Robert E. Howard

Black Wind Blowing

Warsaw 2018

Contents

I. "I TAKE THIS WOMAN!"

II. "TELL THEM—IN PITY'S NAME"

III. DEAD MADNESS

IV. CRACKLING BLUE FLAME

I. “I TAKE THIS WOMAN!”

EMMETT GLANTON jammed on the brakes of his old Model T and skidded to a squealing stop within a few feet of the apparition that had materialized out of the black, gusty night.

“What the Hell do you mean by jumping in front of my car like that?” he yelled wrathfully, recognizing the figure that posed grotesquely in the glare of the headlights. It was Joshua, the lumbering halfwit who worked for old John Bruckman; but Joshua in a mood such as Glanton had never seen before. In the white glare of the lights the fellow’s broad brutish face was convulsed; foam flecked his lips and his eyes were red as those of a rabid wolf. He brandished his arms and croaked incoherently. Impressed, Glanton opened the door and stepped out of the car. On his feet he was inches taller than Joshua, but his rangy, broad-shouldered frame did not look impressive compared to the stooped, apish bulk of the halfwit.

There was menace in Joshua’s mien. Gone was the dull, apathetic expression he usually wore. He bared his teeth and snarled like a wild beast as he rolled toward Glanton.

“Keep away from me, blast you!” Glanton warned. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

“You’re goin’ over there!” mouthed the halfwit, gesturing vaguely southward. “Old John called you over the phone. I heered him!”

“Yes, he did,” answered Glanton. “Asked me to come over as quick as I could. Didn’t say why. What about it? You want to ride back with me?”

Joshua jumped up and down and battered his hairy breast like an ape with his splay fists. He gnashed his teeth and howled. Glanton’s flesh crawled a little. It was black night, with the wind howling under a black sky, whipping the mesquite. And there in that little spot of light that apish figure cavorted and raved like a witch’s familiar summoned up from Hell.

“I don’t want to ride with you!” bellowed Joshua. “You ain’t goin’ there! I’ll kill you if you try to go! I’ll twist your head off with my hands!” He spread his great fingers and worked them like the hairy legs of great spiders before Glanton’s face. Glanton bristled at the threat.

“What are you raving about?” he demanded. “I don’t know why Bruckman called me, but–”

“I know!” howled Joshua, froth flying from his loose, working lips. “I listened outside the winder! You can’t have her! I want her!”

“Want who?” Glanton was bewildered. This was mystery piled on mystery. Black, howling night, and old John Bruckman’s voice shrieking over the party line, edged with frenzy, begging and demanding that his neighbor come to him as quickly as his car could get him there; then the wild drive over the wind-lashed road, and now this lunatic prancing in the glare of the headlights and mouthing bloody threats.

Joshua ignored his question. He seemed to have lost what little sense he had ever had. He was acting like a homicidal maniac. And through the rents in his ragged shirt bulged muscles capable of rending the average man limb from limb.

“I never seen one I wanted before!” he screamed. “But I want her! Old John don’t want her! I heered him say so! If you didn’t come maybe he’d give her to me! You go on back home or I’ll kill you! I’ll twist your head off and feed it to the buzzards! You think I’m just a harmless big fool, I bet!”

Grotesquely his bellowing voice rose to a high-pitched squeal.

“Well, if it’ll satisfy you,” said Glanton, watching him warily, “I’ve always thought you were dangerous. Bruckman’s a fool to keep you on the ranch. I’ve expected you to go clean crazy and kill him some time.”

“I ain’t goin’ to kill John,” howled Joshua. “I’m goin’ to kill you. You won’t be the first, neither. I killed my brother Jake. He beat me once too often. I beat his head to jelly with a rock and dragged the body down the canyon and throwed it into the pool below the rapids!”

A maniacal glee convulsed his face as he screamed his hideous secret to the night, and his eyes looked like nothing this side of Hell.

“So that’s what became of Jake! I always wondered why he disappeared and you came to live with old John. Couldn’t stay in your shack in that lonely canyon after you killed him, eh?”

A momentary gleam of fear shot the murk of the maniac’s eyes.

“He wouldn’t stay in the pool,” muttered Joshua. “He used to come back and scratch at the winder, with his head all bloody. I’d wake up at night and see him lookin’ in at me and gaspin’ and gurglin’ tryin’ to talk through the blood in his throat.

“But you won’t come back and ha’nt me!” he shrieked suddenly, beginning to sway from side to side like a bull about to charge. “I’ll spike you down with a stake and weight you down with rocks! I’ll–” In the midst of his tirade he lunged suddenly at Glanton.

Glanton knew that if those huge arms ever locked about him his spine would snap like a stick. But he knew, too, that nine times out of ten a maniac will try to reach his victim’s throat with his teeth. Joshua was no exception.

Reverting completely to the beast, he plunged in with his arms groping vaguely, and his jaws thrust out like a wolf’s muzzle, slavering teeth bared in the glare of the headlights. Glanton stepped inside those waving arms and smashed his right fist against the out-jutting jaw with all his power. It would have stretched another man senseless. It stopped the halfwit in his tracks, and blood spurted.

