Read Online The Call of the Wild: Klondike Cannibals, Vol. 2 by Herbert Ashe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Herbert Ashe
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was a mistake because Jack grabbed his hand and twisted, once, twice, forcing him to the ground with a broken wrist. The third punched Jack hard across the face, but he recovered quickly, punching the man squarely in the nose. He must’ve broken it, because it made a satisfying crunching noise, and blood shot out all over the place.
Then someone hit Jack over the back of the head, and darkness took him.
* * * * *
When Jack came to, he could taste blood in his mouth.
His eyelids fluttered open. He saw dark cobblestones swimming before his eyes. Long, pulsing waves of nausea throbbed through his head.
Without warning he began to vomit. He put his head down between his hands and rode it out, vomiting again and again, until there was nothing left in his quivering stomach. But still spasms continued to roll up out of him, though thankfully they seemed to be easing. He spat and coughed and spluttered until, finally, his heaving stopped.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked around.
It was sometime after dark, and though there were still a few dozen people walking to and fro on the docks, no one paid him any attention. There were too many men sleeping in the gut ter already to notice one more.
Jack sat up. He probed the back of his head gingerly with his fingertips, feeling a little dried blood encrusted in his hair, where the blackjack—or whatever it was they had hit him with—had struck him down. Memories of what had happened started coming back to him in fragmentary images, as if illuminated by flashes of heat-lightning: Indian Jack whirling shells, Dr. Fiddler’s small blue lenses, the wolves swinging at him…
Annie’s necklace.
It was only after a moment or two of sitting there in a stupor that Jack realized he’d been robbed.
His pockets were empty: his wallet was missing, along with the cash he’d gotten from Joe. He reached down and checked his clothing several times, with no luck. It was all gone. His identification, his bills of ownership and receipts from the Alaska Trade & Transportation Company…
Four years’ wages. Gone in a flash.
His mental fog cleared . Just a couple of hours ago he’d felt on top of the world: he’d been a hero, heading North... Now he was back to square one.
No money, no outfit, no ticket.
Hi s ridiculous attempt to save Annie had failed, backfired even. Surely they wouldn’t have hurt her? For a moment, Jack’s imagination conjured up horrific scenes out of a dime novel: the gang had kidnapped and sold her into white slavery. For a moment he imagined rough, foreign hands grabbing at her, and he couldn’t bear the thought.
But they weren’t murderers: otherwise Jack wouldn’t have woken up at all. They could’ve easily slit his throat and slipped his body into the Bay when he was out cold, but they didn’t.
All they wanted was his money.
So there was a good chance they let her go. Or that she escaped in the confusion.
He got to his feet shakily and looked around. The gaming table was gone, along with the cheap poster on the brick wall. There was no sign of Indian Jack, or Dr. Fiddler, or any of the other members of the crowd…
Jack thought about going to the police. But he remembered what Scotty had said about the local patrolman. If this gang was the same one—and he was pretty sure it was—then that might be a bad decision. He could be thrown in prison himself.
Or worse.
Jack thought briefly about going to a different police station he knew uptown. But what would he say? He guessed that mentioning that a young lady of class was in danger and possibly kidnapped would get their attention, but he didn’t even know Annie’s last name, or where she was from.
And, assuming the police believed him, where would they even begin to look for her?
* * * * *
One night, about four or five years before, while throwing back a prodigious amount of cheap whisky with some California Fish Patrol pals up in Benecia, Jack had fallen off a
Then someone hit Jack over the back of the head, and darkness took him.
* * * * *
When Jack came to, he could taste blood in his mouth.
His eyelids fluttered open. He saw dark cobblestones swimming before his eyes. Long, pulsing waves of nausea throbbed through his head.
Without warning he began to vomit. He put his head down between his hands and rode it out, vomiting again and again, until there was nothing left in his quivering stomach. But still spasms continued to roll up out of him, though thankfully they seemed to be easing. He spat and coughed and spluttered until, finally, his heaving stopped.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked around.
It was sometime after dark, and though there were still a few dozen people walking to and fro on the docks, no one paid him any attention. There were too many men sleeping in the gut ter already to notice one more.
Jack sat up. He probed the back of his head gingerly with his fingertips, feeling a little dried blood encrusted in his hair, where the blackjack—or whatever it was they had hit him with—had struck him down. Memories of what had happened started coming back to him in fragmentary images, as if illuminated by flashes of heat-lightning: Indian Jack whirling shells, Dr. Fiddler’s small blue lenses, the wolves swinging at him…
Annie’s necklace.
It was only after a moment or two of sitting there in a stupor that Jack realized he’d been robbed.
His pockets were empty: his wallet was missing, along with the cash he’d gotten from Joe. He reached down and checked his clothing several times, with no luck. It was all gone. His identification, his bills of ownership and receipts from the Alaska Trade & Transportation Company…
Four years’ wages. Gone in a flash.
His mental fog cleared . Just a couple of hours ago he’d felt on top of the world: he’d been a hero, heading North... Now he was back to square one.
No money, no outfit, no ticket.
Hi s ridiculous attempt to save Annie had failed, backfired even. Surely they wouldn’t have hurt her? For a moment, Jack’s imagination conjured up horrific scenes out of a dime novel: the gang had kidnapped and sold her into white slavery. For a moment he imagined rough, foreign hands grabbing at her, and he couldn’t bear the thought.
But they weren’t murderers: otherwise Jack wouldn’t have woken up at all. They could’ve easily slit his throat and slipped his body into the Bay when he was out cold, but they didn’t.
All they wanted was his money.
So there was a good chance they let her go. Or that she escaped in the confusion.
He got to his feet shakily and looked around. The gaming table was gone, along with the cheap poster on the brick wall. There was no sign of Indian Jack, or Dr. Fiddler, or any of the other members of the crowd…
Jack thought about going to the police. But he remembered what Scotty had said about the local patrolman. If this gang was the same one—and he was pretty sure it was—then that might be a bad decision. He could be thrown in prison himself.
Or worse.
Jack thought briefly about going to a different police station he knew uptown. But what would he say? He guessed that mentioning that a young lady of class was in danger and possibly kidnapped would get their attention, but he didn’t even know Annie’s last name, or where she was from.
And, assuming the police believed him, where would they even begin to look for her?
* * * * *
One night, about four or five years before, while throwing back a prodigious amount of cheap whisky with some California Fish Patrol pals up in Benecia, Jack had fallen off a
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