Read The Complete Adventures of Hazard & Partridge Online
Authors: Robert J. Pearsall
Tags: #Action and Adventure
Dreadful had been Koshinga’s life; dreadful was his end. Blindly with flailing arms he tried to get at that man who was pounding him with bullets, and who easily evaded him. He, who deserved no pity, won it from me; but I hoped, and still hope, that most of that staggering pursuit was like the unconscious movements of the stricken serpent which lives in tail and fang after it is dead.
The chambers of the Dalai Lama’s revolver were empty when Koshinga was finally still; and I wondered dully—seeing all these things through a mist which veiled both my eyes and my understanding—why the Dalai Lama had been careful to leave Koshinga’s face unmarred.
Good steel was in the Dalai Lama’s sword, and strength in his arm, and the flesh of Koshinga was after all as the flesh of other men, nor could one hope for fineness of sensibility in that Tibetan warrior-priest; but presently I was also wondering of what possible use to him Koshinga’s bloody head could be.
Nor did I quite understand when I saw that bloody head uplifted on the end of the pole in place of the bird-cage, and thrust by the Dalai Lama through the opening in the roof. He tossed it off the pole; and Koshinga’s fighting followers, who had by now pressed close to the temple, received that ghastly relic almost upon their own heads.
It was at that same moment that those of the Dalai Lama’s men who had survived the fight inside the temple opened fire upon the Ko Lao Hui through the windows of the place. But I learned that later. Then I only knew that confusion seemed to come upon the Ko Lao Hui attacking force, that their fire diminished and drew distant and ceased, that the Debadjung soldiers swept past the temple with wild yelling, and that afterward there was a silence.
And although I knew nothing of that unexpected close-range fire upon them the flight of the Ko Lao Hui didn’t surprize me. It seemed clear that the fanatic courage that had been inspired by Koshinga’s claim of omnipotence and immortality would naturally pass before the hideous evidence of the falsity of those claims.
One other picture I had before men burst in from the body of the temple—a picture of the Dalai Lama contemplating thoughtfully the headless body of Koshinga and speaking as if to himself, half-sadly:
“A lesson, a lesson for all who would rule. Now, if you had been satisfied with less than all power, Koshinga—”
“SO ALL things worked for Koshinga’s destruction,” said Hazard later at the end of an analytical monologue which I’d only partially followed. “We were only the instruments—Sha Feng, Blalock, you and I, and even the priests, who are now carrying the message of the dragon to every corner of China. If none of us had existed, truth would have found other instruments. That was the one thing Koshinga forgot—the cumulative weakness of a lie.”
I shifted my position a little, trying to ease my still useless right leg. I was lying on a
k’ang
in the miserable best room of the one inn in Kan Chow, beyond which town it hadn’t been thought expedient to move me until I got over my hurt. Of the four of us who had fought that last battle with Koshinga, I was the longest in recovering.
“It may be so,” I replied, “but for all that it was lucky that Blalock found us in Peking.”
“Poor Blalock!” murmured Hazard. “I wonder if he’ll ever be quite right again. But I think he will, once in the States, away from all reminders of the thing that drove him mad. Lord knows I hope so, for if he did sin in joining the Ko Lao Hui, at least he was willing to give his own life in atonement. And ours, too.” Hazard smiled quizzically.
“Some things,” I said slowly, “aren’t quite clear to me yet. Of course, I know that the body of the message the dragon delivered was really the instrument Blalock stole from the Ko Lao Hui headquarters after he’d realized the full vileness of the scheme to which he’d become a party. And I suppose the foreword, condemning Koshinga, was written by you after you’d stolen the document from Blalock and substituted another paper of similar size.
“Then in turn you substituted the document for the original message in the mouth of the mechanical dragon, to which chance—as you’re modest enough to say—gave you access. Though as for that, the dragon was prophesied plainly enough and could hardly have been anywhere else. I think you assisted chance a bit. But why didn’t you trust Blalock, whose intentions were surely good enough? Why did you take things altogether into your own hands?”
