close and a horse wentdown, thrashing, and a manshrieked wildly and there weremore flashes, yellow stabs of flamesparking back and forth.

There were no battle lines, onlya weird jamboree of pirouettingfigures and churning hoofs andcolliding horses, only the deafen-ing blasts of gunfire that chewedacross the dying dawn.And quite suddenly, with the

suddenness of a cut-off nightmareit was over.Sam found Dave Drings lying

blue-faced and quiet in the trampled


dirt, Ms glazed eyes not seeing thecoming day. There were others—Ed and Max, Quarles said—andone named Utterho, who’d beenhandy with the torch.

“And that,” Quarles intonedtriumphantly, “just about finishes

the Broken Key.”Trask knelt to Utterhoe and

spoke urgently to him, even as the

man was dying, and when he rose

he appeared satisfied, though heconfided in no one at toe moment.They’d have caught us sleeping

for sure! Glad you came back,”

he said to Sam Quinby, and thrust

out his hand.“Med’ry, I was toinkin’ of re-

turnin’ to Alabama — huh? Oh, I

thought you knew.” He fished

out a worn old wallet. “MistuhJeff Davis himself desired me to

find out why Drings wasn’t sendin’

his stuff down to Montgomery, an’

I just found out why. He wasstashin’ it away in toe hills for

himself, an’ Utterhoe told mewhere. That’s why Quarles could

never catch him with it along the

river.”, ,

Trask took his officially sealed

papers from the wallet and, after

a long and appreciative lookaround the land, tore them into

bits. “I don’t think I’ll go backto Alabama, though, ’cause Jeff

won’t get away with it twice, so I

reckon I’ll stay here— How ’bout

you, Med’ry?” Then his eyestwinkled and he asked, “Or should

I say, Quinby?”“When I mentioned the 18th

Mississippi last night, I figured

you'd guess, but I still couldn’t besure about you.”

“I couldn’t be sure about you,

either. When a man inherits a

ranch, there’s no tellin’ what he’ll

do.”“No, there isn’t,” Sam swallowed

and cleared Ms throat. “Mist’

Davis desired me, hi turn, to look

into toe matter of toe Santa Maria


train, an’ I guess I followed Msorders, though for the last time. I

got a hunch he won’t need me anylonger. I’ll need a foreman, Trask,if you’re interested.”“What you aimin’ for — steak

an’ onions?”

“No — for that girl.?’ And SamQuinby, ex-CSA, broke into arun. ®

APPRENTICE KILLER

(Continued from page 25)

When it did they wouldn’t mockhim —. they’d double up like the

craven curs they were and run.

Morning came and toe willy-

willys sprang to life. They headedon wearily, trying to cover as

much ground as possible before

toe heat forced them to halt. Ashe rode Johnny studied each manfor some sign of weakness. Butthough .the sun sopped them withsweat and toirst burned crazily

in their throats there was not oneof the three Who faltered. Theyknew the lagoon lay ahead of

them — they knew that once they

reached it they were safe. Hadtheir way been aimless he could

have beaten them. As it was heknew he had no alternative but

to continue.

They reached toe lagoon long

after sunset of that same day.

They lay on toe bare ground andslept till dawn — then they wereon their feet again setting upthe camp. Finally when it wasdone, they rested — all except

Griffith who went off with a gunto hunt wild ducks. Now that they

had water there was the problemof food. To exist in such a wilder-

ness there were always problems,

but there was ample game aroundthe lagoon.

Simmons spread his lean formout lazily to sleep. Colby walkedover to the boy and sat down.

“If the pain comes back, cry!"

“Kid,” he said “I never thanked

you properly for what you done.

Helpin’ me with that horse saved

my life. It wasn’t somethin’ either

one of the others would’ve done

. . .they’d have let me smother

and’ been damn glad of the chanceto get their hands on all this

dough.", ^ . ,,

He shrunk from the friendly

clasp of Colby’s hand upon his

shoulder — and Colby laughed be-

cause he knew what he was think-

ing. “We didn’t murder the old

man, iboy. We give him a fan-

chance. If he keeps on headin the

way he was goin' he’ll be all right.

But if he gets any ideas about

tryin’ t’follow us, the desert’ll fin-

ish him for sure. Now you can

see I’m a reasonable man . . . whynot forget -all these crazy notions

about grabbin’ that money back.

I know that's what you plannedbut it ain’t no use. There’s three

of us and only one of you. Youain 't got a chance.”

Johnny nodded and managedsomehow to grin. Colby laughed

and slapped 'him roughly on the

back. The man was anxious to befriendly. So anxious it seemed hewas almost desperate, as thoughhe felt he needed at least one

ally against the brooding Sim-mons. They walked back to camp.Simmons was awake and waiting

for them. There was no need - for

words — -all the hate in the manwas plain in his eyes. Soon nowthere would be trouble betweenthem. When it came one of themwould die.

Johnny glanced at Colby andthought of his strange outlook

concerning murder. He had noqualms about killing. Murder to

Colby rated chiefly as a meansof self-preservation. To Simmonsit was simply a means to an end.

Griffith returned without havingmanaged to -shoot -any ducks andColby promised that in a little

while he would go and take the

boy with him. They’d bring back

a meal without any trouble. Theybreakfasted then -and Colby took

out the money and began to count

it. It was the first time since

they’d robbed the old man that

they’d showed any interest m it

at all. Until now theyffi been moreconcerned with flight. Colbycounted out the money and divided

it three ways. All the while -his

eyes watched the boy as thoughthey were saying . . . “Now if

you want to get it back -you’ll haveto kill all three of us. You see

how impossible it is. You see . . .

Deliberately Johnny turned

away and pretended indifference.

Dividing the money made his task

that much more difficult but it

would not stop him. Everymoment of every hour he spent

with them he would be tensed andwaiting for -an opportunity to get

it back. They thought because he

was a boy and they were men they

could outmatch him — but theyunderestimated him. He could

match their cunning — and hecould wait. Sooner or later there

must come one unguarded momentthat he could grasp. Then they

would know the true fury of this

recruit. When it was too late

they’d realise just how deadly a

boy like this could be.

They took their share of Petesmoney and Colby picked up a rifle

and handed it to him. "We’ll get

some ducks,” he said. “And 111

give you a lesson in how to shoot.

They walked away from campand circled the far side of the

lagoon. Reeds grew thick along

its edge and crowded the grey

water that was now dark with

flocks of wild duck. A shot-gun

would have scored them a dozen

or more, but the forever movingbirds were no easy target for arifle.

Colby motioned him to take aim.

He tucked the butt firmly against

his shoulder -and squinted through

the sights. “You hold your breath,

Colby said, “and aim low at the

water line. Then you squeeze the

trigger gently. Don’t pull it . .

.

just squeeze it until you take up•all but the last fraction of pres-

sure. Then, when you’re set . ..you

shoot” , „ , ,

The gun banged and the ducks

rose in a fluttering whirring cloud.

Colby’s rifle crashed beside himand a bird tumbled down. Theywaited and the ducks wheeledback. He pulled hard on the trig-

ger and knew he’d missed. Colby

laughed, "Well anyway, we got

two . . . now all we have to do

is swim in and get ’em out.”

They were dressing before Colby

bothered to speak again. Hedbeen quiet as though there wassomething on his mind -and he wasnot certain how to express it.

"Kid,” he said, “you’ve got to re-

member that a gun is for killin

.

When you’ve got it in your hands

and you point it . . . then you re

aimin’ t’kill. A gun ain’t no toy . .

.

and don’t you ever forget that.

By midday the heat had clamp-

ed down like an iron hand, squeez-

ing out every ounce of moisture

from their bodies and leaving

them dulled and wearied beneath

the scant shade of the oaks. Grif-

fith was irritable and Simmonswas sullen. Time and again Sim-

mons tried to involve Colby margument. When this failed he

threw aside all remaining discre-


“Hello, darling! Wait till you hear uihat happened to ME tonight1”

tion and challenged him to light.

But Colby smiled a tight smileand ignored him.Simmons cursed in an ugly way

and strode away to the water.They watched him as he flung his

clothes aside and began to swim.Griffith glanced from Colby to theboy and then went to join him.Colby gave a deep sigh thatseemed to sever all bond therehad been between them. He wasalone now with just this kid. Hedidn’t need them anymore. Theboy waited, aware that the momentwas finally near. There was dis-

sention between them. Soon this

would resolve itself in violence.

Colby spoke first. “Boy, I reckonyou can see Which way the windblows? And I reckon you alsowant that money real bad, eh?Enough t’help me get it. Enought’share it two ways?”Johnny nodded, swallowing be-

cause the moment had come andhe was suddenly siekeninglyscared. Colby motioned to his rifle

and he picked it up. He was re-

membering Colby’s advice on


guns. He knew what he had to do.

He walked down to the waterwith the weapon held firm andthen he called to the two mento turn. They faced him — andthe fear in 'him was like a' knifetwisting in his belly. He knewColby was behind him searchingtheir packs and their clothes. Hewaited for the word that wouldtell ham the money was theirs.

For timeless moments Simmonsstood still as a rock, eyeing himwith savagery as he realised whatwas happening. Then completelyunwary of the gun he charged.The rifle bounced and Simmonsfell down to clutch his shatteredleg. Griffith acted almost on thesame instant by throwing himselfforward on the mud and thenrolling to fling his arms aboutthe boy’s legs. The rifle crasheda second time and Griffith let go.

He backed away and they satthere groaning, Simmons with his

broken leg askew on the mud andGriffith with his punctured belly.