Before he could recover his balance Glanton struck again and again, raining terrific blows to face and head, driving Joshua reeling and staggering before him. It was like beating a bull, but the ceaseless smashes kept the maniac off balance, confused and dazed him, kept him on the defensive.

Glanton was beginning to tire, and he wondered desperately what the end would be. The moment his blows began weakening Joshua would shake off his bewilderment and lunge to the attack again–

Abruptly they were out of the range of the car lights, and floundering in darkness. In panic lest the maniac should find his throat in the blackness, Glanton swung blindly and desperately, connected glancingly and felt his man fall away from him.

He stumbled himself and went on all fours, almost pitching down the slope that fell away beneath him. Crouching there he heard the sounds of Joshua’s thundering fall down the slant. Glanton knew where he was now, knew that a few yards from the road the ground fell away in a steep slope a hundred feet long. It was not hard to navigate by daylight, but by night a man might take a nasty tumble and hurt himself badly on the broken rocks at the bottom. And Joshua, knocked over the edge by Glanton’s last wild haymaker, was taking that tumble.

It might have been an animal falling down the slope, from the grunts and howls that welled up from below, but presently, when the rattle of pebbles and the sounds of a heavy rolling body had ceased, there was silence, and Glanton wondered if the lunatic lay senseless or dead at the bottom of the slope.

He called, but there was no answer. Then a sudden shudder shook him. Joshua might be creeping back up the slope in utter silence, this time maybe with a rock in his hand, such a rock as he had used to batter his brother Jake’s head into a crimson pulp–

Glanton’s eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness and he could make out the vague forms of black ridges, boulders and trees. The devil-begotten wind that shrieked through the trees would drown a stealthy footstep. When a man turns his back on peril it assumes an aspect of thousand-fold horror.

When Glanton started back to the car his flesh crawled cold, and at each step he expected to feel a frightful form land on his back, gnashing and tearing. It was with a gasp of relief that he lunged into the car, eased off the hand-brake, and clattered off down the dim road.

He was leaving Joshua behind him, alive or dead, and such was the grim magic of the gusty dark that at the moment he feared Joshua dead no less than Joshua living.

He heaved another sigh of relief when the red spot that was the light of John Bruckman’s house began to glow in the black curtain ahead of him. He disliked Bruckman, but the old skinflint was sane at least, and any sane company was welcome after his experience with a brutish maniac in the black heart of this evil night.

A car stood before Bruckman’s gate and Glanton recognized it as the one belonging to Lem Richards, justice of the peace in Skurlock, the little village which lay a few miles south of the Bruckman ranch.

Glanton knocked on the door and Bruckman’s voice, with a strange, unnatural quaver in it, shouted:

“Who’s there? Speak quick, or I’ll shoot through the door!”

“It’s me, Glanton!” called the ranchman in a hurry. “You asked me to come, didn’t you?”

Chains rattled, a key grated in the lock, and the door swung inward. The black night seemed to flow in after Glanton with the wind that made the lamp flicker and the shadows dance along the walls, and Bruckman moaned and slammed the door in its ebon face. He jammed bolt and chain with trembling hands.

“Your confounded hired hand tried to kill me on the way over,” Glanton began angrily. “I’ve told you that lunatic would go bad some day–”

He stopped short. Two other people were in the room. One was Lem Richards, the justice of the peace, a short, stolid, unimaginative man who sat before the hearth placidly chewing his quid.

The other was a girl, and at the sight of her a sort of shock passed over Emmett Glanton, bringing a sudden realization of his work-hardened hands and hickory shirt and rusty boots. She was like a breath of perfume from the world of tinsel and bright lights and evening gowns that he had almost forgotten in his toil to build up his fortune in this primitive country.

Her supple young figure was set off to its best advantage by the neat but costly dress she wore. Her loveliness dazzled Glanton at first glance; then he looked again and was appalled. For she was white and cold as a statue of marble, and her dilated eyes stared at him as though she had just seen a serpent writhe through the door.

“Oh, excuse me!” he said awkwardly, dragging off, his battered Stetson. “I wouldn’t have come busting in here like this if I’d known there was a lady–”

“Never mind that!” snapped John Bruckman. He faced Glanton across the table, his face limned in the lamp-light. It was a haggard face, and in the burning eyes Glanton saw fear, murky bestial fear that made the man repulsive. Bruckman spoke hurriedly, the words tumbling over each other, and from time to time he glanced at the big clock on the mantel sullenly ticking off the seconds.

“Glanton, I hold a mortgage on your ranch, and it’s due in a few days. Do you think you can meet your payment?”

Glanton felt like cursing the man. Had he called him over that windswept road on a night like this to discuss a mortgage? A glance at the white, tense girl told him something else was behind all this.

“I reckon I can,” he said shortly. “I’m getting by–or would if you’d stay off my back long enough for me to get a start.”

“I’ll do that!” Bruckman’s hands were shaking as he fumbled in his coat. “Look here! Here’s the mortgage!” He tossed a document on the table. “And a thousand dollars in cash!” A compact bundle of bank notes plopped down on the table before Glanton’s astounded eyes. “It’s all yours–mortgage and money–if you’ll do one thing for me!”

“And what’s that?”

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.