Dracula of the Apes 3, стр. 34
The retired Texas Ranger was walking the flat expanse of African shore some miles south of the same silence that now haunted the castaways’ sanctuary. Being an outdoorsman, this development came with some concern, for in Seward’s experience sudden changes in animal behavior often preceded a predator’s attack.
In his case, the old ranger had previously applied the rule to creatures like mountain lions, brown bears and Comanche warriors, but here on the African coast at night, he had no idea what the sudden stillness might portend.
It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed such a thing, except that the previous harbinger had run the opposite going from quiet to loud. While walking the beach around sunset he passed a tree full of colorful birds that squawked full awake and went flying skyward in a panic.
Seward didn’t get 30 cautious paces past the tree before a big, yellow “wildcat” with black spots swaggered out of the brush and started stalking him.
He knew from his years rangering that most meat eaters were opportunists that preferred an ambush over a fair fight, and that their courage faded fast when their intended prey paused to confront them moustache to whiskers. He’d learned the trick from watching an old Indian tracker stare down a bear when he accidentally got between the hungry beast and the troop’s horses.
So, when Seward swung around hollering to meet the wildcat’s eye, the creature was so startled that it dashed back into the woods like its tail was on fire.
While that didn’t put the old ranger’s cares aside, it did brace his steel as he walked on past the fall of night. He hadn’t come so far to end up in a big cat’s belly.
Now, Seward glared into the silent jungle, and shrugged down his fears before taking up his northern course again. If there were any peckish creatures on his trail, they’d pay dearly for the meal. The old ranger was in a foul mood, and itching to let off some steam by way of the six-foot length of hardwood he gripped in his left hand, and the big pistol he carried in the other.
He’d had the foresight to stuff his revolver down the back of his britches when he, the Quarries and other passengers had been ordered out to the Lancet’s rail by the mutineers. When that evil-faced Mr. Manteau saw his empty gun belt, he had ordered the ranger patted down.
Lucky for Seward, none of Manteau’s men knew how to frisk a man, and so the simpleton given the task missed the gun where it was hidden.
Same as he had overlooked the big Bowie knife where the ranger had thrust it into his tall riding boot and covered it with a pant leg.
Seward smiled through his big moustache, remembering the scrap that followed. The damned cowards puffed right up when pointing guns at civilized people who knew more about their “rights” than they did about criminals.
Seward knew from his rangering days that bandits were all the same on land or sea, and most turned to jelly when someone was willing to take a bullet rather than bend a submissive knee.
He still couldn’t figure why they’d mutinied, though he’d seen it in them right off. More than likely, a few bad apples had spoiled the rest, and some fool among them had imagined the Lancet’s rich owner transporting gold and treasure aboard.
The ranger had seen higher hopes and worse behavior over stolen horses.
Whatever their motivation, they’d put up a hell of a fight, and Seward still ached in more places than he cared to count. He laughed thinking back to the very moment that it dawned on him that he might have been able to retake the ship single-handed.
But, Manteau must have had the thought too, because he had shot him in the chest at about the same instant. The impact knocked Seward overboard and down he went.
A sudden cracking sound came from the woods on his right, and the ranger swung the big Colt Single Action Army Peacemaker revolver toward it as he continued on through the sand.
He’d purchased the gun to replace the big Army Colt that he’d carried on the trail—something he’d been saddened to do, since the old weapon had kept him and his troop alive in many a bad situation, and its passing from service left little by way of souvenir for his years in the saddle.
All Seward had to show for his rangering days was the badge he’d worn and managed not to lose over his long career, and a small Bible he carried for swearing in deputies, and quoting from over the rough graves of bandits he’d hung.
He’d kept both of those relics in the left breast pocket of his silk vest, and he credited them now with saving his life. A fist-sized bruise over his heart and several cuts in the flesh around it showed where the badge and Bible had stopped Manteau’s bullet. Sadly, both keepsakes were obliterated, but only bits of silver and lead shrapnel had managed to penetrate his chest muscle—no worse than buckshot.
One of the first things Seward had done upon gaining the shore was to pick a couple of the bigger pieces out with the point of his Bowie knife.
Most of the other injuries he’d received during the fight on the Lancet could have been taken care of with a shot of tequila, though there was a cut in his right forearm from a mutineer’s knife that he’d had to staunch by knotting his handkerchief around it.
He wasn’t entirely happy with the way the fight had played out, but at last sighting, it looked like his companions had survived long enough to get away from the ship with their women.
Lilly and Miss James had been right there with the