death's-head mask standing a little beyond the last street lamp. He had provided his own illumination with a flambeau made of lighted rags soaked in coal oil and wrapped on an upright spear with a razor-sharp flanged point, thrust handle-first into the mud. Leaning against the flamingprojectile was a wooden spear extender, an ancient device Morgan recognized from a travel book Pilgrim had sent him, known as an atlatl. The blazing rags were bound just below the spear-point.
As Morgan and Birdcall approached with the elephant in tow, the Spaniard in the death's head tossed, high above his head, three shiny blades that gleamed in the torchlight, and as each spinning, glittering blade descended, he plucked it neatly out of the air and hurled it with deadly accuracy into the blood-red bull's-eye of a target painted on the door of Mother Hubbard's outhouse.
"Huzzah!" cried the masked onlookers. "Hurrah for Sir Skull and Crossbones."
"Do it again, dumb Fernando," called out a creature in red tights, a red doublet, and a goat's mask surmounted by two red horns. "Do it once more and there's a double eagle in it for you."
The mute shook his satanical head as if he disdained to repeat any part of his repertoire. But he pointed at the gypsy's cork-handled dagger in Morgan's belt sheath. Curious to see what the thrower might do next, Morgan passed him the blade handle first. With no more ado than a housewife throwing salt, the Spaniard hurled the dagger backward over his shoulder into the three tight-clustered silver throwing knives in the bull's-eye.
The crowd clapped and showered the performer with jingling coins. But as Morgan approached the target to retrieve his knife, the mute suddenly cried out, "Tarry, young sir. There's money in this for you. Just tell me where be the nigger gal?"
Whereupon Doctor Surgeon ripped off the death mask and reached into his carpetbag for his floppy-brimmed warlock's hat, which he clapped on his head even as Morgan grasped the butt of the scattershot hanging from his neck. As Morgan lifted the gunover his head, the killer snatched from his bag the long surgical knife with which he had sliced out many a poor soldier's heart and hurled it with a wicked sidelong motion, pinning Morgan's gun hand to the outhouse door by the fringed sleeve of his deer jacket.
Doctor Surgeon seized the blazing spear, inserted it in his atlatl, and flung it too at Morgan. The boy ducked, but as the deadly missile sped past him, it nicked his earlobe and fastened his head to the door by his long hair. "How now, my young Absalom?" screamed the doctor, as Morgan tried to pull away from the flaming spearhead. "Do you render up the nigger's stone?"
Morgan, pinioned to the wall by sleeve and hair, struggled to reach his scattershot with his left hand. Once more Doctor Surgeon dived into his bag, this time producing a battle-ax of his own devising, which he called his separation hatchet, because with it, prowling the battlefields in his bloody surgical gown, he had separated dozens of wounded Union and Confederate soldiers from their own heads. He threw the hatchet high into the air, caught it neatly by the handle in its spinning downward arc, drew back his throwing arm, and shrieked, "I'll see you in hell, Morgan Kinneson!"
"Caliph!" Morgan shouted. Before the doctor could loose the hatchet, the looming bulk of the elephant towered over him on its massive hind legs then dropped all of his tremendous weight and force to trample the murderer underfoot. Again the animal rose. Again he came crashing down, like the ramparts of old Jericho, on the writhing remains of the vivisectionist. Emitting an enraged scream unlike any earthly sound heard before or since in the wretched canal town, the elephant reared and plunged onto his victim yet a third time.
Later, when he had time to reflect on the death of Doctor Surgeon, Morgan recalled the gypsy's warning. "Elephants are dreadedenemies who never forget a wrong." He could
As Morgan and Birdcall approached with the elephant in tow, the Spaniard in the death's head tossed, high above his head, three shiny blades that gleamed in the torchlight, and as each spinning, glittering blade descended, he plucked it neatly out of the air and hurled it with deadly accuracy into the blood-red bull's-eye of a target painted on the door of Mother Hubbard's outhouse.
"Huzzah!" cried the masked onlookers. "Hurrah for Sir Skull and Crossbones."
"Do it again, dumb Fernando," called out a creature in red tights, a red doublet, and a goat's mask surmounted by two red horns. "Do it once more and there's a double eagle in it for you."
The mute shook his satanical head as if he disdained to repeat any part of his repertoire. But he pointed at the gypsy's cork-handled dagger in Morgan's belt sheath. Curious to see what the thrower might do next, Morgan passed him the blade handle first. With no more ado than a housewife throwing salt, the Spaniard hurled the dagger backward over his shoulder into the three tight-clustered silver throwing knives in the bull's-eye.
The crowd clapped and showered the performer with jingling coins. But as Morgan approached the target to retrieve his knife, the mute suddenly cried out, "Tarry, young sir. There's money in this for you. Just tell me where be the nigger gal?"
Whereupon Doctor Surgeon ripped off the death mask and reached into his carpetbag for his floppy-brimmed warlock's hat, which he clapped on his head even as Morgan grasped the butt of the scattershot hanging from his neck. As Morgan lifted the gunover his head, the killer snatched from his bag the long surgical knife with which he had sliced out many a poor soldier's heart and hurled it with a wicked sidelong motion, pinning Morgan's gun hand to the outhouse door by the fringed sleeve of his deer jacket.
Doctor Surgeon seized the blazing spear, inserted it in his atlatl, and flung it too at Morgan. The boy ducked, but as the deadly missile sped past him, it nicked his earlobe and fastened his head to the door by his long hair. "How now, my young Absalom?" screamed the doctor, as Morgan tried to pull away from the flaming spearhead. "Do you render up the nigger's stone?"
Morgan, pinioned to the wall by sleeve and hair, struggled to reach his scattershot with his left hand. Once more Doctor Surgeon dived into his bag, this time producing a battle-ax of his own devising, which he called his separation hatchet, because with it, prowling the battlefields in his bloody surgical gown, he had separated dozens of wounded Union and Confederate soldiers from their own heads. He threw the hatchet high into the air, caught it neatly by the handle in its spinning downward arc, drew back his throwing arm, and shrieked, "I'll see you in hell, Morgan Kinneson!"
"Caliph!" Morgan shouted. Before the doctor could loose the hatchet, the looming bulk of the elephant towered over him on its massive hind legs then dropped all of his tremendous weight and force to trample the murderer underfoot. Again the animal rose. Again he came crashing down, like the ramparts of old Jericho, on the writhing remains of the vivisectionist. Emitting an enraged scream unlike any earthly sound heard before or since in the wretched canal town, the elephant reared and plunged onto his victim yet a third time.
Later, when he had time to reflect on the death of Doctor Surgeon, Morgan recalled the gypsy's warning. "Elephants are dreadedenemies who never forget a wrong." He could
Similar Books