“Some might say that it was my natural egotism,” grinned Hazard. “But one can’t argue with a madman; and what was your own opinion of the practicability of Blalock’s scheme? It was clever enough, knowing himself condemned by the Ko Lao Hui, to figure on winning; a little respite for himself, and a chance to denounce Koshinga, by leading us to the Sacred Pass, and surrendering us. And it worked, with a little assistance from me, as you saw. But—”
“The rest of his plan wouldn’t have worked, that’s true,” I put in. “He’d have been killed the moment he opened his mouth against Koshinga. And now I begin to see why you did assist him, why you saw to it that there was no fight in the cellar. Hazard, that was once I lost confidence in you.
“But of course if there had been a fight, the Ko Lao Hui would have been suspicious of what had happened in the cellar before they arrived. They’d have investigated, found the dead Chinaman in the inner cellar, and the substituted message. As it was, Blalock had the gun from which the single shot had been fired and it was natural to think that he’d fired it against us.”
“And I’d managed to hide the body of the dead Chinaman so that a casual searcher wouldn’t be apt to find it,” Hazard explained. “If he was missed, or if his assistance was needed to work the mechanism of the dragon and another man had to be substituted, then it was probably thought that he’d deserted his post or misunderstood his orders. So when the dragon spoke—”
“New China was saved,” said I rhetorically, “and the walls of falsehood fell. Well, I guess that’s all. It’s good to know that Koshinga’s gone, but Asia will be a bit duller without him. Hazard, when this underpinning of mine is mended, I think I’ll feel like traveling.”
“So will I,” replied Hazard. “Homeward bound!”
Correspondence
A WORD from Robert J. Pearsall concerning his story in this issue of our magazine, taken from his letter to me when he first sent in MS.:
Berkeley, Calif.
Herewith “Undue Influence,” a rather short tale, but one I think you’ll like. You’ll observe
John Partridge
appears again, the principal character in “Rogues’ End,” and the subject of my last letter to you. In my next tale he will be on the China Coast; but I’ve another man picked for principal character.
Perhaps I’d better say that I got the central idea of “Undue Influence,” the use of oxygen as a befuddling agent, from an editorial in the
Scientific American
of April 6, 1912. Indeed, I’ve made
Partridge
quote that editorial in one paragraph which you’ll notice. But I think the unduly stimulating effect of oxygen is commonly known. I remember the propriety of its use by athletes was much discussed a few years ago; but it was commonly condemned as unsportsmanlike and injurious, and barred out along with other drugs. — Robert J. Pearsall.
A WORD from Robert J. Pearsall concerning his story in this issue:
Berkeley, Calif.
The custom which furnished me with the idea upon which I really built “Silver Sycees”—that of politely forcing a dishonest magistrate to be his own executioner by sending him a “suicide cord”—originated with the Manchus, and really passed with them. Indeed, like a great many other of the old customs, it waned rapidly after the death of the Empress Dowager, Tsi’an, in 1910—possibly partly because she had been so prodigal in dispensing those unwelcome tokens of her regard. There’s no reason some of the recipients shouldn’t have chosen a getaway instead of death—and, as a matter of history, some did. Also I might say that the Taoist priesthood in China is, taken in general, very much as I’ve indicated. Of course, there are good priests and bad priests; but I suppose there’s no greater fall in the history of religion than that of Taoism. However, it’s an influence that the modern Chinese are throwing off fast; and it’s only in the western provinces that the Taoist hierarchy are still able to build their power on superstition and ignorance. — Robert J. Pearsall.
CONCERNING an Asiatic race that figures in some of the stories of his series Robert J. Pearsall tells us the following:
Palo Alto, Calif.
The Lolo territory is, I believe, entirely new in fiction—and almost new in Western knowledge. Its Asiatic appellation is “the land where the Chinese do not go.” When I was in China it had been penetrated only once, by the D’Ollone expedition, about 1907. I remember I once conceived the idea of attempting it myself, in company with another young fellow who was the son of a missionary and as enterprising a chap as ever roved. However, that went the way of many other good plans. But I knew the country roundabout—where “Ghost Ruled” was really laid—pretty thoroughly, from some experience and much study. And everything is as I’ve written it, including the element of superstition. The Lolos do come down to raid the Chinese villages—and perhaps sometimes they have been assisted by some such trickery as I described. — Robert J. Pearsall.
