The Dragon's Claw

By J. Allan Dunn

This novel belongs to the genre of American pulp fiction, of which J. Allan Dunn was an undisputed master. The story is set partly in China and partly in New York. Neill McNeill is a guide who has been hired by a wealthy client to guide him through China. The purpose of the trip is to witness a rare ritual. On the way back to New York McNeill realises that something is amiss…

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Jul 21, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547086086

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J. Allan Dunn

The Dragon's Claw

EAN 8596547086086

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

I. Throats in Peril

II. In the Cañon

III. The Features of Fung-Ti

IV. Occident Against Orient

V. Sing Lee, Laundryman

VI. New York

VII. The Glove of Velvet

VIII. The Hand of Steel

IX. The White Death

X. McNeil

XI. The Fortune Teller

CHAPTER I THROATS IN PERIL

Table of Contents

THE puzzling, intermittent flashes came again, distinctly, as Neill McNeill, with his back to the sun that was just lifting above the horizon that rimmed the golden-brown desert, gazed with a troubled forehead at the spot where the phenomenon had appeared. He did not like it, he told himself, even while he strove to find some natural explanation for the dazzling streaks that came, irregularly enough, yet with a precision that hinted at some systematic method of production, flickering like miniature lightning from the low western hills whence their little caravan had recently emerged.

It might be caused, he thought, by the level rays of the rising sun shot back from the shoulder of a ledge heavily flaked with mica, shifting from the various facets with the changing angle of the golden beams, but he had not noticed any indications of mica in those sandstone hills and he was apt to notice such things. It was his business as a professional traveler and adventurer to do so.

Another series of the flashes started and flickered out, and McNeill shook his head slightly.

I'm hanged if I like it, he said just above his breath. Looks as if some one were signaling in Morse, though if it were Morse I could read it; it may be a Chinese code at that. If so, who are they talking to? There's something fishy about this hurried return trip. The old boy was in too much of a hurry to get back to Peking and—I wonder!

His gaze wandered over the sleeping camp. Two mangy camels, sulky even in their sleep, lay with their heads stretched out on snaky necks. A dozen pack and saddle horses, dwarfed and shaggy, stood dejectedly about at the end of their pickets.

By the side of his own dog-tent was the humped canvas where Howard Remsden snored on one side of a primitive screen while, on the other, his stepdaughter, Helen, slumbered far more gracefully and easily. Spoked out around the ashes of last night's lire sprawled half a dozen Mongols. As McNeill looked keenly at these, counting them, first one and then another writhed and twisted in the sleep that was already beginning to be disturbed by the sun. There had been a long trek the night before, and man and beast had been exhausted before the dry camp had been pitched.

Suddenly McNeill gave vent to a short exclamation and swiftly, silently passed over the sand, soft and fine as ashes, closer to the fire and the sprawling Mongols. His lips parted in a smile as he peered closely at the nearest figure—lifeless, a huddle of clothes and dirty sheepskin.

Neat trick that, he told himself. Slipped out of his duds. Now then——

His practised eyes easily picked up the trail of sandal-prints that led from the group, over low waves of sand that so blended in the strong, level light as to give a false suggestion of flatness.

His hand dropped to an automatic, holstered at his right hip, as he swiftly crouched to a kneeling position, one hand supporting him, the other on the grip of his gun, while he stretched his neck and looked over the crest of a shady billow.

His dark blue eyes matched the hue of the steel of the pistol, gleaming, through narrowed lids at the almost naked figure that squatted on the farther slope facing the spot where the flashes had shown in the hills. A brown, long-lingered hand clutched a disc of polished silver tilted so as to catch the sun-rays flaring off at premeditated intervals, a long or short glare of intense light as the curving hand rocked back and forth on the supple, sinewy wrist.

One flash caught McNeill fairly in the eyes and made them water. He noiselessly shifted his angle and then inched back, rose upright, strode past the Mongols and dived into his dog-tent from which he almost immediately emerged and started to shout at the sleeping men in their own dialect, with a vigor that soon brought some semblance of concerted action from them. A fire was started and preparations made for the morning meal.

The man who had been manipulating the silver mirror appeared, yawning as he came over the low dunes. He was of the northern clans, a giant in stature, as tall as McNeill, even broader-shouldered and with arms that swung his hands close to the knee-caps. A long knife, unsheathed, flashed red on his thigh. He hailed McNeill with a morning greeting, and the latter responded with jaws that shut grimly after the salutation.

It's the first time I ever saw them mirror-talk in China, Neill was thinking, "but there's no reason why they shouldn't. Lots of things I haven't seen and never will. And those priests——?

We'll start in fifteen minutes. Ling, he said to the tall headman. We'll drink tea and eat after we get on the march.

Ling's mask of old ivory did not change, but his voice was gently deprecatory. The master and his daughter are not yet arisen! he said. The beasts are tired.

That is my affair! snapped McNeill. I am your master in this business and you have your orders. See that you obey!

He could sense that the rest of the Mongols had suddenly stiffened in their attitudes, temporarily frozen, keen to some tenseness in the situation and the whip-like crack of McNeill's voice. From Ling's agate eyes showed a momentary gleam that might have been the light of any of a dozen emotions, none of them friendly. The gleam died before the steady light in the coldly blue orbs of McNeill. Ling turned away with the ghost of a shifting grin on his yellow face. To his shrill syllables two of the men shuffled off toward the camels and three others after the horses.

A flap in the humpback tent of native design was thrown back, and a girl came out, slim in her brown holland riding togs, putteed, helmeted with a pith topee, her skin slightly tanned, her eyes even bluer than McNeill's and her hair yellow as ripe corn. She was barely up to McNeill's shoulder, but there was no suggestion of delicacy about her slender figure or the free vigor with which she walked towards him.

I suppose there is no water to spare for anything but tea, she said. Not for myself, though I am gritty and grimy to the last degree, but father is fussing about shaving.

McNeill ran his fingers over the stiff red stubble of his own lean jaws and grinned.

Not a chance of it before nightfall, he answered. I wish you'd ask him to hurry. We've got to be moving. Have to eat in the saddle this morning.

She looked at him inquiringly but turned and went back to the tent while McNeill gazed after her admiringly. Then he wheeled. Ling had come up behind him noiselessly.

Well? asked McNeill.

One of the camels is very sick—too sick to travel.

Slit its throat and leave all its load. We can get along without tents for the next three nights.

Ling looked at him evilly.

Four of the horses are badly galled, he said. Three more are sick. We have come too far, too fast. We must rest.

You know we are short of water, said McNeill. Why do you disobey my orders?

It is not possible to obey them, O, my overlord, answered Ling, his face deferential, eyelids down, his soft voice impudent.

Back of him the Mongols had gathered in a half-ring, looking covertly out of almond eyes that glittered like those of snakes.

McNeill's left arm shot out, caught the waist-cloth of Ling and