Rex Brandon #3: Black Fury

By Denis Hughes

For several months, British and European Security Agencies intercepted coded secret messages. A radio station served as go-between, hidden in the depths of the Congo jungle. An international plot was afoot, but where were the sending and receiving stations? A top agent went missing after sending reports for several weeks. Nobody knew the jungle better than Rex Brandon. The missing agent had sent enough information to give Brandon a starting point. The renowned jungle hunter picked up the trail — but greater dangers confronted him, among them a menacing presence known as Red Beard!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Feb 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224248971

Denis Hughes

denis hughesDenis (Talbot) Hughes (1917-2008)Born in London, England, Hughes was the son of noted Victorian artist Talbot Hughes. He was training as a pilot during WW2, when a serious crash ended his flying career. Attracted to writing by the expanding post-war market in paperback publishing, his first book (an espionage thriller) was published in 1948.Over the next six years, an astonishing more than 80 novels followed, chiefly westerns and science fiction, with a dozen jungle-adventure novels.In 1950, his UK publisher Curtis Warren had launched their six-novel Azan the Apeman series, written by “Marco Garron” (David Griffiths), commissioned after the hugely successful Mark Goulden/W. H. Allen (later Pinnacle Books) reprints of ERB’s Tarzan novels.But the ‘Azan the Apeman’ banner was such a blatant copy of Tarzan that E.R.B. Inc. threatened Curtis with prosecution unless the books were taken off the market.To cover their losses, in May 1951 Curtis Warren brought Denis Hughes into the writing seat and a new series of jungle adventures began, this time featuring his original character, Rex Brandon. To capitalize on their earlier series, Curtis Warren issued the books under the byline of ‘Marco Garon’ (only one ‘r’ in ‘Garon’).These fast-moving action-packed novels books were successful enough for the publisher and author to issue a further six titles in 1951, and another four in 1952. Most of these short novels have decidedly fantastic elements, and are infused with the same weird imagination Hughes displayed in his many ‘science fantasy’ novels. All of them are set in the African jungle, except for the last one, Mountain Gold, which, exceptionally, is a ‘straight’ adventure set in the Yukon.When his main publisher collapsed in 1954, Hughes switched to writing exclusively for the established D.C. Thomson, famous publisher of boys’ papers. Until his retirement in the 1980s Hughes became one of their mainstay (albeit anonymous) writers for such comics as Victor, Hotspur, Wizard and Warlord (the latter title inspired by Hughes’ “Scarlet Pimpernel” type WW2 secret agent character, Lord Peter Flint, alias ‘Warlord’.)Because most of his novels had been published pseudonymously, Hughes fell out of print for many years, until researcher Philip Harbottle revealed his authorship. Since then all of his ‘lost’ novels are currently being reprinted under his real name.

Book preview

Black Fury

Rex Brandon #3

Denis Hughes

(Writing as Marco Garon)

Bold Venture Press

Published through arrangement with Cosmos Literary Agency

Copyright

Editor: Philip Harbottle, Cosmos Literary Agency

Book & Cover design: Rich Harvey, Bold Venture Press

Bold Venture Press, March 2024.

Available in paperback and electronic editions.

Published through arrangement with Cosmos Literary Agency.

©1951 by Denis Hughes;

© 2024 by the Estate of Denis Hughes. All rights reserved.

Originally published in 1951 by Curtis Warren, LTD.

This is a work of fiction. Though some characters and locales may have their basis in history, the events and characters depicted herein are fictitious.

No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from Cosmos Literary Agency or the publisher.

The Rex Brandon: Jungle Hunter stories are works of their time. Occasionally, certain outdated ethnic characterizations or slang appear, which contemporary readers may find objectionable. To preserve the integrity of the author’s words, these obsolete aspects have remained in place for this edition. The text is presented as it originally appeared.

Contents

Copyright

Black Fury

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the author

About the publisher

Black Fury

1

Footprint Puzzle

Rex Brandon cuffed his sun helmet to the back of his head and wiped his steaming forehead with the sleeve of his bush-shirt. Never had he known the torrid heat of the Congo forests to be so vicious as it was at the moment. Pausing in the narrow forest path, he glanced round, seeing the snake-like line of his dozen bearers as they tailed along in his wake. Even they were feeling the heat. They moved slowly, every step a labour in itself. The bundles and packets balanced on their black, woolly heads dipped and swayed as they walked. Immediately following Brandon came Impo, a giant native, who had come with Brandon from the distant Limpopo country, where he had acted as boss-boy on safari for the famous geologist and big-game hunter. Now he grinned, flashing his large white teeth as he met his employer’s eyes.

"The jungle will be glad to be rid of us, bwana," he said. It breathes with steam for us.

Brandon gave the boy a grim smile in return. Never known it so hot, Impo, he grunted. His voice was almost drowned by the incessant chatter of the small life that moved around and above their heads. Millions of insects buzzed and pinged past Brandon’s ears; the upper branches of the dense tangle of tree growth was alive with chirping birds and screeching, screaming monkeys; in the under-brush on either side of the jungle path there was constant movement, furtive and stealthy, as small, unseen creatures scuttled here and there on their own mysterious business. But the earth itself, and the trees that covered it, gave forth no sound of their own. Only the ever present blanket of equatorial heat rose in waves around the small safari party as it moved on its way.

