Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 (17 page)

           
“Quiet, boy,” warned Driscoll,
barely whispering. “Keep it to yourself. You’ll get your chance in a moment.”

 
          
Sam’s
body, rising to its full height, made a tremendous shadow in the room. “Come
on,” he muttered, and led the way into the kitchen. His big feet moved as
noiselessly as a cat’s.

 
          
They
followed him, and gathered. Randy had the rifle ready in his hands.
Against his knee pressed Rebel.
The bull terrier was
obedient to Driscoll’s order for silence, but Randy could feel him tremble, as
if wildly eager for action. Close by on Randy’s other side stood Mr. Martin
with the shotgun, and beyond him was Driscoll with his machete. Sam had opened
the kitchen door an inch or so, his big fingers hooked on its edge.

 
          
Outside,
all was dark and quiet.

 
          
Then,
abruptly, noise seemed to tear the night to pieces.

 
          
A
whole chorus of animal voices burst into howling, deafening din, a
many-throated cry of pain and terror.

 
          
Sam
whipped the door open. They all rushed out.

 
          
VICTORY

 
          
As
Randy cleared the doorway, he sped to the right. A moon was peering over the
trees, and he could see Sam moving forward beside him. Beyond Sam hurried
Driscoll, poising the machete, and beyond Driscoll Mr. Martin. Still the dogs
howled.

 
          
The
moonlight struck through even as they advanced at a swift trot, keeping side by
side. Randy saw the open ground by the fence that confined the pigs. A
churning, leaping flurry of movement showed there—the wild dogs. Their shrill
hubbub sounded louder.

 
          
“Hold
your fire,” Sam muttered above him. “I don’t think we’ll need bullets.”

           
But Randy saw a dark, swift thing
whizzing toward him in the moonlight. He had an instant’s impression of glowing
eyes, bared white teeth—the wolfish dog. Up came his rifle.

 
          
Then
a charging white blotch shot forward under his very elbow. White blotch met
dark blotch with an audible shock of impact, and a single blended snarl
resounded. Two forms rolled over and over, the wolf-dog and Rebel locked in combat.
One of them yelped—it wasn’t Rebel.

 
          
Still
hurrying forward, Randy leaped high to clear them as they grappled. He spared
one glance backward as he ran ahead. Against a gleam of moonlight he saw them
pull apart, then strike at each other again—Rebel’s white head darted in and
across, like a slashing saber. Again Rebel’s opponent shrieked. Rebel had taken
hold somewhere.

 
          
All
that action took place in the time Randy spared for a backward glance. He
watched no more. Rebel was doing all right without being watched. The charge
had carried almost to the pigpen.

 
          
“There’s
that Bugler dog!” roared Mr. Martin, and the moonlight slid along his lifting
shotgun.

 
          
“Don't shoot!”
yelled somebody else—not
Sam, not Driscoll.

           
The wild dogs were fleeing in all directions.
Something had driven the fight out of them. Right in front of Mr. Martin a
figure stood erect, almost throwing itself against the gun muzzle. Randy saw
dark spots on paleness—that figure wore the spotted cowskin jacket. It struck
out with both hands and knocked the shotgun up. A blast flashed and boomed up
into the sky.

 
          
“Grab
him!” Sam was ordering, and they tried to rush the strange being from all
sides.

 
          
But
the spotted jacket whirled and ran. Mr. Martin tried to cut off its retreat,
and Randy saw the fugitive break toward the pigpen. Again
rose
a startled cry, but a human cry this time. The retreating mystery danced and
skipped like a star of the Russian ballet. It almost somersaulted in the
moonlight.

 
          
“Don’t
get close!” Sam boomed. “That chicken wire’s full of electricity!”

 
          
His
big arms swept Driscoll and Randy back. The spotted jacket dashed away as
though some magic had lent it doubled speed.

 
          
Randy
dropped the rifle without thinking, and sprang in pursuit. As usual, he shot
ahead of his slower companions. He saw the spotted back trying to draw away,
and drove himself to a supreme effort.

           
Step by step he overhauled his
quarry. Moonlight grew dim—they were almost under the trees at the edge of the
garden. With a final gathering of all his power, he dived headlong.

 
          
As
Jebs had done with Randy the day before, so Randy did with the mystery prowler.
He launched, and hurled home, a flying tackle.

 
          
He
felt his shoulder drive against the back of a
knee,
shot forward both his arms and gathered in two straining, scissoring legs. A
startled grunt echoed in his ears. Both of them smote the ground with a thump
that banished the wind from their lungs. Randy could only keep his grip on the
imprisoned legs, lying across them and laboring to get his breath back.

 
          
“Look
out!” Mr. Martin yelled. “He’s got something—a knife—”

 
          
The
prisoner struggled to rise. A head and shoulders squirmed above Randy, an arm
lifted. Mr. Martin caught the lifted arm with its spotted sleeve.

 
          
“Let
him go, Randy,” puffed Mr. Martin. “Drop that thing, you! Lie
still,
or I’ll fire the other barrel of this shotgun.”

 
          
Sam
was lifting Randy to his feet. “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.

           
“I’m okay,” Randy managed to wheeze
out.

 
          
From
somewhere behind them rose yelp after yelp of a dog getting the worst of a
fight. Then running paws scurried—the beaten dog was in retreat, coming blindly
toward them. A hurtling body struck Randy and tumbled head over heels. Randy
himself would have gone down, but for the support of Sam’s powerful hand. The
wolfish dog had knocked itself sprawling. Rebel, pursuing, was upon it. Cries
resounded, loud enough to deafen the whole gathered group.