Colby came up behind him grin-

ning as he flourished the bundles

of notes, And then suddenlyJohnny’s fear changed to searing,burning hate.They’d beaten a defenceless old

man and left him to die. Theywere animals not worthy of life.

Simmons who resented the author-ity of Colby, Griffith who .toadiedto the one he thought must inevi-

tably win. And Colby with hisphilosophy on killing, who thoughtit was no crime to steal awaymonths of an old man’s work. . . and then to leave that mandefenceless and at the mercy ofthe desert.They had taught him a lesson

on the ways of men that he wouldnever forget. They deserved noth-ing better than to die and rotbeneath this same sun thatbleached the old man’s bones.Deliberately he raised the rifle

until the sights were levelledsquarely on Colby’s middle.Squeeze slowly, he thought,squeeze until you take up the last

ounce of pressure. He saw Colby’seyes widen and the money tumblefrom his fingers to the mud. Andhis finger tightened on the triggeruntil his kunekles whitened.“Johnny!” the voice lashed out

at him, urgent and commanding.It was unbelievable but it was true,

the old man came out from behindthe tent and stood there. He 'had

beaten the desert after alLThe moment caught Johnny off

guard. There was a blurr of move-ment as Colby made a dive for his

own gun. He swung back and of

its own accord the rifle crashed.Colby twisted up and fell. Therewas an ugly spreading stain onhis chest. His eyes began to glazeand his mouth began to slacken.

More than ever he looked like agiant rat, only now more thanever he was a man.

“Kid,” he said, “you done like I

told you. A gun is for killin’ . . .

you don’t treat it like no toy. Youpoint it at a man and you meanit. I reckon I taught you thatmuch, eh?”

Johnny nodded, emptied of all

his hate and aware of the finality

of what he'd done. Pete came for-

ward and silently gathered upthe notes. When they’d filled their

canteens with water and helpedthemselves to supplies they couldleave. Griffith and Simmons couldstay where^ they were — theywouldn’t get far. And though theyeach carried a bullet they werestill getting it a lot easier thanwhat they’d given the old man.

Pete said, “I figure if we hurrywe still might have time for an-other round-up in them ranges be-

fore the wet sets in.”

Johnny turned away fromColby’s corpse and nodded slowly.

He wanted to get back in thesaddle again, wanted to feel thehorse pounding under him as hecharged headlong down a ruggedridge, the wind and the dust fling-

ing itself wildly into his face, thecrack of stockwhips sounding like

gunshots above the thunder of ahundred hooves. He’d learned all

he cared to know about murder.It wasn’t pretty. ®

CULT OF THE SNAKE

GOD


The nightmare struggle seemedto go on and on, but I never let

up on my stranglehold. My legs

were held in those crushing bands,but that did not worry me over-

much. I figured my legs couldwithstand pressure fairly well.

The big thing was to prevent thosedeadly coils from encircling mychest and stomach.My strength was ebbing — fast.

Then two metal bands snap-ped round my back and stom-ach and began to constrict. Myribs felt as if they were caughtbetween the jaws of a huge, slow-ing closing vice. The stomachjuices gurgled up into my throatand the bitter tasting fluid mademe want to vomit. Warm sticki-

ness dripped down my chin. Mynose was bleeding.

The remorseless pressure in-

creased and millions of red spotsexploded before my eyes. Myfingers were locked with cramp.AH feeling had gone from myarms. Raw bands of agony werelocked round my body. I couldno longer move. I couldn’t evengroan. I was dead.

The world became brilliant red— and I knew I was on the pointof passing out for ever. I bit

deeply into the slimy, repulsive -

thing that was killing me. I felt

it give.

The coils about me slackened.With joy beyond description I

realised that the python was ex-

hausted.

A professional snake-handler I

had once interviewed had told methat the big constrictors tiredeasily. He was more or less right—thank God!

I must have wriggled free fromthe loosening coils because thenext thing I remember was lyingseveral feet away from the python.Baldrotti hopped with rage at theedge of the pit, screaming obsceni-ties at me.

He aimed a blow at my headwith the bamboo pole. I rolled

away and it caught me a stingingcrack on the shoulder. Red rageflooded through me. When heswung the pole again, I was ready.I dodged the blow, grabbed thebamboo and yanked. Caught off-

balance, he came crashing down.His head struck the concrete andhe lay motionless. Out cold.

I lay where I was until some ofmy strength returned. The pythonwas beginning to stir. It wastime to get out. I angled the poleagainst a corner of the pit andswarmed up it. It was a roughstruggle, but I made it. I lay at

the edge of the pit sucking freshair into my lungs.

Nomi came out of the shadowsand went down on her knees be-

side me. In the ruddy glare of

the torches she looked like ajungle cat. Her slanting eyes were

narrow and cold with hatred. Shespat in my face.“You pig! You killed him. You

don’t know what he meant to

Her hand flashed from behindher back. I rolled as the knifecame at my throat. The blade bit

into my shoulder. I swung a hardright and caught her behind theear. She went down without asound.

The wound was deep and bleed-

ing profusely. Artery severed, I

guessed. I tore off my shirt sleeve

and made a bandage which I tied

with fingers and teeth. I reeledtoward a flight of stone steps thatled upwards to an unlocked door.

The door opened into the ruinedBuddhist temple.

I stayed long enough to searchBaldrotti's cottage and find abottle of brandy which I uncorkedwith my teeth. The snoutful I

imbibed made me splutter — andgave me five years of extra life.

How I made it across the bam-boo bridge and back to Talpe vil-

lage along two miles of jungletrack, I’ll never know. But I did.

It gave me time to figure outNomi’s hostile attitude.

It seemed likely that she hadbeen a decent girl before Baldrottihad enslaved her. But his evil

personality and sadistic treatmenthad finally contaminated her. Shehad become a masochist, actually

enjoying the beatings that hemeted but to her. That was whyshe had never run away from 'him.

She may even have witnessed thedeaths of the other girls, her rivals

for Baldrotti’s favor, even as shehad undoubtedly seen my ownstruggle with the python. She hadenticed me to her hut on Bald-

rotti’s instructions in order to find

out what I knew, in order to dis-

cover if I was a police spy.

When I staggered into TalpePolice Station and roused the

sleeping sergeant he was anythingbut friendly. It took him a little

time to understand that I wasneither a dangerous maniac or a

troublesome drunk. But finally, hesaw the light and they put somestitches in my shoulder. Then theyrang for the Inspector.

It was late the following daywhen we reached Snake Island.

The python, bloated and ugly, wassleeping in the pit. One of Bald-rotti’s sandals lay nearby.There was no sign of Nomi. She

may have gone down into the pit

to help Baldrotti and also beendevoured — or she may have fled

into the jungle. In any event she

had vanished just as completelyas the other girls.

It sometimes seems to me that

it was all just a very bad dream— that it never really happened.Then I look at the scar on my left

shoulder — and I know that it

damn well did. •

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******** ***********************ADAM, September, 1963 45

MURDER COMES EASY

(Continued from 'page IS)

To the Medical Examiner, theold saw that dead men don’t tell

tales is strictly nonsense. As illus-

trated again and again, dead mencertainly do tell tales — if youhave a medico on the job whoknows how to read corpses.

But these medical detectives

don't only uncover murder. Fre-quently, just the reverse happens,and it’s the accused killer who hasreason to thank the Medical Ex-aminer.One of the strangest cases of

this type on record also happenedin Brooklyn. One cold wintermorning some years ago a copnoticed a man throw a bundle into

the choppy waters of the EastRiver and take off at a run.

Suspicious, the cop chased andcaught the man, who broke downand began to cry.

“I killed my girl friend,” FrankTrotta, a longshoreman, sobbed.“Those were her arms I tossed in

the drink. The rest of her body’s

in my kitchen.”

Detectives rushed to Trotta's

apartment and found the torso of

a woman propped up in a comer.On the floor nearby wa;s her sev-ered head.

“We were drinking a lot lastnight and we had a fight,” Trottasaid. “I don’t remember how I

killed her, but when I woke up I

seen she was dead. I must havestrangled her. I got scared andstarted hacking her up.”

Trotta was charged with mur-der. It seemed to be an open andshut case.

But at the morgue the MedicalExaminer came up with anotherstory. The woman had not beenstrangled. Analysis of the vital or-

gans showed that she had taken aconsiderable quantity of alcohol be-

fore death, as Trotta had said. Butit also showed that instead of thenormal one percent of carbonmonoxide in her lungs and bloodthe woman had close to 40 per-

cent, well over the fatal dosage.

Police made a return visit to

the death scene and came up witha true picture of what had hap-pened. Drunk, Trotta and 'his girl

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friend had fallen asleep. As theyslept, carbon monoxide seeped outfrom a faulty stove connection,killing the woman. Trotta wokeearly, as he usually did. Dazed bythe gas, he staggered to a windowand threw it open. After dealinghis lungs and his head Trottafound his girl dead. Assuming hehad killed her during their quar-rel, he made a clumsy effort to geit

rid of the body.

The murder charges against thematn who truly believed he was akiller were dropped, and he wasspared a trip to Sing Sing’s deathhouse.

The Medical Examiner’s findingsare important not only in murdercases, however. Even where thereis no question of foul play anautopsy can be vital in settling in-

surance claims. Every one of uswho drives a car, for example, hasa lot to be thankful for whenthere’s an ME around to revealwhether a man who steps fromthe kerb and gets killed by thevehicle was sober or roaringdrunk. In New York, it happensabout once a day. And the Medi-cal Examiner could mean the dif-

ference between losing your bank-roll and putting the rest of yourlife in hock, or letting the insur-

ance company settle for a few hun-dred bucks.

