Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 128: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

598 > - thrill, that Jan was superstitious, not in the ordinary sense of the term, not fearful, but convinced of the close bond between things seen and unseen, and was ever delving into what he called the “ night side of nature.” He had proved this in a thousand ways. In far corners of the earth I had seen him standing with uplifted face and arms, hemp- colored hair tossing in the keen morning wind, as he waited to greet the glory of the dawn; watched him in ancient temples mak- ing fantastic sand pictures on the moon washed stones; heard him tell somber witch tales in a crooning voice as he looked into the coals of a fading fire. In the same hushed tones I heard him say that he would stay—and watch.. Then the wiry Aguilar spoke up: “If Jan stays so will I.” Then looking around at our questioning faces he smiled apologetically. ‘ We are friends, you see.” After a time they had their way. We had turned to discussing what to take and what to leave when an outcry from the bear- ers brought us out of Keith’s tent on the run, Holeomb and Whistler had come back. We didn’t know what to expect at first, for all we saw was Whistler with something red and dripping on his back. We ran to meet him, but stopped within twenty feet, sickened and revolted. The less said about what we saw the better for my peace of mind. Whistler was carrying a flayed and bleed- - ing corpse upon which not an inch of skin was left to show whether it had been white or black. He staggered to the camp and stood with sagging knees, and I am shamed to say that not one of us offered to help him. It was horrible! “They wouldn’t bury him!” said Whis- tler suddenly and collapsed. Then we start- ed to curse as we carried Whistler to a cot and wrapped Holcomb in a blanket. Some of us were crying before we knew it. Tears of rage and pity, our minds filled with burn- ing pictures of the terror of the Valley and thoughts of Whistler through the night alone. And I know I asked myself if I would have been equal to it. After Whistler came to he told his story in fragments. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Little people in there—devils—caught us at sundown—thousands of them. They Jaugh and laugh. Not intelligent—but not negroids—we nearly got away—women caught Holcomb. Did I bring him in? I acted mad—they were afraid of me—music —thousands of them playing around a wooden idol—looked like a Billiken.” He laughed horribly and then cried in great rending sobs. After a time we prodded him with a question and he wandered on. “Poor Holcomb—they got him—women did horrible things to him—and squeezed the juice all over him—juice of flowers I never saw—by the river, I didn’t leave him, did I? They threw him in the river—I got him—they wouldn’t bury him—all night Holcomb and I were lost—he was dead— they followed us, laughing—laughing.”’ He rambled deliriously until the chief gave him an opiate, double strength, that put him to sleep. It was a terrible thing for the party to do—walk away from that place of devils and leave two of our compadres—but science must fatten and man must feed on Strange foods and in strange places. To our ears the jungle and the jungle folk cried: “You shall not pass,” but we had to, and we did. With Nordvek and Aguilar we left Whistler, who could not travel, and two blacks to take him back to a trading post on the Congo when he could. Our depleted party entered the swamp lands about noon and soon the camp and the clearing were lost in the green moistness ‘that rose all around like a vapor. What took place at camp I learned in part from Whistler when I met him years later in Saigon. The rest I burrowed out for myself, built something from almost nothing as is my wont. I reconstruct pre- historic monsters from a jaw bone or so for a living and read detective stories while working. The little party of five ee three, for the two blacks deserted late that afternoon, taking two guns, a camera and some surgical instruments. Neither goods nor blacks were ever heard of again. Then, with the pass- ing of two nights of misery Whistler packed up and back-tracked, stumbling with weak- ness, vowing he could hear Holcomb scream- (E06) ECOMIcbDOOKS