Golden Blood by Jack Williamson Read Free Book Online Page B

tent again. De Castro’s yellow hand darted into his shirt front. A thin knife flashed up and down.
    But Price, knowing well the familiarity of Joao’s kind with knives, was alert. He evaded the slashing blade, drove a heavy fist into the pock-marked face. Savage joy filled him at the dull crunch of teeth beneath the blow.
    With a bull-like bellow, the Montenegrin charged to the aid of his crony. Leaping upon the unprepared Price, he wound his long, ape-like arms around him, pinioning his arms in a savage embrace, driving his knees up in vicious blows at the loins.
    Twisting furiously, but helpless in the arms of the “Black Ape,” Price butted uselessly at his flat, hairy face. The Arabs gathered in a ring, applauding enthusiastically.
    Pasic threw back his shoulders, dragging Price clear of the ground, helpless and gasping in the ape-like embrace that was forcing the breath from his body. The Montenegrin hitched him up, dexterously changing his hold, and Price knew that the man was about to throw him over his head, probably to fall with a broken back.
    Desperately he struggled for a leg-hold, failed, kicked vainly at Pasic’s legs. Then an abrupt, savage lunge tore his left arm free from that crushing grasp. Instantly he drove his elbow, with a short, jabbing blow, into the Montenegrin’s solar plexus.
    The man gasped; the constricting embrace relaxed for an instant. Price tore himself free of the terrible arms, darted away to hitting distance.
    The “Black Ape,” better provided with strength and savagery than with science, charged again, long arms flinging. A quick one-two to the brutish body stopped him, a dazed expression on his flat face. Another blow, to the jaw, deliberately timed and with all Price’s hundred and eighty-two pounds behind it, and the man’s knees weakened. He sprawled heavily beside the groaning Eurasian.
    Price went into the tent.

7. AYSA OF THE GOLDEN LAND
     
    THE BOUND GIRL glared at him, angry hate in her violet eyes. She did not recoil from his hands; she revealed no fear—only hot wrath. White teeth flashed at his hands again. He disregarded them, busied himself with the tightly drawn knots in the halter-ropes that held her.
    Suddenly she was quiet; the rage in her eyes changed to silent wonder.
    The ropes loosened, he chafed her wrists and ankles to restore circulation; then slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her to her feet from the rough shale upon which she had been thrown.
    She stood watching him, curious speculation in her violet eyes.
    “Aiee, Ali!” Price called, from the doorway of the tent.
    The Arab approached, the garments that had been taken from the girl still in his arms.
    “Give me this woman’s clothing,” demanded Price.
    The Arab began whining protests. Price repeated the order in sterner tones, and the Arab reluctantly surrendered the garments. He kept the golden dagger thrust in his belt, and hung avidly near.
    “Now go!” Price told him shortly.
    He turned and proffered the clothing to the girl. Violet eyes wide in mute astonishment, she accepted them mechanically. He looked down at her white, fresh body. With a little cry, she began slipping into the garments, swiftly and without self-consciousness.
    Price watched her until she had dressed, listening to the groans of de Castro and Pasic outside the tent, and the excited clamor of the gathering crowd. Knowing the Macanese would raise trouble as soon as he recovered consciousness, Price was anxious to get the girl away from his vicinity.
    When she was ready, he took her hand, led her from the tent. After a questioning look at him, she followed willingly. Outside, however, at sight of her recent persecutors, her rage flared up again. Jerking away from him, she darted upon Ali, and snatched the golden dagger from his belt. In a moment she was above Joao, who was groaning and struggling to sit up.
    “Bismillah! Laan’abuk!” cursed Ali, leaping after her to recover the dagger, which had