The question of whether a manhas died by his own hand, fromdisease or a heart attack, orthrough an accident, may involvelarge sums of money for survivors.Especially where there is an in-

surance policy paying double in-

demnity for accidental death, ornothing in case of suicide.

Take, for example, the case ofAlbert Edwards. A retired manu-facturer who had a severe heartailment. Edwards owned a250.000 dollars life insurahce pol-

icy with a double indemnity acci-

dental death clause. On a springmorning a couple of years ago Ed-wards was puttering around in thegarden of his home in Richmond,Virginia, when he suddenly shout-

ed to his wife for help.

Mrs Edwards dashed out thekitchen door just in time to seeher husband clutch his chest, col-

lapse and die.

On the surface, 'his death wasobviously the result of his badheart.

But because there was no doc-

tor in attendance when Edwardsdied, a routine autopsy was order-ed by the State Medical Exam-iner. In the morgue, the patholo-

gist assigned to conduct the postmortem noticed a tiny red dot onEdwards’ neck. When he checkedcloser, the doctor discovered theend of a bee’s stinger. Throughlab tests using the dead man’sblood, the pathologist determinedthat Edwards 'had been highly al-

lergic to bee venom and had diedas a result of the sting. Edwards’heart attack turned out to be anaccidental death, and the insur-

ance company paid his widow500.000 dollars. •


ALIBI FOR DANGER

(Continued from page If)

“Thanks lor getting to me so

quickly, Koro. Let’s go see Hilton.”

About a quarter of a mile fromthe 18-room “bungalow” CMI hadbuilt for them Pacific IslandsDireetor-in-Chief, Koro cut the en-

gine of his motor bike and theycruised to a halt. They hid thebike in a roadside coffee planta-

tion and walked quickly butsilently down the sandy road.There was an empty police carparked hi the darkness under theshade-trees at the entrance to thebungalow’s driveway. Two mem-bers of Herant’s personal squadof gendarmerie were smokingquietly inside the fence.

It took Koro a few minutes to

locate a couple of green coconuts.

He handed one to Jackson andshortly afterwards, with simul-

taneous precision, they crashedthese near-lethal thirst quenchersonto the smokers’ heads. Korothoughtfully stubbed out the twocigarette butts before they con-

tinued up to the house.Hilton, a smooth, granite-hard

50, seemed to have been waitingfor them. He took them straight

into his workroom and they talked

standing up.“You’ve come about the Bounai

tiling, Jackson?"“That’s right. You know

the story?”“About the — ah, accident in-

volving a white Citroen, yes.”

“It wasn’t my car. I was up at

Tulagi with McKeefry.”“I know that — but can you

tell me why Captain Herant is

trying to substantiate a murdercharge?”

“Yes. He must have thought it

me out there and he’s out to get

rid of me — one way or another.”

“Oh?”“Because of a girl — my girl,

Stefanie Fox, Professor Fox’sdaughter. She dances at Jarrot’s

sometimes.”“So that’s it,” nodded Hilton

bleakly, “I’ve met that girl.

Should have known there’d betrouble over her eventually. SoHerant’s out to — to have her

for himself? Well, Jackson, aChief-of-Police is a powerfulenemy to have on an island this

size — I’d say he’d be unbeatable.”

“He’ll never be able to swingthis one on me.”“No — no, not even with Chong

lying his dirty head off . . . but it

might be better if you left the

island.”“Hows that?”“Leave the island. Now, right

away, tonight. I understand youhave a yacht up at Shark Lagoon.That’s how you arrived here orig-

inally, wasn’t it? On your ownyacht?”

Jackson nodded and Hilton con-

tinued, “I’ve heard you’ve spent alot of money having your boat re-

fitted. I suppose that’s how youeventually planned to leave here

when CMI packed up or found nofurther use for you?”

.

“It was — until I met Stefanie.”


“Take her with you. You’d better— or Herant will find some wayof stopping her from leaving here,

even though she's probably aBritish subject legally.”

There was a pause while Jack-

son thought about the white Cit-

roen car. Then he switched to amental survey of his yacht. Fin-

ally he turned to Koro and said,

“Will you get Stefanie for me?Be out at Shark Lagoon as soon

as possible. Stefanie will knowwhat personal things to take.

Bring as much fresh water as

you can. Everything else is onthe boat.”

“Here,” said Hilton, holding out

some keys, “take the van at the

side of the house.”Koro took the keys, but stood

for a moment looking at the twowhite men.“Go on,” urged Jackson. 1 11

bring the boat into the old jetty

where we used to go spearfishing.’

Koro left and they heard the

van go down the drive.

“Spearfishing in Shark Lagoon?”queried Hilton. “You know, for a

man that’s supposed to make his

living keeping my company’saffairs smooth and peaceful, youcertainly choose to live danger-

ously.”“Herant’s more dangerous than

any shark,” said Jackson shortly.

He walked across the room andslumped into a chair facing Hil-

ton. "Now,” he said grimly, “it

wasn’t my car out at Bounai to-

night so it must have been yours.’

“That’s true.”

“And the driver?”

“My fool son, Raymond. Nobodywas parked here all day. Ray-mond got back here before the

police phoned me to find out

where the car was. I told them it

was parked there all day. Ray-mond says the whole affair out

at Bounai was an accident andhe panicked after hitting thenative. I’m inclined to believe him.

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“It isn’t that I don’t like you, Gudnik, it’s just that tee live in two

different worlds.”

lace a trumped-up murder chargejust because you’re having a fuedwith the police. Raymond will, of

course, be on the first boat out

of here."

“The first boat leaves tonight,

from Shark Lagoon,” Jackson re-

minded him drily.

“Yes, quite — and I’m not goingto be ungrateful . . . Shall' we saytwo year’s salary ... in lieu of

notice?”"Cash?”Hilton handed him a heavy en-

velope.“There’s £2000 sterling here. You

can trust me to send you the rest

when you’ve settled.”

“I know I can. Well, I’d better

get out of here before your twoextra gardeners wake up fromtheir little rest.”

“Be careful,” said Hilton.

Half-an-hour later Jacksonagain abandoned Koro’s motor-bike on the side of the road. Thistime he was just within sight of

Shark Lagoon. He walked quietly

through the tall palms at the edge


of the beach. Sure enough, twopolicemen were waiting close byhis dinghy. There were no othersmall boats along the shore for

his was the only yacht mooredin this deep, ill-omened lagoon.

Jackson crept closer to thepolice. They were both big menand sitting nearly 10 feet apart.

It would be foolish to try and takeboth of them. He faded back into

the palms and eyed the distancefrom the coi'al-sand beach out to

his yacht. He considered, too, thedistance between the police aroundto the old jetty where Koro andStefanie should soon appear.

It would be OK, he decided, if

his timing was good. And the

sharks? He remembered howeveryone had thought Koro andhe were mad even to swim in this

lagoon wearing underwater diving

gear and aimed with powerfulspear guns. That was in daylight.

Now it was night and he didn’t

even have a knife with him. Heshivered and looked again at thetumble-down jetty across theother side of the dark waters. He

stuffed Hilton’s envelope inside

his shirt and halfway under his

belt. Slowly he walked downacross the beach and entered thelagoon without so much as asingle splash or noise.

The water was quite cold butJackson wasn’t aware of anyphysical discomfort. He tried to

concentrate on swimming withoutbreaking the surface with armsor legs. With his head now at

water-level the yacht seemedmuch further away. Was that a

fin

?

Desperately he fought backthe flooding memories of the huge,sleek, grey shadows they had seenin these waters.He conjured up Stefanie’s face.

She was smiling her special smilefor him. The smile that buddedjust before her fingers locked at

the back of his neck and shewhispered “Mike” with lips almosttouching his cheek and ear. Heheld the image in his mind for aslong as he could. When it fadedinto the cold, black reality of thelagoon, his boat seemed a little

closer.He longed to flail out with a

racing stroke but he knew that

his splashes would be sure to at-

tract the big man-eaters. Withdreadful slowness he edged closer

to the yacht. Now he was almostup to the sleek white hull.

Something moved in the waterjust a few feet from him. In ablind panic Jackson lunged the

last few yards and clawed his wayover the stern of the boat. As helay struggling for breath, his eyessuddenly picked out black-bootedlegs standing over him. He started

to look up but one of the boots

lashed forward and his head ex-

ploded in pain.“Welcome aboard, Jackson." It

was Herant.Jackson dragged himself to his

knees. Now he was looking downthe barrel of a revolver. After awhile the pain in his head easedenough for him to speak. “You’ll

never pin that Bounai thing onme, Herant!”

“No,” returned the Frenchmansmoothly. “It didn’t take me longto discover that you had an alibi.

However, Bounai has served its

purpose. For some reason, Hiltonhas decided to protect someone.He wasn’t really driving the car

himself, was he? No matter. Youwere to be the scapegoat — andafter the help of our radio-

controlled patrol-cars we’ll makesure M’sieu le Directeur is notdisappointed.”

“Come off it, Herant. You can’t

even arrest me. You admit that

I’ve got dozens of witnesses to

prove I was nowhere near Bounai.”

“Yes, but officially I don’t knowthat yet.” Herant’s throat clicked

and his lips twisted in a silent

parody of laughter. Then heshouted to the shore, “Chavalle!Le Blanc! Venez a la bateau!”