CONCERNING his story in this issue Robert J. Pearsall tells us the following about an extremely interesting race of people:
Palo Alto, Calif.
I really got the idea of this story from my old friend,
Encyclopædia Britannica,
under “Conjuring.” The account of “Dr. Pepper’s ghost,” which Hazard mentions, connected itself up with some speculations I once heard in China concerning the bullet-defying powers of the Boxer chiefs—and that, naturally, with Koshinga. “The Test of the Five Arrows” is optically possible—and I’m really inclined to think that it, or some very similar stunt, was part of the Boxer repertoire.
The scene is again the land of the Lolos, named by Dr. Thorel the “Black Caucasians” of Asia. A certain Chinese map describes them thus: “The Barbarians of Shama, who, at indeterminate periods, cross the Blue River (the Yang-tse-kiang) to kill, pillage, burn and make captives.” But they have other qualities than savagery: for instance, they possess a system of writing peculiar to themselves, and numerous books which no one but themselves can decipher. And they are a strong race, who, though surrounded by Chinese for hundreds of years, have managed to preserve complete racial homogeneousness. Their origin is a matter of dispute, but everything about them speaks of the vigor of a young people. Even their system of society is indicative of youth, being the same system that we find among the most powerful races in the beginnings of history. Perhaps these Lolos should be included in any consideration one gives to the future of the East. — Robert J. Pearsall.
The Men Who Make The Argosy
I CONGRATULATE myself. To make a bow and present myself to the hundreds of thousands—or maybe million—readers of
Argosy,
is a privilege to which I shall expeditiously proceed.
Born on a Michigan farm some forty years ago, my first adventure occurred at the tender age of six, when I was flung by a merry crowd from a pile-driver half a mile off shore in Lake Huron. The laudable intention was to “larn” me how to swim—and I learned. The incident is mentioned as characteristic of an ungentle period and place; perhaps it also explains why my earliest strong impulse was a centrifugal one—to leave, in any direction. First attempts were overcome; but at seventeen I stood on a bridge in Detroit with the exact fare for Chicago or Buffalo in my pocket, and flipped a coin for a course.
Chicago won and was privileged to receive the greenest farmer boy that ever wondered why the waterfront Y.M.C.A. had to keep its publicly used combs chained to the mirrors. That I lingered through a winter and live to tell of it perhaps proves the usefulness of my early training in survival. Spring came and it was westward ho, by various means, to Oklahoma, California, and years later to the Philippines, from which point I dispatched my first acceptable story to the
Argosy,
and was thrilled by my first check. For—let the cat out now—I scribbled my first novel at the age of fourteen; it was all about the slums of a great city, in spite of or because of the fact that I’d never used a telephone.
Then China, Japan, the South Seas, as sailor before the mast, diver’s helper, teacher of English in a Peking school, salesman, waiter, what not; and all the time writing. China most of the time. The Tientsin
Times
and Peking
Gazette
furnished me some pay checks; many came from American magazines; and with Chinese money at two to one and a “Dollar Mex” buying three meals, it wasn’t hard for a simple-living youth to get by.
Three years in the Orient altogether, then back in time for infantry duty in the Great War. That over, and “settling down.” No apologies; playtime is of youth. And still there’s play; last summer my wife, three children and I traveled and camped two months and three thousand miles and got a mighty kick out of it.
These are only the high spots—but now you know me, don’t you? A wanderer who no longer wanders except when the kids are out of school; a persistent writer of tales who finds his goal of perfection ever receding; a family man with a car, dog and radio even as most of you—and goldfish in a bowl. And sometimes I feel I’m a goldfish myself, circling and circling around—and sometimes one of the fortunate ones, who finds in his work, when the mood is on, the divinest happiness. — Robert J. Pearsall.
Table of Contents
The Complete Adventures of Hazard & Partridge