Robert Howard: She Devil

As she squirmed and swore, a light step sounded behind her, and without looking around she commanded, “Bill, untangle me!”

Obligingly a firm masculine hand grasped her skirt and freed it from the branch, by the simple process of raising it several inches. But her rescuer did not then lower the garment; indeed Raquel felt him pull it up even higher—much higher!

“Quit clowning,” she requested, turning her head—and then she opened her lovely mouth to its widest extent and emitted a yell that startled the birds in the trees. The man who was holding her skirt in such an indelicate position was not Clanton. He was a big Kanaka in breech-clout. Raquel made a convulsive effort to escape, but a big brown arm encircled her supple waist. In an instant the peaceful glade was a hurricane-center, punctuated by lusty shrieks that a big hand clapped over red-lipped mouth could not altogether stifle.

Clanton heard those screams as he glided like a big bronzed tiger toward the beach. They acted on him like a jolt of electricity. The next instant he was in full career through the jungle, leaving behind him a sizzling wake of profanity. Crashing through the bushes, he burst full onto a scene, striking in its primitive simplicity.

Raquel was defending her virtue as vigorously as civilized nations defend mythical possessions. Her dress had been torn half off and her white body and limbs contrasted vividly with the brown skin of her captor. He wasn’t all brown, though; he was red in spots, for she had bitten him freely. So much so that irritation entered into his ardor, and, momentarily abandoning his efforts to subdue her by more pleasant means, he drew back an enormous fist for a clout calculated to waft her into dreamland.

It was at this moment that Clanton arrived on the scene and his bare foot, describing a terrific arc, caught the Kanaka under his haunches and somersaulted him clear over his captive, who scurried to her protector on her all-fours.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay on the beach?” Wham! In his irritation Clanton emphasized his reproof with a resounding, open-handed slap where he could reach her easiest. Raquel’s shriek was drowned in a vengeful roar. The Kanaka had regained his feet and was bounding toward them, swinging a knotty-headed war club he had leaned against a tree when he stole up on Raquel.

He lunged with a yell and a swing that would have spattered Clanton’s brains all over the glade if it had landed. But it flailed empty air as Clanton left his feet in a headlong dive that carried him under the swipe and crashed his shoulders against the Kanaka’s legs. Bam! They hit the earth together and the club flew out of the native’s hand.

The next instant they were rolling all over the glade in a desperate dog-fight, gouging and slugging. Then Clanton, in the midst of their frantic revolutions, perceived that Raquel had secured the club and was dancing about, trying to get a swipe at his antagonist. Clanton, knowing the average accuracy of a woman’s aim, was horrified. The Kanaka had him by the throat, trying to drive thumbs and fingers through the thick cords of muscle that protected the white man’s wind-pipe and jugular, but it was the risk of being accidentally brained by a wild swipe of Raquel’s club that galvanized Clanton to more desperate energy.

Fighting for an instant’s purchase, he drove his knee into the Kanaka’s groin, and the man gasped and doubled convulsively. Clanton broke away, kicking him heavily in the belly. Surprisingly the warrior gave a maddened yell, grabbed the foot and twisted it savagely. Clanton whirled to save himself a broken leg, and fell to his all-fours. At the same moment Raquel swung the too-heavy club. She missed as the Kanaka ducked, and she sprawled on her belly in the sand. Both men gained their feet simultaneously, but the Kanaka reached for the club. As he bent over Clanton swung his right over-hand like a hammer and with about the same effect. It crashed behind the Kanaka’s ear with the impact of a caulking maul. The Kanaka stretched out in the sand without a quiver.

Raquel leaped up and threw herself hysterically in Clanton’s arms. He shook her loose, with lurid language.

“No time for a pettin’ party! There’s a whole village of the illegitimates over toward the other side of the island. I saw it! Come on!” He grabbed her wrist and fled toward the beach with her, panting: “Thick brush, men cussin’ on the ship. They wouldn’t hear the racket we’ve made—I hope.” She didn’t ask why. She clutched her tattered dress about her as she ran.

They burst onto the beach, and saw that the Saucy Wench was afloat; she was anchored in clear water off the shore, and Harrigan was oiling his rifle on the poop, with the be-bandaged Richardson beside him.

“Ahoy!” yelled Clanton from behind a tree. “Harrigan! I’ve found your ambergris!”

Harrigan started violently and glared, head-down like a surly bear.

“What’s that? Where are you? Show yourself!”

“And get shot? Like hell! But I’ll make a trade with you. I’ve hidden the stuff where you’ll never find it. But I’ll lead you to it if you’ll promise to take us aboard and put us ashore at some civilized port!”

“You fool!” whispered Raquel, kicking his shins. “He’ll promise anything, and then shoot us when he’s got the loot!”

But Harrigan was bellowing back across the strip of blue water.

“All right! Let bygones be bygones! I’m comin’ ashore!”

A few moments later a boat was making for the beach. Raquel danced in her nervousness; her torn dress revealed flashing expanses of ivory flesh.

“Are you crazy? They’ll kill us! And that native you knocked out will come to and get his tribe and—”

He grinned and stepped out on the beach, pulling her with him.

“They won’t shoot us till I show them the ambergris! I’ll take Harrigan inland; you wait here at the boat. And let me do the talkin’!”

She was not in the habit of meekly taking orders, but she lapsed into sulky and bewildered silence. She was badly scared.

Harrigan and Richardson piled out before the boat grounded. The captain had a Winchester, the mate a shotgun. They covered Clanton instantly.

“Stay here!” the captain told the half dozen men who had rowed him ashore. “Now then, Clanton, lead us to that ambergris, and no tricks!”

“Follow me!” Clanton led them into the jungle while behind at the boat, Raquel watched with dilated eyes and crawling flesh.

Clanton swung wide of the glade where—he hoped—the Kanaka still lay senseless. Hardly out of sight of the beach he stumbled over a root and fell. Sitting up he groaned, cursed and tenderly felt of his ankle.

“Blast the luck! It’s broken! You’ll have to rig a stretcher and carry me!”

“Carry you, hell!!” snorted Harrigan. “Tell us where the loot is, and we’ll go on and find it ourselves.”

“Go straight on about three hundred yards.” groaned Clanton. “Till you come to a clump of sago-palms. Then turn to the left and go on till you come to a pool of fresh water. I rolled the barrel in there.”

“All right,” grunted Harrigan. “And if we don’t find it, we’ll shoot you when we get back.”

“And we’re goin’ to shoot you whether we find it or not!” snarled Richardson. “That’s why we left the men on the beach—didn’t want no witnesses! And we’re goin’ to leave that wench to starve here with your skeleton when we sail. How you like that, huh?”

Clanton registered horrified despair, and both men chortled brutally as they strode away. They vanished among the trees, and Clanton waited a minute—five—ten—then he sprang up and sprinted for the beach.

He burst onto the beach so suddenly the bos’n nearly shot him.