In the half-light of the pale

moon Jackson saw two figures

climb into his dinghy and start

rowing for the yacht.“You know, Jackson,” said Her-

ant in a quiet, almost friendly

tone, “I felt sure you would find

some way to reach this boat but

I do assure you I myself wouldn’tswim this lagoon. Not for a dozenStefanie’s and every sou in Mar-shall Hilton’s moneybags. A pity

such a brave man should be shot— shot resisting a mistaken arrest

for a crime he didn’t commit. Pariswill be quite annoyed with me.”

Jackson went cold. He glancedat the approaching dinghy. Herantcaught the slight movement. “Wit-nesses,” he explained. “My loyal

sergeants Chavalle and Le Blancwill testify how you suddenlydived at me and the gun went off

as we struggled. A most regret-

table affair.”

Jackson had been weighing uphis chances in making just such

a dive. They were zero. Maybe,just maybe, he could hurl him-self overboard without being shot.

Then if Herant’s subsequent shotsmissed him and the police in the

dinghy didn’t catch him and the

sharks — Jackson’s mind gaggedon the thought of risking thesharks again.

His mind was still frozen whenhe saw an oar send Herant flying

across the cockpit. Without think-

ing, he flung himself at theFrenchman’s gun-arm. Herant re-

covered himself before Jacksoncould wrench the revolver awayand he slammed his knee up into

the liaison officer’s groin. Numbwith pain, Jackson still managedto hold Herant’s wrist. Now Her-ant was pulling frantically at the

gun, aiming it over the side of the

boat, but, even as he squeezed thetrigger, Jackson thrust their lock-

ed arms into the air and the bullet

screamed harmlessly up into thetropic night.

Then Koro was in the cockpit

and another blow from his oarsent Herant over the side. Still

gripping the gun, Jackson nearlywent into the lagoon, too, but the

big Eurasian pulled him back.

Jackson peered in amazement at

his Mend. Koro grinned.

“I’d just fixed up Chavalle andLe Blanc when Herant called —so we came out. Too bad for Her-ant.”

Herant! Overboard and uncon-

scious — but even as Jacksonlooked over the side there was aflicker of movement just belowthe surface of the lagoon. Withouta sound Herant disappeared. Fora moment they stood watching the

water. In daylight the blood wouldhave shown bright red. Now there

was just a slight clouding in thelagoon, like the passage of somewatery ghost.

Jackson felt hands on the backof his neck. Soft lips brushed his

cheek and he heard Stefanie’s

voice saying, “Koro knows the

way out of this lagoon even better

than you. Come below and rest.”

He slipped his arm round hersmooth, warm shoulders. “Sure,

he said quietly. “Who wants to

hang around here saying goodbyeto the sharks?”

They went below. •

RECRUIT FOR REBELLION


car carrying his cannon. Hehoped to get the girls away fromthe officers they wanted to kill,

without Captain Rade finding out

how he’d been fooled.

‘Take the men into the rear car

with the Marines,” he ordered

Mate Caxton. “I’ll watch things in

the freight carrying the coolies.

Without intricate switching sys-

tems available, the engineers hadto settle for the awkward .arrange-

ment of having the locomotive at

the end reversed to push the five

cars ahead of it. Within an hour

Yehala picked up a packagecovered with maps and she andthe ensign started forward along

the tracks toward the first train

where Admiral Seymour had set

up his headquarters. Mate Caxtonspotted the ensign and ran over.

“Sir,” he said, “some of the ties

were burned and the rails buckled.

It will take a few hours to re-

Pa,1

‘All right, mate,” Faulkner said, they were headed back to the

th understanding. “You can rum- bridge at Yangstun. Yehala fumed' " " in helpless rage as the train car-

ried her away from the officers

she had hoped to destroy. She kept

jabbing her pistol at Faulkner,

with rising anger.“Look at it this way,” he said.

“I got you concubines out of there

before you were discovered. I

couldn’t see you shot down — or

maybe worse.”Yehala became so incensed she

- but bemage around for spoils

careful.”He walked on a few paces.

Yehala close behind him. ‘Youknow what that means,” he said

to her. “The work crews will enter

the rear car to get rails and ties.

They’ll find you and your Mends.”“They are prepared to die for

Buddha,” she said. “Like myself.’

Faulkner felt his knees tremb-

ling now. Would he call out — .

would he have the courage to

stick to his duty — or would helet her get away with this bold

murder plan to save 'his own hide?

He was trying to work up a

counter-plan when the stiff-backed

British lieutenant approached him.

“Here comes your order to report.

Yehala whispered.“Faulkner, isn’t it?” the British

officer said a moment later.

“We’ve got urgent duty for you— immediately.”The ensign saluted. “Yes, sir?

The British officer glanced

briefly at Yehala, dismissed her as

an ignorant coolie, and continued.

The Langfang station master hadmet the first train as it came in

and reported that the damage had

been inflicted by both Boxer gueril-

las and Imperial Chinese troops.

“If he’s not lying,” the officer

said, “it means we are at war withChina, in which case we’ll be

forced to withdraw. The bridge at

Yangstun must be kept open for

such a retreat. Captain Rade, his

men, and your gun crew are being

sent back in a special train to

hold it”,

“Our cannon isn t too mobile,

sir,” Ensign Faulkner said, think-

ing of the canvas-covered railroad

tie on top of the freight oa!r.

Captain Rade strode up along-

side the ensign. “The car with the

cannon will go with us,” he said

crisply. “Without that field gunwe'd never be able to hold the

bridgehead if attacked in force.”

“Of course, sir,” Faulkner said.

"All right if I take a dozen coolies

with me to help set up the gunemplacement when we get there?”

Receiving approval, the ensign

headed back to ithe last train, fol-

lowed by the casually shuffling

Yehala. He found the train alreadybeing broken up. Five freight cars

were being coupled to an engine,

and Yehala’s concubine “coolies

were struggling to help unload

rails with the rest of the regular

work gang. The ensign picked

them out, as though by chance,

and ordered them into the freight

GUITARPRICESSLASHED


grew careless. She set her burning

cigarette down on an empty pack-

ing case near the bundle of TNTshe had faded to deliver. In a

snap of motion Faulkner had both

items in hand. He held the cigar-

ette near the fuse.

“Let’s review that Boxer vow,

he said, as the women shrankaway from him. “You know, the

part about water cannot drown,cannon cannot injure. We could

find out now, girls, unless you put

those guns down.”Yehala trained her pistol on his

forehead. “Tighten that trigger

finger and I'll blow us all to

Buddha,” Faulkner said.

She dropped the gun, and the

other concubines followed suit.

The ensign scooped up one weapon,

herded them into a far corner,

ordered them onto the floor. “It’ll

be bad enough when Captain Radefinds that railroad tie instead of

the cannon,” he said, "so you girls

are going off this train as quietly

as you got on.”The ensign watched her for a

time and a thought came into Ins

eyes. She saw it and smiled deris-

ively. "For that, Tzu Sian wouldslice you into strips and feed your

flesh to his dogs. I am not like

the other girls.”

Faulkner reddened. In anger hewalked to the wide side door of

the freight car, unlocked it androlled it open. He seized Yehalaby the collar of her jacket anddragged the squirming girl to the

edge of the opening. He let her

stare at the blurred ground as

the train roared through gatheringdarkness. She shivered with fear,

and he drew her back a bit. ‘ Youwilling to co-operate — or do youwant me to throw you off now?’

She was very still in his arms,strangely subdued. Her eyes wereunreadable black pools as she

stared at him. “Cut my handsfree,” she said quietly. “I will co-

operate.”

He slammed the door, used the

knife on her bonds, and stepped

away. Yehala rubbed Iblood back

into her wrists. With hate in her

eyes, she silently removed herjacket and coolie trousers. Shewore nothing else. Faulkner wasstunned speechless. He had intend-

ed to frighten her into leaving the

train quietly. She had misunder-stood ...

,

The girl’s breath quickened, andnow he could read what was in

her eyes and he was no longer

quite himself. He took her to adark corner of the boxcar. After

a while there was a moment whenshe could easily have taken his

gun away from him. Instead, shestroked his hair thoughtfully.

“You are number-one man,” shesaid.He laughed. ‘Til be numberone

fool when they find that railroad

tie on a gun carriage. They 11

court-martial me.”.

"I know where the cannon is. I

could guide you there.”

“Tzu Sian would never hand so

important a weapon back to his

enemy,” Faulkner said.

“Tzu Sian desires to be my hus-

band,” Yehala said. “I could per-

suade him to return the cannon.“Thanks,” Faulkner said, nut

there’s no way of getting the gunback without Captain Rade finding

out. All I can do is hope we don’t

need the damn thing.”.

The ensign spent the night in

Yehala’s embrace. In the morninghe felt the train slow ito a creep,

then come to a standstill. Theywere on the outskirts of Yangstun,according to Yehala. “Something’sup,” Faulkner said after peekingthrough a crack in the door. “I’ve

got to go forward to find out. Youkeep the girls under cover.”

When he reached the front car

Captain Rade was sending ascouting party ahead of them. In

20 minutes the squad came hack.

“Boxers — maybe a thousand of

them,” a shavetail Marine re-

ported. “They’re rigging dynamite

to the bridge — looks like they re

going to blow it up.”

“We’ve got to save it,” Radesnapped. “Prepare the men for

attack. Ensign Faulkner, get your

cannon ready to cover us — but

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whatever you do, don’t shell thatbridge.”Marines poured out of the cars,

fixed bayonets and began to ad-vance on either side of the rail-

road tracks toward the town. MateCaxton stared at the white-facedensign, who was mumbling:“Don’t shell the bridge he says —with a railroad tie?”Faulkner drew 'his colt. “Fve

just changed the order," he said.

