Evening star. [volume], November 15, 1953, Page 26, Image 141

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
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26
“YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE AN ACCIDENT!”
Continued from page nine
Chinese junk captain in Macao?”
“So you’ve been ferreting
around! All right, then, like that
old fool in Macao. And one or
two others. They'd have been
alive to day if they’d followed
my advice.”
“Listened to your threats, you
mean. Why is it types like you
can never talk straight, Lang?
Why not say, ‘l’m a murderer
and I’m determined to hunt down
my wife, who loathed and feared
me so desperately she’s hidden
herself away like a criminal to
escape me. If you don’t tell me
where she’s hiding I’ll murder
you, too?’ Why not say that and
be honest just for once?”
There was a short laugh from
Lang.
“You’ve got the idea, any
way,” he said. “Now think it
over.” And he turned away and
walked over to the cliff edge,
staring down at the tumult of
the starlit rapids.
The moon rose, and from the
longhouse down river drifted an
echo of gongs and drums. But
for the fever, Seagrave would
have been the guest of honor at
the feast they were celebrating,
as he had at many another dur
ing his ten months of organizing
new lumber camps up this re
mote river.
He loved the jungle and he
had been happy with the cheer
ful, friendly Dyaks whose long
houses had shown him such hos
pitality. Two years back he had
had a similar job in Burma, be
fore Mary’s desperate letters had
finally impelled him to throw it
over and race down the Irra
waddy on his way to Hong Kong.
He had hated the stop-gap job
he’d taken there so as to be near
her. He had learned to be at
home in the jungle as nowhere
else. And now it was to be his
grave and his love for Mary,
which could have no ending while
he lived, would cease with his life
in the morning ... down in the
rapids, maybe, or up here in his
iJlffL
"My father can purge your father"
lonely and deserted sick-camp.
And then would Lang, with
his implacable determination to
hunt her down, finally find his
way to her? The thought was
torment. He pictured Mary, de
spairing and suicidal as she had
been when he reached Hong
Kong, like a small, terrified bird
in the talons of a hawk. He pic
tured Lang, like the slim, rust
red snake with the yellow throat
that he’d found, with an icy thrill
of horror, curled up in the lower
folds of his mosquito net that
morning. The same lithe hand
someness. the same cold heart,
the same deadly poison.
An identical horror was in his
eyes as he watched Lang now.
poised on the narrow tongue of
rock that jutted out a hundred
feet above the rapids. The snake
he had been able to scare off with
a mere flick of the palm-leaf fan
that Nyuak had made to cool his
fever-burning face. But nothing
he could do now had power to
cause Lang the smallest concern.
Except that he could keep his
secret.
He could die with his secret
intact. Nothing that Lang could
do to him in the morning and
in his fever agony he could still
shudder at the thought of what
forms Lang’s persuasion might
take none of it could force
from his lips even the name of
the continent where Mary had
found refuge.
For minutes he stared through
the shadows at his enemy, while
the crescent moon rose over the
river and made a path of light
along its course between the cliffs
of jungle that edged it. Neither
hate nor fear could knot or hard
en a single muscle in his sick
body and soon, though his brain
was on fire with suspense, the
sleep of utter collapse over
whelmed him.
He woke with a sudden total
realization of the danger and
doom confronting him. The day
had begun. He had less than an
Continued on page 29
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