Devil's Manhunt (Stories from the Golden Age) (2 page)

Some of the more lasting names that graced the pulps include H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, Max Brand, Louis L’Amour, Elmore Leonard, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Erle Stanley Gardner, John D. MacDonald, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein—and, of course, L. Ron Hubbard.

In a word, he was among the most prolific and popular writers of the era. He was also the most enduring—hence this series—and certainly among the most legendary. It all began only months after he first tried his hand at fiction, with L. Ron Hubbard tales appearing in
Thrilling Adventures,
Argosy,
Five-Novels Monthly,
Detective Fiction Weekly,
Top-Notch,
Texas Ranger,
War Birds,
Western Stories,
even
Romantic Range.
He could write on any subject, in any genre, from jungle explorers to deep-sea divers, from
G-men
and gangsters, cowboys and flying aces to mountain climbers, hard-boiled detectives and spies. But he really began to shine when he turned his talent to science fiction and fantasy of which he authored nearly fifty novels or novelettes to forever change the shape of those genres.

Following in the tradition of such famed authors as Herman Melville, Mark Twain, Jack London and Ernest Hemingway, Ron Hubbard actually lived adventures that his own characters would have admired—as an ethnologist among primitive tribes, as prospector and engineer in hostile climes, as a captain of vessels on four oceans. He even wrote a series of articles for
Argosy,
called “Hell Job,” in which he lived and told of the most dangerous professions a man could put his hand to.

Finally, and just for good measure, he was also an accomplished photographer, artist, filmmaker, musician and educator. But he was first and foremost a
writer,
and that’s the L. Ron Hubbard we come to know through the pages of this volume.

This library of Stories from the Golden Age presents the best of L. Ron Hubbard’s fiction from the heyday of storytelling, the Golden Age of the pulp magazines. In these eighty volumes, readers are treated to a full banquet of 153 stories, a kaleidoscope of tales representing every imaginable genre: science fiction, fantasy, western, mystery, thriller, horror, even romance—action of all kinds and in all places.

Because the pulps themselves were printed on such inexpensive paper with high acid content, issues were not meant to endure. As the years go by, the original issues of every pulp from
Argosy
through
Zeppelin Stories
continue crumbling into brittle, brown dust. This library preserves the L. Ron Hubbard tales from that era, presented with a distinctive look that brings back the nostalgic flavor of those times.

L. Ron Hubbard’s Stories from the Golden Age has something for every taste, every reader. These tales will return you to a time when fiction was good clean entertainment and the most fun a kid could have on a rainy afternoon or the best thing an adult could enjoy after a long day at work.

Pick up a volume, and remember what reading is supposed to be all about. Remember curling up with a
great story.

—Kevin J. Anderson

KEVIN J. ANDERSON
is the author of more than ninety critically acclaimed works of speculative fiction, including The Saga of Seven Suns, the continuation of the Dune Chronicles with Brian Herbert, and his
New York Times
bestselling novelization of L. Ron Hubbard’s
Ai! Pedrito!

Devil’s Manhunt

Chapter One

D
ESPERATION
P
EAK
rises green out of six thousand square miles of parched Arizona desert, a deceptive and deadly lure. It has game, streams and gold—but it also has an entire barricade around it, an unbroken ring of white
alkali
deserts, burning and acrid, waterless and uncrossable at any but the coolest season of the year.

Thus protected, Desperation Peak long retained its treasure; like an emerald set in the center of hell, the price was high for its taking.

Tim Beckdolt had nearly died braving the pitiless wastes, but his adventure had been rewarded. Once across the alkali
sinks
he had reached the tumbled canyons, clear springs and wooded slopes of the peak. He had lived on venison until his cartridges had all been used. Then he had kept his soul encased with body by snaring rabbits and birds. He had worked and wandered alone in this virgin desert-isolated fastness for eight months before he had found the rich
placer
. He had no salt and no flour. His clothing was a ruin of faded ribbons and he needed many things to work a claim. But to undertake another trip across the sinks, and return, particularly at this season of the year, was unthinkable; even his
jenny
had died of the privations endured in coming here.

Tim Beckdolt did not ask questions of himself as to how he would get it out. From the moment he struck it, all his attention was for the gold. In two or three months it would rain, then he would leave. Until then he was a castaway, clinging to an island upon a scorching sea. He would cache his wealth and leave it to await his return, would bring back a mule train to take it outside.

The discovery of this ancient creek bed was such that three months of labor had netted him slightly in excess of a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. A few more weeks of work would exhaust the placer; then he would rest and wait for the November rains so that he could leave.

At fourteen, Tim had gone wandering across the West as a boy of all work, under the most indifferent masters, a runaway from a home that wouldn’t have him. He had learned prospecting in two heartbreaking years under the absolute tyranny of old Scotty O’Rourke—who had outlived three partners and had tried to outlive Tim. The world-weary youngster now saw himself as a successful young man; he wanted a ranch of his own, fine horses to ride, and the wherewithal to influence the unkind.

At twenty-three he had it all within his grasp. Now and then he would straighten up, limber his back and gaze ahead of him. But he was not seeing red rocks and pines; he was seeing ranch houses, thousands of cattle grazing, white horse fences and himself in fine clothes. It was an innocent dream.

At four o’clock on the afternoon of July 13, it was shattered entirely and utterly.

A shadow fell across his
sluice
and Tim stopped, not looking back, but staring at the reflection in the cold blue gleam of a
Winchester
barrel.