The engineer reached for hiscontrols, started the train rolling

slowly toward Yangstun. Thebridge came into sight. Faulknercould see the Marines movingalong the streets now — and sud-

denly there was a tremendousroar. Boxers on horseback brokefrom concealment and charged thefoot soldiers. Behind them rode afull division of Imperial troops.

The Marines were trapped, hem-med in on both sides, trying to

fight their way out. “Get this

train through to them,” Faulknershouted. “It’s the only way theycan escape.“They’ll be slaughtered!” Faulk-

ner shouted suddenly. “What the

hell can we do to help them?”He forgot ridicule, 'he forgot the

girls in the car, he forgot every-thing but 111 Marines marchingto certain death. Faulkner ran to

the rear of the train, jumped upinto the cab. “Follow the meninto town,” he told the English en-

gineer.

“The captain told me to waithere,” the man said.

They had reached a point 50yards short of the bridge. TheMarines spotted the train and be-

gan to run for it. Horsemencharged them — some riders werecut down, others got through to

slash and trample. As more andmore Marines climbed onto thetrain they were able to fire fromwithin its protection, and the raid-

ers fell back. “Start pulling out,”

Faulkner yelled to the engineer.“We’ve got all of them that axegoing to make it.”

The train slowly lurched awayfrom the bridge. Faulkner climbedon top of the nearest car, ranback to study the situation. A fewstragglers sprinted for the tail-end

car, made it and were hauledaboard by their buddies. Therewere between 10 and a dozen whowould never reach it. Faulknerclimbed down once they were out

of effective rifle range, and enter-

ed the rear car to find CaptainRade stretched out in the wash-room. He had taken a bullet in

the side, but was issuing orders

to his lieutenants.“That cannon,” he said weakly

when he saw Faulkner, “what hap-pened to it?”

“Didn’t have time to set it up,

Faulkner lied.

Rade glanced at his officers.

“Place this man under arrest,” hesaid. “Only his execution will atonefor the lives of the men we hadto leave behind.” For a momentthe oaptain was silent, stiff withpain. Then he said, “We’ve lost

the bridge. With Imperial troops

in the fighting now the entire ex-

pedition will withdraw, if it can.


lnock it off, Marshal I’ve had a tough day!”

Without the bridge they’ll betrapped at Yangstun. The onlything that can save them is aquick transfer from the trains to

the river. That means junks —somehow we’ve got to have junkswaiting for them at the river.”

There was a heavy explosionfrom the vicinity of Yangstun, fol-

lowed by half a dozen more. Theofficers were silent, knowing fromthe blasts that the bridge hadbeen blown.

“I’ll volunteer, sir.” Faulknersaid hesitantly. “I think I can getsome junks.”Rade winced with pain but spoke

through tight lips. “Chance to re-

deem yourself? All right, Ensign,take what men you want."“No men,” Faulkner said. “Just

the coolies.”

“Go ahead,” Rade said. ‘1 totefiring squad duty anyhow. TheChinese will save me the trouble.”

The most addicted gambler onboard the train wouldn’t havegiven the ensign a chance in amillion for success or survivalwhen the train slowed, severalmiles from Yangstun, and hejumped off with the dozen “cool-

ies.” He waved a hand at the en-

gineer, saw the train start upagain, pushed his way into the tall

brush. Yehala slid her arms aroundhis waist, unbuckled the belt andholster of his Colt revolver. “You

“You must let your hands bebound.”He submitted to the rope, won-

dering if he could trust Yehala,and if he would ever reach the

camp of the fanatic Boxer namedTzu Sian.One answer was clearly written

on Yehala’s face the instant 'his

arms were securely hound. Herlips were stiff with anger, herblack eyes hard coals. “I warnedyou I was not like the other girls,”

she said. ‘Td kill you, but Tzu Sianwill do it better.”

“And you said I was your num-ber one man,” lie spoke in disgust.

“Would you have come with me,like this, had I not?” she asked,

smiling tightly. “Now — move!”Stumbling through the darkness,

the ensign chanted the Boxer vowas loud as he could in Chinese.

Just before dawn he sensed that

he and the concubines were beingfollowed. Scouts of the Boxerhorde had picked them up.

They closed in a few minuteslater. Faulkner was tripped up in

the dark and fell down heavily.

Men leaped on him, and tied ablindfold over his eyes. He washoisted into the sadle of a pony.For more than an hour, as theyrode, he felt the back-slash of

kailong stalks against his unpro-tected face. Finally the pony wasstopped, fingers touched the backof 'his head, and the blindfold waswhipped away.Faulkner blinked 'his eyes

against the morning sun. He sat

his pony in the middle of a smallvillage street. Curious Chinesewomen and children stood in line

at the road edge and stared athim. On the opposite side he sawa row of riderless horses. Backof Faulkner, astride a huge stal-

lion, was a man in colorful Boxer


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“You must never put your paw out through the bars . . . you mightget bitten"

garb who 'held the blindfold doth.Twin bandoliers of ammunitioncrossed ithe biggest chest the en-

sign had ever seen. An EnglishEnfield rifle was slung on a leatherstrap over 'his massive shoulder.The Boxer stepped off has horseand stood beside Faulkner. Hetowered almost seven feet in

height.He pulled a long, curved blade

from his waist sash, waved it

'high above his head, and bowedgracefully. “I am Tzu Sian,” hesaid in halting English.Faulkner eyed the igleaming

edge of the blade anxiously. Hewas set to jump from ithe horseand run, tied hands and all, whenthe Chinese woman, Yehala, walk-ed from a small house and ap-proached him. ‘‘The immortal Sianis my betrothed so I have told

him,” she said smiling, “every-

thing.”

The jealous Boxer shouted:“Sha! Sha! Kill! Kill!” and lung-ed at Faulkner.

The Boxer loomed above him.His blade, dripping blood, swunghigh. "Kill me,” Faulkner shoutedin Chinese, “and my countrymenwill hunt you down — hang youfrom the nearest tree.”

The Boxer’s face calmed. “I can-not be killed,” he said. “The Boxergods protect me.” He reversed thescimitar, dropped it handle first

to Faulkner. “Slay me,” he said.

“Run me through. I will rise upand seek revenge.”

The ensign hefted the scimitar,

saw other armed Boxers creepingin around him in a circle. He tos-

sed the sword down, knowing he'dbe slashed to ribbons if he tooka swipe at Sian. The giant grin-

ned at him. “You dare not kill

me. You fear the Boxer gods.”

Faulkner shook his head. “I obeythe Boxer gods as Buddha wills.

Yehala has made me a Spirit Sol-dier.”

Sian glanced sharply at the slimChinese woman. "This is so?”

“He took the vow, but with asmirk in his heart,” she said. "Hedoes not believe.”

Faulkner lofted 'his hands to thesky. “Cannon cannot injure,” hewailed. "Water cannot drown.”

Sian showed reluctance toslaughter a man who chanted ithe

sacred words of Buddha. He wasconfused, but not hesitant. “Weshall take him to the cannon, tothe water. We shall test his faith.”

Sian stepped back, shrilled acommand. Armed horsemenstreamed onto the village streetfrom sideroads and alleyways,jostling the onlookers, filling

every square inch of space. Sianled a pony to the ensign, swungonto his own horse. In a momentthey were riding east. Yehala be-tween them, toward the banks ofthe Pei Ho River. At mid-after-noon, Sian’s noisy troop swoopeddown unexpectedly on a smallriverside village. People screamed'and ran at sight of them. Insidefive minutes the streets were de-

serted. Sian rode his horse ito theedge of the river, to a point wherea dozen river junks were moored,rocking gently in the rippling tide.

“Here is water,” Sian said toFaulkner. “And cannon — yourown—aboard one of these junks.Come, Spirit Soldier.”

Faulkner dismounted. Proddedalong by several husky escorts, hefollowed Sian and Yehala outalong a creaky pier, down a ropeladder onto ithe unsteady deck ofa flimsy junk with a patchworksail. In the bow, mounted on acrude carriage, was the 12-pounderfrom the Monocacy. There was acrate of cannonballs, obviouslystolen, and two kegs of powder.Neither the crate nor the kegshad been opened. The Boxers,Faulkner realised, had not yettest-fired their cannon in its newmounting.

Yehala and Sian stepped asideand spoke in low tones Faulknercould not overhear. In a momenthe observed Boxer soldiers pryingopen the crate and one keg ofpowder. Yehala and Sian walkedover to him. Yehala wore the smileof a wronged woman about to

set things straight. She sliced therope binding the ensign’s 'hands.

“You can swim, Spirit Soldier,”she said. “We will follow in thejunk and test you under cannonfire.” Sarcasm sharpened hervoice. “Fear not — the Boxergods will protect you.”

The near shore was lined withBoxers just waiting for him to tryan escape in their direction. Thefar bank was empty. Faulknerstroked toward it, rapidly. He wasat the mid-stream point when thejunk came around. He could makeout figures working over the 12-

pounder, and began to take evas-

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ive action. A strong dive took himdeep underwater. He reversed

direction and surfaced, out of

breath, 20 feet from his last posi-

The junk was less than 200 feet

away, coming dead at him. Hesaw the muzzle flash of the Mono-cacy cannon, and plunged underagain. The ball missed. He fancied

he saw its dark shape searing

through the water off to his left.

He surfaced rapidly, coming upcloser to the junk than before.

He waved merrily at Yehala andSian and yelled, “Cannon cannotinjure!” But he wasn’t certain

they heard. He stroked straight

toward the bow of the junk, leaped

up from the water, chest exposed,

making a challenging target for

the gunners. His message got

across. If they continued to fire

on him, they would sink the boat.