The light was dim, for the trees overhead, entangled as they were with the living ropes of lianas, shut off all view of the blazing sky. Brandon led his men through a realm of green twilight. It was soft and soothing to the eyes, but for some reason or other its very softness frayed the nerves. Even Brandon, accustomed as he was to the mighty jungles of the world, found these dark places in the Upper Congo Basin uncomfortable. All the forces of Nature seemed to be lined up against mere man when he dared to penetrate these secret fastnesses of greenery. The stealth and viciousness and cruelty of the wild combined in an enemy that knew no equal; a silent, treacherous enemy.

Impo, walking close behind Brandon, looked about him as he had done a thousand times that day; as he did a thousand times during every day of his life. Something of the grim influence of the jungle had long ago entered his soul; it would remain there for the rest of his days.

Brandon, too, instinctively kept his eyes roving from side to side as he walked forward. He knew that his boys were uneasy; they had been ever since they entered the vast world of dense foliage, with its hidden, slinking dangers.

Brandon pushed on laboriously, the sweat pouring down his face in streams. His hands were clammy, and the high-power rifle he carried was a dead weight. His cartridge belt was a drag round his waist. Though he kept on moving he realized how glad he would be when it was time to call a halt and make camp for the coming night. As yet, however, it was only just after midday. Several hours of travel still lay ahead if he was to keep up the schedule he’d set himself.

The path twisted and turned as they followed it. Impo suddenly touched Brandon on the shoulder. Brandon looked round sharply. He was edgy under the heat.

What? he asked quietly. Impo was staring past him. His keen, dark eyes were alert, flickering here and there like the tongues of snakes.

"Inkosi," he murmured, I see signs of man. Yonder, see?

Brandon stiffened instinctively, tightening his grip on the stock of his rifle as he followed Impo’s darting glances.

You’re right! he grunted curiously.

The two of them started forward hurriedly, leaving the remainder of the bearers standing in the path, resting their loads.

Impo reached a spot on the path and knelt quickly, his face only inches from the ground as he examined it closely.

"Footprints, bwana," he muttered.

Local tribe, probably, said Brandon. But something in Impo’s tone put a doubt in his mind even as he spoke.

I do not think so, answered the native. "This is pygmy country, inkosi. These prints are of a man who goes barefoot; but they are not those of one of my black brothers."

Brandon blinked. He wondered if the intense heat was making him dull-witted or something. The implication of Impo’s words did not reach him.

What is that you say? he grunted.

These prints are too narrow, replied Impo. He moved on, bending to examine other tracks. Brandon, peering over his shoulder, began to realize what he was getting at. The imprints of the bare feet were large, those of a full-grown man, but they lacked the broad, spread-out shape of a native’s foot. The natives, who walked bare-footed from babyhood, had wide feet. These were narrow—like those of a man who was used to wearing shoes.

The eyes of the two men met and held. Brandon’s framed a question. Impo nodded. Then:

"These prints of white man, bwana," he murmured. He straightened up and shrugged his massive shoulders.

It is what I think from what I read in the sign. That is all…

Brandon grunted and thrust his hat back, mopping his streaming brow for the hundredth time. Then his eyes narrowed as he stared into the green wall of the jungle around them.

Impo, he said, the river for which we are heading is still some way distant, but there is a smaller river close at hand. We will make camp where we are; then you and I will follow these tracks and find out what manner of white man walks in the Congo jungle bare-foot.

Impo nodded quickly. "It is well, inkosi," he answered. I will see to it immediately.

Brandon nodded as his boss-boy turned on his heel, giving orders to the rest of the men. They, tough as they were, welcomed the respite and set about the making of camp with a ready will.

Brandon himself chose the actual site for the camp, but his eyes were continually straying to the path ahead where he and Impo had seen the prints of a man’s feet. Curiosity was nagging at his brain, so that he was eager to be out on the trail by the time Impo reported everything ready.

Good! he said. Come along then. Let’s find out who the jungle dweller is and what he’s doing in these parts. I have a hunch that it may be an interesting business! He grinned at Impo.

Impo shrugged, not wishing to commit himself. He was used to his employer’s impetuous eagerness, his tireless energy and his uncanny skill at picking up the threads of adventure and weaving them together before they were finally unravelled. If this chance discovery of footprints proved to conceal any mystery then Brandon would go on to its final solution. Brandon might be an expert geologist—it was to collect some rare examples of ore that he was journeying through the forests of the Congo—but he was also a born adventurer.

Brandon took his rifle, a revolver, and ammunition pouch, and a water canteen. Impo carried a second weapon. They set off as quickly as they could. The remainder of the bearers watched them go, heads nodding and shaking as they muttered among themselves. There were times when they did not understand the whims of the white man. This was one of those times.

It was not a difficult task to follow the tracks of the bare-footed man, for the ground in the jungle was soft enough to take a good impression. The line of prints continued along the well-defined path for almost a mile before altering direction, then they dived in amongst the undergrowth so that Impo had to use all his skill as a tracker to follow them at any speed.

Whoever this man is there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him, physically, grunted Brandon. He came striding along through this stuff as if he’d been born to it.

"White men turn native sometimes, bwana," murmured Impo. Perhaps this man like that.

We’ll find out before long, came the answer.

Bending low to avoid the curtains of liana that hung in their way, they pressed on hurriedly, forcing a way through the thorn brush till at length Impo held up his hand as he came to a halt.

Man slow down now, he grunted. I think perhaps he is getting near his hut.

Take it easy then, advised Brandon. We don’t want to scare him off. Better to watch for a while before we show ourselves when we run him to earth. How old are the tracks, Impo?

"Three-four hours, inkosi. No more."

Brandon