The first words he heard bit deep. They were indifferently, even wearily, spoken. “Wait a minute, Sven, don’t kill him.”

Tim held on to the sluice box to keep his hands from shaking. He turned carefully until he stood leaning against the rough, hard slabs, water curling around his ankles, sweat growing cold on his face. The man called Sven was rendered even more huge by his standing on the bank two feet higher than the water.

He was shaggy, with matted hair; his clothes were nondescript and slovenly. His face was big, with small eyes.

The other man was seated on a rock. He was young, handsome, about twenty-eight and dressed in neat corduroy.

“I don’t know how you feel about it, Sven,” he said, “but I’ve no taste for the muck and moil in the July sun. There are a few thousands yet in the gravel pile and our friend here appears to be a willing worker. Aren’t you, son?”

Sven grunted and lowered the end of the Winchester to the ground. It looked like a small stick in his hand, and the big pistol which girded him was a toy against the hugeness of his thigh.

“Don’t let us interrupt your work, my friend,” said the young man.

“How did you make it across the sinks?” said Tim.

“Why, as to that, there are two men who didn’t—two men and a mule.” He laughed quietly and looked at his gun.

Tim saw the extra canteen which was slung about Sven, and knew with an abrupt insight why the two were not here.

“A pleasant place,” said the young man. “I dare say that you have had all this peak with its foothills to yourself. Looks like there is game. I told you there would be game, Sven. Something to eat. Something to kill.”

“You vant Aye should shoot some meat, Mr. Bonnet? Or you vant to hunt it again?”

“Seen any mountain lion or bear up here, my young friend?”

Tim looked from Bonnet to Sven. Something of the terror of his situation was coming clear to him, turning his stomach like ground glass.

“Our young friend here doesn’t seem to be of much help as a hunting guide. Supposing you step out there, Sven, and
take a bead on
a potential banquet. If you see any bear or puma, or anything worthwhile, let me know.”

Bonnet did not bother to aim a weapon. He had already possessed himself of the rifle that had been in Tim’s camp and had loaded it. He let it lie unnoticed at his feet.

Tim looked at the rifle and at the far bank. A crooked, almost hopeful smile appeared faintly on Bonnet’s face. He hitched himself back a few feet from the rifle. His tongue caressed his parched lips. Tim was cold inside. Bonnet hitched himself further away from the weapon, and his smile grew, showing even, perfect teeth.

Bonnet reached inside his coat and brought out a short gun which he tossed down the bank so that it lay only a little further from Tim than the rifle was from Bonnet.

Tim’s fingernails were sinking into the sluice. He could envision himself lunging forward and grabbing the gun, could see Bonnet snatching at the rifle. He tried desperately to anticipate the outcome, crouched a little lower.

Suddenly Tim sprang up the bank, sweeping the Smith & Wesson into his grasp and leveling it. With some astonishment he saw that Bonnet had not moved but stood looking with bright eyes upon Tim. The Smith & Wesson’s hammer fell on an empty chamber, then another—another, another, another and another.

Bonnet picked up the rifle, jacked the shell into its chamber and laid the weapon across his knees. “Throw the gun here, young man. In a few days, when you have all the gold out of that gravel and neatly sacked, you and I may yet entertain ourselves with a little sport.” He laughed quietly.

T
im worked methodically after that, worked day after day, through days beyond his counting. The water swirled about his knees, the heavy
gumbo
moved to the
riffles
; he cleaned out the rocks, cleared the tailings, all in the mechanical fashion of a sleep-walker. His hands bled, his limbs ached; and as he worked hopelessness gripped him.

He had not realized until now the part his stepfather had played in the joy of his discovery. The idea of sending his mother beautiful clothes, hiring help for her, seeing to it that his younger sister received an education and escaped the miseries of a farm drudge had occupied, unbeknownst to him, the highest position in his plans. Now his stepfather could go on saying, “That no-good young pup. Knowed he’d never amount to nothin’. Skinned out and never bothered to write you a letter. Told you he was no good, Samantha. I done plumb right, tryin’ to beat him into line.” And his mother would have no answer, not now; she wouldn’t be able to call his stepfather’s attention to the beautiful ranch her son owned, to the fine horses he rode, to the high and influential friends he had. She could think, maybe, that something terrible had happened to him which prevented him from ever writing, but she would not know.

His captors paid very little attention to him. By day, one or the other of them would sit with rifle nearby and lazily watch Tim’s labors, prodding him on when he slowed. At meal times they would toss him chunks of meat; at night they would lash his hands and feet together and tie him to a stump to save themselves the tedium of watching him. At dawn he would awaken, his extremities blackened by choked circulation; he would lie waiting to be loosened while Sven snored swinishly, close by his side.

Tim did not realize how little he regarded Sven as a man. It was like being in captivity with a wild animal. Sven’s body odor, the matted hair, the bestial bluntness of his face, the grunts with which he spoke, all added into a likeness to a wild brute. The illusion was strongest when Sven ate. He tore the joints of venison apart with his bare hands and, thrusting his face into the half-cooked flesh, would snuffle and tear and grind with a whining satisfaction which, Tim thought, would have been more complete if the meat had been alive.

Bonnet did the hunting. Sven did all the work with slavish deference, even bringing in what Bonnet had shot. The game was usually a doe or a fawn. It always had been wounded once and then shot between the eyes. Always wounded. The meat was sometimes rank with the fear taste which comes when an animal, not instantly killed, lies in terror and agony before dying. The wounding holes were always in painful places.