Faulkner timed 'his dive to coin-

cide with the red belch of flamefrom the 12-pounder. This time

he heard and felt the ’ball sizzle

through the water nearby. Whenhe surfaced he saw that the newrecoil, added to the dangerousrocking caused by the first shot,

had the junk in desperate trouble.

They had shipped water astern,

the gunners had quit the cannonto bail out. The junk was riding

dangerously low. Faulkner wavedagain at Yehala, saw the enragedgirl and huge Sian rush to take

over the operation of the 12-

pounder. He didn't bother to dive.

The junk was rocking so severely

now that an accurate shot wasimpossible. He treaded water,

watched the cannon explode athird shot — this one slashing

down just in front of the junk as

the bow dipped steeply. The can-

non recoil drove the ship deepastern. Great quantities of river

spilled over the sides, and the

waiter-logged craft began to foun-

der.

Soldiers leaped feet-first, or

dived into the water. Sian cameover the side, clutching Yehala in

one powerful arm. Faulkner wipedaway his grin, breathed deeply,

swam desperately toward the girl

and her protector. When he reach-

ed them, Sian had the situation

under control and was makingslowly toward the village side of

the river. Faulkner went under-

water and launched a submergedtackle at the giant Boxer’s kicking

legs.

He got 'his arms around theponderous limbs, took ia mule-like

kick as Sian struggled clear. Hegot the legs together again, andhung on for all he was worth.

With his leg action stopped cold,

Sian lost buoyancy and sank un-

der the surface with his shapelyburden. One stroking arm wasn’tenough to keep two people afloat.

The Boxer released Yehala, whoheaded upward with the nimbledexterity of a mermaid. Sian peer-

ed down through the misty water,drew a shimmering blade from his

waistband, fought to rid himself

of the tentacle-like arms trapping

him.Faulkner stopped fighting. His

dead weight fell full upon Sian.

In that flashing instant Sian in-

stinctively sought to preventFaulkner from sinking away fromhim. He released his hold on the

knife, lost it in the depths, andsnatched at Faulkner’s other foot.

He was totally unprepared for the

ensign's sudden return to life.

Both feet lashed out furiously,

breaking Sian’s grip. One heel

cracked Sian’s jaw sharply andFaulkner was free, pumping for

the surface, lungs bursting.

He broke out of water to find

the junk up-ended, slowly slipping

to its death in the river, carrying

the time-honored Monocacy can-

non with it. Several other junkshad put out from the shore mrescue attempts. One of these,

with Yehala leaning over its side,

bore down rapidly on the ensign.

The woman was watching the

water near Faulkner, waiting for

Sian to surface. Faulkner himself,

after gasping in breath, made ashallow dive in search of the giant

Boxer. He saw nothing. He cameup, rolled onto his back to float. Hewaited for Sian, like Yehala waswaiting, like all the Boxers onshore or in junks were waiting,

but with a different prayer.

The water remained smooth,unbroken. There were no bubbles,

no dark, gigantic head popped into

the clear. Sian, and some under-

water current which had swept

away his huge corpse, had dramat-ically exposed the false claim of

the Boxer gods — “water cannotdrown.”Faulkner shimmied up a rope

to the deck of the junk Yehalawas on. The Chinese beauty, wetsilk garments clinging to the sleek

curves of her body, gazed impas-

sively at the ensign. “The godshave chosen to protect you,” she

said humbly. “I am your servant.”

Three days and three nights

were spent with Yehala before the

Pei Ho’s sluggish currents floated

them down to Yangstun. EnsignFaulkner found the main expedi-

tion under command of AdmiralSeymour waiting at the demolishedbridge, dug in for a valiant last

stand. Guns were turned on theapproaching junks but Faulknerstood up in front, waving his navyshirt. Cheers echoed over the

water as the Marines and other

troops of the expedition recognised

him. Equipment and woundedwere quickly transferred to the

junks, and the trains were aban-

doned. Columns of Westernsoldiers followed the small boats

downstream, marching swiftly

along the river bank.

Seymour’s stragglers neverreached the safety of Tientsin, nordid they relieve the siege at

Peking. But they came upon anunknown arsenal at Hsiku, cap-

tured it, and were thus able to

keep the Pei Ho River open so

that a second relief force, 10 times

Admiral Seymour’s expedition in

number, could be landed and dis-

patched overland to Peking. OnAugust 14, 1900, this second force

rescued the besieged members of

the foreign legations and chasedthe Chinese troops far into the

hinterlands.

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Ensign Jethro Faulkner received

no heroic decoration for his daringmission. Not even the Congres-sional Medal of Honor could havematched the satisfaction of re-

porting to the Monocacy skipperthat the gunboat's land-trans-

planted cannon had fired the mosttelling shots against the enemyand won the rescue operation’s

most important naval engagement.In gratitude, the skipper allowedthe ensign to keep with him a

personal servant, a somewhat be-

draggled Chinese—small even for

a boy — who attended the youngofficer with reverent devotion, andanswered to the unlikely name of

Yehala. •

HE DARED A SHARK —AND BUILT A FORTUNE


After the war, Frank resigned'his swimming instructor’s job andbecame an insurance salesman.

He then obtained reinstatement asan amateur swimmer and, in Feb-

ruary, 1920, made a spectacularcomeback by defeating NormanRoss, the American world cham-pion, in the Victorian half-milechampionship.

He continued to win State, inter-

state and Australian titles, ap-parently with no loss of the bril-

liant form he had shown in his

tour of Europe 10 years before.

Thus he forced his way into theAustralian team for the 1920

Olympic Games, at Antwerp.

At the Games he swam third in

the 1500 metres final, missed aplace in the 400 metres final andwas in the Australian team placedsecond in the 800 metres race.

It is strange indeed that this

wonderfully accomplished swim-

arly in view of 'his subsequent

. came a three-iresentative at the 1924

Beaurepaire, thenl the 1500 metres

_ jy” Charlton won

Back in Australisconcentrated on brtyre business, whiclginning to boomheartbreaking estatlems. Soon afterw;civic affairs and in 3

'

a Melbourne City1940 he became ’

Melbourne, remuntil 1942, when he

In 1948 he led a “lobbying” dele-

gation to the Olympic Games in

London to canvass Melbourne’sclaims to stage the ^1956 Games.

eventual ballot that gave theGames to Melbourne, by only onevote, over the claims of BuenosAires.

After his retirement from the

Lord Mayoralty Sir Frank held aseat in the Victorian LegislativeCouncil for 10 years.

No man could ask more satisfy-

ing fulfilment in a life of sporting,

business and civic endeavor thanSir Frank Beaurepaire achieved.Yet ithe kindly Providence thatguided him to these successesturned from him, most abruptly it

seems.

He died, from a heart attack, onMay 29, 1956, at the age of 65-just a few months before Mel-bourne was to stage the OlympicGames. It seems more than un-just that he should not have beenthere to see them. •

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BOSS OF BAWDYHOUSE ISLAND(Continued from page 9)

He stumbled backward, fell off

the pier into 20 feet of harbor

mped in toTien Ellison’s

m was brought to theuocn. in a dinghy, it was too late.

Jake Housman’s blow to the headhad been fatal.

The police, who had co-operated

in the past with Housman, ar-

rested him now for his ownsafety. He was indicted for man-slaughter and placed under a10,000 dollars bond while lynch-mad citizens gathered on street-

comers to talk about the brutalmurder.Scorned by men who had once

patronised his bawdyhouses, his

money and holdings jeopardised

and a possible life term in prison— or a rope — awaiting him,Jake Housman acted swiftly. Herealised now thait Key West hadchanged since the early boomdays. Marine lawyers and mari-time commissions had arrivedand with them, iron-clad awardsin salvage disputes. Intimidation

and murder was on the way out.

Housman quietly paid his bail

and, protected by a dozen hench-men, slipped from the jailhouse

under cover of night. He hurriedto the Imperial Palace to gatherhis stash-out money and three ofhis favorite girls. Clara Eldridge,a shapely blonde who had be-

witched dozens of men into leav-

ing fortunes with her, openlyadored Housman and would havefollowed him to the end of theearth. She asked where that endwas.

‘‘Indian Key!” Housman said.

“Plenty of ships pile up an that

key every month. With some goodstorms and good men, I can makea fortune there. It’ll be bigger andbetter than Key West ever was

Indian Key, viewed in the raw,didn’t look much like another KeyWest. It was inhabited by eight

former Gullah Negro slaves whowith their families had escapedfrom their North Carolina mast-ers. The only white man on the

tey was Mack Bingham, an old

timer who with Hairry Big Toeeked out a living as a wrecker.Five or six Seminole Indians andhalf-breeds rounded out the popu-lation of the desolate strip ofsand, scrub vegetation and rock.

To Jake Housman iit was ideal.

The island was well out to seaand was surrounded by dangerousreefs. Here he could mislead ships

and cause them to pile up within

a mile or two of the key. Herethere would be no judges of federal

missions to whittle down sal-

; payments and profits.

but the

time, I keep out everyonelose I own.”

Driving Mack Bingham andarry Big Toe from their hut, he


“Aw come on, Edie, just one.”

turned around and hired the pairto work as laborers on a newdwelling — a foawdyhouse. TheIndian accepted the loss ol an earwithout complaint and grabbedeagerly at Housman’s offer of 10dollars a week. Old Binghamgrumbled but also accepted a job.

Fearing to return himself, Hous-man dispatched a member of hiscrew to post a notice at the KeyWest Labor Exchange. The last

line on the poster read: “Free en-tertainment and congenial womenavailable for men who will work.”