 
          
“Call—your—dog—off—”
gasped the stranger in Mr. Martin’s grip.

 
          
“Take
it easy, Rebel, you’ve whipped him,” Driscoll told his pet. But Rebel had
clamped a stubborn hold in the skin of the wolfish one’s neck. For once he did
not obey.

 
          
Running
to him, Driscoll hooked a hand in Rebel’s collar, twisted strongly, and forced
open the terrier’s jaws. The conquered wolf-dog sagged clear and weakly
scrambled to his feet.

 
          
“Down,
fellow,” muttered Mr. Martin’s prisoner. His own voice was husky with
exhaustion. “Down— that’s right. He’ll be quiet—won’t run or fight when I—speak
to him. Just don’t—let that—bull terrier— kill him.”

           
“Who’s that talking?” Randy found
strength to demand.

 
          
“I’d
have—got away—except for that shock treatment,” panted the captive.

 
          
“Yes,
Jebs’ electric guards around the pen,” said Sam. “Bring him back to the house.
Never mind that runaway pack of
curs,
he’s the one we
want.’'

 
          
“Let
me get this weapon he’s holding,” said Mr. Martin, still pinning the man’s
wrist.

 
          
“No,
you don’t.” Something flew through the dark and fell with a metallic clink.

 
          
“Where
did it go?” said Sam. “Who’s got a flashlight? I dropped mine back yonder.”

 
          
“Get
mine out of my pocket,” said Martin, and Driscoll did so.

 
          
Randy
dropped to hands and knees, groping over the damp earth. Driscoll aided him
with the beam. Randy rose, holding something slim and round.

 
          
“What’s
that, a blow gun?” asked Driscoll. “It’s just the right size for one.”

 
          
“Let’s
have your light on the prisoner,” said Sam.

 
          
Driscoll
turned the flash around. The man in Mr. Martin’s grasp flung his free arm
across his face.

 
          
“Don’t
turn it in my face,” he pleaded.

 
          
“Hobert
Tasman!” cried Sam.

           
They gathered, staring in utter
amazement. The pottery-maker still hid his eyes.

 
          
“Bring
him back to the house,” Sam said. “Move him along, Jim. Randy, better get that
rifle you chucked away so free and reckless a moment ago.”

 
          
Randy
trotted ahead to repossess the rifle. The others followed. Only the wolfish dog
waited where he had been told to stand. Rebel moved toward him, stiff-legged
and breathing fiercely.

 
          
“Better
tell your pal to come along,” Mr. Martin ordered Tasman, who clicked his
tongue. The wolf- dog moved obediently in his wake.

 
          
Near
the pigpen, Randy bent to retrieve the rifle. He ran his hands over it to
remove the dirt.

 
          
“Jebs!”
shouted Sam Cohill. “Turn off the power; we’ve got what we were looking for!”

 
          
“Roger!”
called back Jebs.

 
          
Driscoll
had caught up with Randy. “So it wasn’t Willie Dubbin, after all,” he said.

 
          
“But
how can it be Hobert Tasman?” Randy almost moaned. “I would have taken my oath
that he was totally blind.”

 
          
“I’ll
go ahead and turn on the lights in the house,” Driscoll said.

 
          
Trotting
past the others, he slipped inside. A moment later the kitchen door and windows
gushed light. As Randy entered, Jebs met him.

 
          
“How’d
you like my own personal patented blitz- weapon?” he asked triumphantly.

 
          
“I’m
just beginning to realize what you did with that wire netting,” said Randy.
“These dogs danced and hopped around as if you’d given them a hotfoot.”

 
          
“That’s
just pure down what I did give them,” laughed Jebs. “I rigged a connection from
those chunks of netting to the house, and coupled it onto Lee Martin’s
electric-railroad transformer. Then I unscrewed the bulb in the bedroom and
plugged in there. The transformer cut down the power. There wasn’t enough to
kill or damage anyone, but enough to make ’em frisky. That pack closed in, with
every mouth set for a nice midnight snack of fresh hog meat, and I lighted it
up like a bunch of neon signs.”

 
          
“Here
come
the others,” said Driscoll.

 
          
Mr.
Martin tramped in, towing his smaller captive along by the shoulder. Sam
followed, like a bearded, walking derrick.

 
          
“Stay
outside and guard your own prisoner, Rebel,” commanded Driscoll from beside the
door.

 
          
Hobert
Tasman stood in the center of the kitchen floor. His arms, clad in spotted
cowskin, crossed themselves defensively over his face.

 
          
“Into
the front room with him,” said Sam. “Get moving, Tasman.”

 
          
“I
can’t see,”
came
a muffled protest.

 
          
“Can’t
see?” Mr. Martin repeated. “You can see better than any one of us, the way you
dashed around out there in the dark.”

 
          
“Turn
on the front-room lights, Jebs,” Sam was saying. “We’ll all do better in
there.”

 
          
Jebs
hurried to snap switches. The front room sprang into comforting brightness. Mr.
Martin brought Tasman in and thrust him into a chair.

 
          
“But
he’s blind,” Jebs stammered. “How could he—”

 
          
“I
can’t see,” said Hobert Tasman, turning his head slowly from side to side. His
staring eyes showed pale, opaque-looking pupils. “Not in here. Strong light
always blinds me.”

 
          
“Well!”
Sam Cohill hunched his massive shoulders in a shrug of amazement. “So you were
fooling us all the time.”

 
          
“I
fooled you the best I could,” said Tasman. He did not sound sullen or defiant,
only helpless.

 
          
“You
aren’t blind at all,” accused Sam.