The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK ®. Achmed Abdullah
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eyes.
“Yes. Choice which one of you will die.” The Bakoto had smiled, with the same suave courtliness which had, somehow, increased the utter horror of the scene. “Die—oh—a slow death, befitting the insult to the juju, befitting the juju’s great holiness!”
Suddenly, Stuart McGregor had understood that there would be no arguing, no bargaining whatsoever; and, quickly, had come his hysterical question:
“Who? I—or—”
He had slurred and stopped, somehow ashamed, and the Bakoto had finished the interrupted question with gentle, gliding, inhuman laughter: “Your friend? White chief, that is for you two to decide. I only know that the juju has spoken to the priest, and that he is satisfied with the life of one of you two; the life—and the death. A slow death.”
He had paused; then had continued gently, so very, very gently: “Yes. A slow death, depending entirely upon the vitality of the one of you two who will be sacrificed to the juju. There will be little knives. There will be the flying insects which follow the smell of blood and festering flesh. Too, there will be many crimson-headed ants, many, ants—and a thin river of honey to show them the trail.”
He had yawned. Then he had gone on: “Consider. The juju is just. He only wants the sacrifice of one of you, and you yourselves must decide which one shall go, and which one shall stay. And—remember the little, little knives. Be pleased to remember the many ants which follow the honey trail. I shall return shortly and hear your choice.”
He had bowed and, with his silent warriors, had stepped back into the jungle that had closed behind them like a curtain.
Even in that moment of stark, enormous horror, horror too great to be grasped, horror that swept over and beyond the barriers of fear—even in that moment Stuart McGregor had realized that, by leaving the choice to them, the Bakoto had committed a refined cruelty worthy of a more civilized race, and had added a psychic torture fully as dreadful as the physical torture of the little knives.
Too, in that moment of ghastly, lecherous expectancy, he had known that it was Farragut Hutchison who would be sacrificed to the juju—Farragut Hutchison who sat there, staring into the camp fire, making queer little, funny noises in his throat.
Suddenly, Stuart McGregor had laughed—he remembered that laugh to his dying day—and had thrown a greasy pack of playing cards into the circle of meager, indifferent light.
“Let the cards decide, old boy,” he had shouted. “One hand of poker—and no drawing to your hand. Showdown! That’s square, isn’t it?”
“Sure!” the other had replied, still staring straight ahead of him. “Go ahead and deal—”
His voice had drifted into a mumble while Stuart McGregor had picked up the deck, had shuffled, slowly, mechanically.
As he shuffled, it had seemed to him as if his brain was frantically telegraphing to his fingers, as if all those delicate little nerves that ran from the back of his skull down to his fingertips were throbbing a clicking little chorus:
“Do—it—Mac! Do—it—Mac! Do—it—Mac!” with a maddening, syncopated rhythm.
And he had kept on shuffling, had kept on watching the motions of his fingers—and had seen that his thumb and second finger had shuffled the ace of hearts to the bottom of the deck.
Had he done it on purpose? He did not know then. He never found out—though, in his memory, he lived through the scene a thousand times.
But there were the little knives. There were the ants. There was the honey trail. There was his own, hard decision to live. And, years earlier, he had been a professional faro dealer at Silver City.
Another ace had joined the first at the bottom of the deck. The third. The fourth.
And then Farragut Hutchison’s violent: “Deal, man, deal! You’re driving me crazy. Get it over with.”
The sweat had been pouring from Stuart McGregor’s face. His blood had throbbed in his veins. Something like a sledgehammer had drummed at the base of his skull.
“Cut, won’t you?” he had said, his voice coming as if from very far away.
The other had waved a trembling hand, “No, no! Deal ’em as they lie. You won’t cheat me.”
Stuart McGregor had cleared a little space on the ground with the point of his shoe.
He remembered the motion. He remembered how the dead leaves had stirred with a dry, rasping, tragic sound, how something slimy and phosphorous-green had squirmed through the tufted jungle grass, how a little furry scorpion had scurried away with a clicking tchk-tchk-tchk.
He had dealt.
Mechanically, even as he was watching them, his fingers had given himself five cards from the bottom of the deck. Four aces—and the queen of diamonds. And, the next second, in answer to Farragut Hutchison’s choked: “Show-down! I have two pair—kings—and jacks!” his own well simulated shriek of joy and triumph:
“I win! I’ve four aces! Every ace in the pack!”
And then Farragut Hutchison’s weak, ridiculous exclamation—ridiculous considering the dreadful fate that awaited him:
“Geewhittaker! You’re some lucky guy, aren’t you, Mac?”
At the same moment, the Bakoto chief had stepped out of the jungle, followed by half a dozen warriors.
Then the final scene—that ghastly, ironic moon squinting down, just as Farragut Hutchison had walked away between the giant, plumed, ochre-smeared Bakoto negroes, and bringing into stark relief the tattoo mark on his back where the shirt had been torn to tatters—and the leering, evil wink in the eagle’s eye as Farragut Hutchison twitched his shoulder blades with absurd, nervous resignation.
Stuart McGregor remembered it every day of his life.
He spoke of it to many. But only to Father Aloysius O’Donnell, the priest who officiated in the little Gothic church around the corner, on Ninth Avenue, did he tell the whole truth—did he confess that he had cheated.
“Of course I cheated!” he said. “Of course!” And, with a sort of mocking bravado: “What would you have done, padre?”
The priest, who was old and wise and gentle, thus not at all sure of himself, shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t know.”
“Well—I do know. You would have done what I did. You wouldn’t have been able to help yourself.” Then, in a low voice: “And you would have paid! As I pay—every day, every minute, every second of my life.”
“Regret, repentance,” murmured the priest, but the other cut him short.
“Repentance—nothing. I regret nothing! I repent nothing! I’d do the same tomorrow. It isn’t that—oh—that—what d’ye call it—sting of conscience, that’s driving me crazy. It’s fear!”
“Fear of what?” asked Father O’Donnell.
“Fear of Farragut Hutchison—who is dead!”
Ten years ago!
And he knew that Farragut Hutchison had died. For not long afterward a British trader had come upon certain gruesome but unmistakable remains and had brought the tale to the coast. Yet was there fear in Stuart McGregor’s soul, fear worse than the fear of the little knives. Fear of Farragut Hutchison, who was dead?
No. He did not believe that the man was dead. He did not believe it, could not believe it.
“And even suppose he’s dead,” he used to say to the priest, “he’ll get me. He’ll get me as sure as you’re born. I saw it in the eye of that eagle—the squinting eye of that infernal, tattooed eagle!”
Then he would turn a grayish yellow, his whole body would tremble with a terrible