A dozen drifters and unskilledhands came over to Indian Key onthis promise of good wages, liquorand female companionship. Hous-man had already imported build-

ing materials and tools, and heneeded more and better workmenthan he had been able to recruit.

He went, armed, to the camp ofthe Gullah slaves.

The Gullahs lived on a distantend of the key known as Little

Paradise Point. Their leader wasa 60-year-old ex-slave named Mor-decai."We are free men now,” Mor-

decai said to Housman. “We don’taim to work for you.”

“You’ll be paid,” Housman said.

Mordecai shook his head. ‘Welike it this way. We live alone,we have our families and our re-

ligion. You go your way, we’ll goours.”

“My way is everybody’s way,”Housman snaried. “There’s notroom enough on this island foranything else.”

He yanked his pistol from hisbelt and shot the tall ex-slave be-

tween the eyes. Mordecai fell deadat Housman’s feet.

The Gullahs wailed a deathprayer. The women clutched in-

fants to their breasts in fear. Themen looked stonily at the mur-derer.‘You come with me now,” Hous-

man said. “All of you.”

They packed up their posses-sions and meekly followed him.They were, once again, enslaved.Using whip, fist and gun, Hous-

man and his henchmen forcedlabor crews to toil from dawn to

dusk. The Indians and Gullahswere paid meagerly. The whiteworkers, commanding bettersalaries, quickly handed backevery penny they earned to Hous-man through Ms bawdyhouse har-lots. in a few months, harborfacilities, offices, cottages, storagesheds and larger warehouses werefully erected — all at virtually nocost but materials to Housman.The Gullahs and the Seminoles

paid a heavier price. Three In-

dians were flogged to death andone Negro was shot for not work-ing h'ard enough to suit the bull-

boys. To replace these lost work-ers, Housman invited neighboringSeminole groups to his pleasurepalace, then kidnapped these un-fortunates into virtual slavery.By December, 1838, Jake and his

work gang had completed theTropical Hotel, a large framebuilding, which offered billiards,

girls, meals and a bar in additionto 20 shabby Sleeping rooms.Housman now made a direct bidfor some of the easy money thathad formerly flowed into his

hands.

His men went to Key West andFlorida mainland ports to distri-

bute handbills that extolled thepleasures to be enjoyed at theTropical Hotel. The first fewpatrons lured into his hotel in this

fashion discovered that Housman’s

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than any other inn or resort -along

the Straits or in the Gulf. Word-of-mouth advertising started aboom in the Tropical Hotel.

Standing in the lobby and watch-

ing the long lines of waiting men,Jake Housman made a decision.

“I need 30 more women,” 'he told

Clara Eldridge. “I’m going to risk

that manslaughter charge in KeyWest and go get me some girls.

On September 2 the bail-jumper

sailed from Indian Key, -but wisely

made his destination Charleston,

South Carolina. For three weeksClara and the others of his Indian

Key band wondered if the ship-

wrecker king had finally beenbrought down. Then his boat hove

into view. Half an hour later,

Housman led 27 young and bouncygirls down the gangplank onto

Indian Key’s dock. Among themwas a hard-eyed brunette hussynamed Elizabeth Ann Koontz, a

31-year-old widow who had opera-

ted houses in Savannah, NewOrleans and Philadelphia.

“Meet the new manager of the

Tropical,” Housman said, intro-

ducing her around.Clara Eldridge, the wreckers

number one girl, sizzled with rage

on learning that Betsy Koontz wasthe new madame of the Housmanbrothel. Housman grinned andassured her that his arrangementwith Beitsy was professional, in-

tended only to relieve Clara for

more private assistance to him-

self.

With his brothel in the capablehands of Betsy Koontz, Jake wasfree to concentrate on his ship-

wrecker competition from KeyWest. To his labor crews he offer-

ed cash rewards for quick reports

on sightings of ships in trouble.

In an effort to make these sight-

ings possible, he set adrift each-night 'his usual dinghy with signal

lanterns. The number of vessels

that struck reefs around Indian

Key began to increase, baffling

rival wreckers on Key West not

at all. They knew Jake Housman.In retaliation, the wreckers on

Key West set the law upon Hous-man. They complained that his

salvage operations were conductedillegally and that awards weremade without decision of a boardof arbitration, as called for in

federal maritime regulations.

Housman studied the statutes.

He found that the law required

three “disinterested” ship captains

as membei-s of such an arbitration

board, and he set up on Indian

Key a board composed of the mostdisinterested ship captains in the

world. The first of Housman’spicked panel Was an ex-skipper

who had slipped -a-way from a Mis-

sissippi insane asylum, the secondwas an ex-convict whose only

claim to seamanship was that hehad captained a fishing smackout of Long Island, and the third

was a former ferry boat operator

from France who was wanted in

Paris on a murder charge.“You will,” Housman instructed

his arbitration board, "find only

completely fair awards. Of course,

-there will be free liquor and girls

at the Tropical when your deci-

sions are in my favor and maybeeven a little cut of -the take whenthere’s a really big haul .involved.”

After one night in the Tropical

Hotel, Housman’s salvaged salv-

age arbitrators decided it wouldbe foolish indeed to kill off a goodthing. Month after month, their

“fair” decisions enabled Housmanto rake in an average of 15,000

dollars.Angry ship owners and captains

filed formal complaints against

Housman, charging piracy, high-

handed dealings, and even murder.Indian Key lay in Monroe Countyand the county seat was Key West,where Housman was a bailjumperwanted on a manslaughter rap.

On those occasions whan it be-

came necessary to face a federal

judge at the county seat, Housmanwas represented by an attorney

or some dimwitted member of his

gang. In most cases, captains -and

sea-going witnesses were numbedinto silence by the strange appear-

SJNCERE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, various ages and

nationalities, in Australasia and Overseas, want to meet genuine

partners, view Correspondence, Friendship, Migration. Send se.r-

addressed, stamped envelope (New Zealand, no stamps but 2

International Reply Vouchers) to La Patria Correspondence

Ofik-e, G.P O. Box 192, Adelaide — South Australia.

ance in court of one or more youngladies from Housman’s bawdy-house, young ladies the witnesseshad frolicked with at the TropicalHotel.The memories of such witnesses

suddenly became muddled, as did

the plaintiff’s case against defend-

ant Jake Housman. Federal judgeswere powerfess to act againstHousman when charges againsthim were suddenly dismissed byembarrassed sea captains Who hadno wish to publicise their after-

hours activities with -the TropicalHotel bawds.Housman was particularly an-

gered at a charge made to federal

authorities by Seminole chieftain

Chekika of kidnapping and slav-

ery. When Chekika came into In-

dian Key accompanied by a mili-

tary inspection team, no evidence

of Seminole Indians or slavery

could be found. Housman hadsimply had -his Seminoles takenout to sea and dumped overboard.Chekika suspected as much, but

lacked proof. He warned Hous-man, and cautioned his peopleagainst visiting the key. The ap-

peal of the ladies in the Tropical,

however, was hard for the youngbucks to resist. Few of them ever

made it back to their villages onthe mainland.On July 3, 1839, wihile Housman

was relaxing with Betsy Koontzin his private room, a Seminoleslave-worker named Daniel Deer-

foot raced up to the Tropical Hotel

and banged his fists on the doorof Jake’s bedchamber."The French brig Vigilant is

aground,” he shouted through the

door. “The captain and her crewhave just come ashore at the pier

in a Whaleboat.”Housman, never a man to let

pleasure interfere with profit, wasinstantly -alert. Over her sleepy

protests, -he shoved the girl aside

and dressed hurriedly. In a matterof minutes he and a group of thugsconfronted the French captain at

the pier.

Captain Victor Guillaume of the

Vigilant was wet and shivering

from -the sea, but -he desperately

tried to protect the financial inter-

ests of his ship owners, the Fran-

cois Freres Company of Cher-

bourg.“You say you’re carrying silver

specie, dyewood, fustic and sarsa-

parilla, Captain? Not a bad cargo.

I want 65 percent of its value, if

I refloat the Vigilant and bring

her to port. Decide quickly — she

can break up in two -hours onRachel’s Key.”

“It is robbery!” screamed the

little French master. "Fifteen per-

cent would be ample. You cannot

take advantage of me this wiay,

monsieur.”There were four crewmen from

the French merchantman who hadarrived in the first whaleboat.

Other men, in -a second boat, hadnot yet made port. Housman acted

quickly. Hanging on a board-nearby was a knife used for skin-

ning fish. He grabbed -the knife,

thrust it into Captain Guillaume’s

belly. A look of stunned disbelief

crossed the man’s face just before


. . and tell her that Sir Arth~. ..

We are attaching first-class

us uumpled by a herd of elephants,

postage and will mail flat.

he sank into a lifeless heap.

Housman said briskly to Ivan

Frye, one of his men: “Kick his

carcass into the water, Frye.

Who’s the first mate of the Vigi-

lant? I want to talk business with

somebody who does things myway.”A ithin man with curling mus-

tache and a lined, sallow face

stepped forward. “I am Delacroix,

the mate. I will do business with

you. Your terms are satisfactory.”

Housman used the knife to flick

a brass button from the mate’s

blue jacket.“You’re a smart man. We ll get

along. Mind you, not a word about

your captain’s death to the author-

ities, understand? If anybody fromthe Vigila/nt blames me for it, 111

be hard on him. You are on In-

dian Key now. My word is lawhere.”

“I understand, monsieur.

The Vigilant was refloated by

Housman’s wreckers without too

much difficulty. They towed her to

port and Jake himself — refusing

to let any of the French crew enter

the hold — took three of 'his trust-

ed employees and disappeared be-

low deck.

The late Captain Guillaume had

been transporting 200,000 dollars

in silver bars from Boston to

Havana. For five hours, Housmanand his men carried the crated

bars topside and transferred themto his own horse-drawn wagonwhich made repeated trips to a

guarded warehouse.The next morning, Delacroix

said mildly, "Did you take off all

the salver, monsieur? There wasquite a large amount Remember,

we are still entitled to 35 percent.

Housman said coldly, ‘Your

arithmetic is very bad, Frenchman.You get nothing, which is zero.

Be glad that you’re still alive.”

Thus was the Frenchman, Dela-

croix, added to the growing mem-bership of the “hate Housmanclub. The belligerent, self-styled

king of Key West was too intent

on making his illicit fortune to

notice that even those close tohimwere smouldering with resentment

against his high-handed ways.

Girls in the Tropical Hotel,

cheated from their normal cut of

the brothel take, were growing

cold to the man they worked for.

Betsy Koontz remained loyal, but

Housman was generously heap-

ing cash and gifts on the sumbrunette. Clara Eldridge, his dis-

placed mistress, was openly defi-

ant and in a murderous moodHousman’s crew of cut-throats hadsought, and been denied, a larger

share in the wrecker-racket booty.

They were dissatisfied. The Gul-

lah slaves and the Seminole In-

dians needed only a spark of

leadership to fire them into revolt.

On a particularly hot day in

1840 the spark arrived—a bosomy,

hip-swinging widow who could out-

curse a seaman or out-sing a

church tenor, as the occasion de-

manded. Descendant of an old

Rhode Island seafaring family,

Bathsheba Greene Dixon opened a

ship chandlery on Indian Key but

loudly announced her real mission

she was there to run Jake Hous-

man off the island.

“This place is a stench m the

nostrils of decent people, she

flamed. “Indian Key belongs to


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the United States, not to JakeHousman.”Housman and Betsy Koontz had

a good laugh at BathshebaGreene Dixon’s crusader-girl chal-

lenge. “In six weeks," Housmantold the woman to her face, "yourbusiness will be a failure.”

“And the day after that,” Betsygrinned, “you’ll be working for mein one of the upstairs rooms at

the Tropical.”

Bathsheba Dixon ignored them.She sought out the decent resi-

dents of the key and tried to con-vince them of a need to stand upto Housman. This effort was arousing flop. She discovered onlythat fear of Housman was as greatas fear of death and greater thanfear of the Hereafter.Housman watched ithe pathetic

efforts of Bathsheba and her de-

voted servant, a former British

sailor named George Alderslade,

who was called Captain Jack, anddismissed her as nothing morethan a loud-mouthed pest.

Toward the end of that summeran epidemic of yellow fever 'hit

the key. Among the many struckdown by the dreaded disease werefive prostitutes employed in JakeHousman’s Tropical Hotel. Bath-sheba forced her way into thebrothel and announced her inten-

tion of nursing the girls.

“They have chosen the path of

sin,” she said to Housman, “but I

would be more a sinner were I to

ignore their time of need.’’

For her work at the TropicalHotel, where she saved all five of

Housman’s girls, land at the Semi-nole Indians’ encampment, Bath-sheba Dixon became the first

heroine of Indian Key. She tookon stature equal to Housman’sown, and this infuriated the ship-

wrecker.After the epidemic. Bathsheba

resumed her hammering away atHousman and 'his brutality.

“This place isn’t big enough for

both of us,” Housman warned her.

“One of us has got to leave.”Bathsheba laughed recklessly.

“Go ahead, Housman. I’m stay-

ing.”Housman went directly to the

bar of the Tropical Hotel, withthe intention of rounding up acouple of thugs and disposing of

the Bathsheba Dixon problem.Whatever his plans, they werestopped cold by Clara Eldridge.“Lay a hand on Mrs Dixon,”

Clara warned, “and every girl in

the joint pulls out.”Housmian looked at a row of

angry, cold-creamed faces, andknew this was so. He knew, too,

that without sex his entire schemewas jeopardised. He gave up onBathsheba Dixon and insteadcracked down on the group of

Seminole Indians she had be-

friended during the fever epidemic.He put into stocks Seminoles

who displeased ’him when theydame to the key to barter for trin-

kets. He denied them admissionto the hotel — which made ChiefOhekika happy — but he sold themrotgut at fantastic prices. When

a couple of whisky-crazed Semi-noles began to bust up his bar-room, Housman had them thrownoff the key and threatened to kill

them if they returned.‘We kill you!” one Indian

shouted. “You die, Housman!”This threat preyed heavily on

Housman’s mind. He took to

carrying an extra pistol in his

belt and ordered 'his men to keepa sloop ready for a quick getawayin the event Chief Chekika andhis Seminoles attacked the key in

force. “I’d kill everyone of themif it was legal,” he swore to BetsyKoontz.

An idea struck him. He decidedto make Indian-killing legal. Hewrote to the governor of Florida,

to Congress, and to the Presidentof the United States suggestingthat he and his "police force” beempowered to catch and kill everyIndian in the territory of Florida.

In typical Housman style, he could

not resist adding that a bounty of

200 dollars per head might be afair reward.His murderous scheme was re-

jected everywhere. But word of

his offer somehow reached theears of Chief Chekika.“Chekika will wear your scalp

on his belt,” Bathsheba Dixontaunted Housman one day. “You’vegone too far.”

“HI take care of that savage,”Housman said. "I’ll take care ofeverything on this key!”That night the ship chandlery,

office, and storage shed owned byBathsheba Dixon erupted into

flame and burned to the ground.A strong reek of coal oil hungover the wreckage. There waslittle doubt it was a clase of arson.Two days later Bathsheba

Dixon’s Captain Jack overheardWilliam Parsons, a rouseabout em-ployed by Housman, boastdrunkenly in the Crescent Bar:‘We sure showed Bathsheba!

She’s got nothing left Housmanand me set the fire. Now 'how is

she gonna earn a living on IndianKey?”This news was quickly relayed

to Bathsheba. In the front yardof her modest cottage, she ad-

dressed an angry mob of GullahNegroes, women from Housman’sbrothel, disgruntled French sea-

men from the Vigilant and otherenemies of Jacob Housman.

“This killer brags that he is thelaw on Indian Key. If we let himact as judge and jury, punishingthe innocent and burning andstealing without fear, .then we de-

serve what we get. I say let’s getHousman and put him in his ownjail! Then we’ll 'hold a fair trial

and decide what to do with him.”Housman and his men had just

divided the proceeds from refloat-

ing the vessel Thistle, whose skip-

per— working covertly with Jake— had driven his ship agroundnear the mouth of the Newfound-land River. In Housman’s pocketwas a signed document awardinghim 30,000 dollars in salvage fees.

Celebrating drunkenly with theThistle’s crooked skipper, Hous-

man was unaware that the Tropi-

cal Hotel had been quietly sur-

rounded. There was revelry andthe sound of breaking bottles in

the billiard hall. In the inn’s up-

stairs rooms, a group of newly-arrived bawds from New Orleansentertained members of theThistle’s crew.

Housman, gorging himself onpompano and wine, with one armaround his mistress, Betsy Koontz,was taken by surprise when Cap-tain Jack kicked open the door of

the hotel dining room and pressed

a knife to the ship-wrecker’sthroat. Behind Jack stood eight

Gullahs armed with machetes andstaves. Housman also saw thedark brooding face of Delacroix,

the mate of the Vigilant 'and a

party of angry French sailors.

Housman’s henchmen, cavortingdrunkenly with girls and playingcards with the sailors of theThistle, were quickly disarmed byBathsheba Dixon’s friends. Hisface contorted with fury, Hous-man screamed:

“You’ll be sorry for this, Biath-

sheba Dixon! I run Indian Key.I’ll see to it that you all hangfor this.”

The woman’s reply was quiet

but meaningful. “Perhaps ... if

you don’t hang first.”

Housman and his cut-throats

were thrown into the jailhouse.

That night was heavy and op-

pressive. Bathsheba Dixon walkedto her bedroom window for somefresh air and looked at the jetty

200 yards away. She stiffened in

fear. Long canoes were gliding

quietly into the pier. In the moon-light, she could see heavily armedIndians coming ashore. Semi-noles in full war paint.

The dark figures slipped aroundto the Tropical Hotel and towardshouses where residents of the keywere lying asleep. The door of

Bathsheba's cottage was flung

open.She wanted to scream but no

sound oame from her throat. Atall bronzed man, naked to the

waist, ran over to her bed.

"Quiet, woman,” he said. “Wemean no harm. There is only oneperson we seek — the white killer,

Housman.”Bathsheba could only stare.

The Indian turned suddenly andhurried outside. Some minuteslater Bathsheba heard a man’sscream from the direction of the

jail. Bathsheba Dixon hastily

donned a bathrobe and hurriedwith other residents of Indian Keyto the primitive jail. The Semi-nole raiders were gone.The Indian, Harry Big Toe, was

the first man to enter the cell in

which Housman had been lodged.

He came out at once and vomited.Mack Bingham and several

other men went inside to carryout the bloodstained corpse of

Jacob Housman. He had beenscalped first, then a knife had beendriven deep into his heart.“Now,” Bathsheba Dixon said,

shuddering, “there will be peaceon Indian Key.” •

Printed by Kenmure Press Pty Ltd, Derby and Wetherill Streets, North Lidcombe, NSW.


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