# Wings of the Black Death/Chapter 17

MacDonald Pugh was stunned for a moment. Then he crossed to Nita's side and stared down at the horse's head. Fury seized him, and his clenched teeth showed between his lips. But mingled with his anger was bewilderment.
“But why in the devil—”
Nita knew the answer, but could not tell him. She knew now that the clue she sought was in the country about Pugh's place. She did not know by what devious means Wentworth had fathomed the secret, but following in his intended footsteps, she had found danger. And that explained anew why he had asked her to feign a quarrel. It had been, too, at the same time he had announced his intention of coming to this place. And now, coming here, she found the horses poisoned. When she tried to ride the one that remained, it was shot! Could anything be clearer than that?
“I'll get the police on the trail of whoever dared to do that!” Pugh swore. “It's damnable, shooting down a dumb beast like that. And he might very well have killed you, too!”
Nita laughed a little shakily.
“That thought has just this minute occurred to me,” she said.
She walked slowly away toward the house, frowning thoughtfully down at the grass. Death had brushed her, but she was the more determined to investigate. She knew a thrill of excitement. This was how Dick had dared!
While Pugh stormed into the house, she had her Renault wheeled out and, climbing in, summoned Apollo to join her. It was only a few miles to Dick's estate, and he kept a stable there.
A half hour later, mounted on a thoroughbred that paced exuberantly across the fields, Nita loped off into the woods toward Pugh's place. Evidently his house was watched and near there she might pick up the trail of the man who had shot the horse. She wondered if it was because she, revealed now as the sweetheart of the Spider, was at the house that it was watched. She hoped fiercely that it was so. In the pocket of her jodhpurs rested the weight of an automatic. In the woods somewhere lay danger. But there also lay the trail to the man who had placed the onus of the Black Death upon the Spider.
Her excitement communicated itself to her horse. Its stride lengthened with the shaken reins and she whisked through the woods. Then abruptly she hauled back on the bit, brought the animal curveting to a halt.
On the opposite hill, perhaps a mile away, she had seen the brown flanks of another horse. She urged her own mount into the shrubbery and, rising in the stirrups, peered beneath a shading palm at that distant hill. The late afternoon sun probed its rays into the foliage of the hill opposite, and once more she saw movement there, saw a horse with a man upon its back move across a small clearing.
Excitement raced through her veins and she felt her breath quicken. As she had told Pugh, this was no time for riding. It was late. Besides the land ahead, was on Wentworth's own estate and beyond was Pugh's. There was no stable nearby from which the horse might come. The man must be a trespasser, and that meant—
Softly Nita called Apollo to her side and, keeping him close, pushed down the shadowed hillside toward the trail the mounted man followed.
All about her was the sunset beauty of summer woods. An oriole's evening warble was soft in the hollow. A faint breeze fanned her nostrils with the damp sweet odor of the rich earth. Somewhere near at hand a red squirrel chattered. But Nita noticed none of these things. Low upon her horse's neck, ready to clamp a hand upon its nose if, approaching the other animal, it sought to whinny, she urged forward upon the trail she hoped would lead her to the lair of the Black Death.
When she reached the spot where she had seen the mounted man, there was no trace of him except the hoofprints of his mount in the soft mold. Calling Apollo softly, she dismounted and indicated the trail. Then she stripped a silk neckerchief, tied it to make a long leash and, fastening it to the dog's collar, remounted and urged him on the hunt.
Apollo tugged at the restraining silk, snuffed the ground and loped off through the woods. Nita was hard put to follow, but the hoofs of the thoroughbred were nearly soundless on the damp earth. She laid low upon its neck, and branches whipped past with the speed of her passage.
Small, bending trees switched her arms and brambles scratched her. She scarcely felt them, for Apollo strained steadily on the leash, dragging forward upon the hunt, his tawny body a perfect, powerful machine, running silently as he had been trained. Not until he sighted his quarry would he give tongue.
Many times Nita had ridden to the hounds, raced beside Dick for the honor of the brush. She had taken the hurdles with courage, but never had the chase been over such terrain as this. Up hill and down, a striding leap across a ravine, a choppy jump over a log, a poise and a twist sideways about a tree. Finally the frail leash parted in her hand and Apollo was off, a tawny flash.
Then, indeed, the race became furious. She shook out the reins, and the gallant hunter beneath her responded. She could feel the marvelous power of his stretch and recover. Wind sang in her ears. The branches became whips now. They stung her shoulders, ripped at the silk of her blouse. She jammed her hat tighter about her ears, crouched lower and let the horse run.
She spotted Apollo only occasionally now, but dared not call him back. At this furious pace, they must be rapidly overtaking the man ahead. Then suddenly she pulled strongly on the reins, brought her horse to a sliding halt. There it was, the deep rich bay of Apollo giving tongue. He had sighted the quarry!
Nita's breath was quick, her face intent, the lovely blue eyes narrowed with an expression of hate that would have shocked many of the friends who knew her in their conventional drawing rooms. Here was no society girl out for a canter. Here was a woman whose lover had been torn from her in disgrace, a woman upon the trail of her lover's foes!
Nita swung to the ground and led the horse into a dense clump of birches where the shadows were gathering swiftly She loosened its cinches and, touching the gun in her pocket, moved swiftly off through the dusk of the woods.
Above, red sunset still tinged the treetops. But here below the dying light filtered through but dimly. Nita's blouse was torn. The right sleeve had been ripped loose at the shoulder and slit half its length. There was a scratch across the smooth white flesh, and the stinging red slash of a branch had marred her cheek. But there was a smile on her twisted lips and her eyes were bright and keen.
Ahead of her Apollo still gave tongue. Suddenly his deep bay broke off in snarling anger, then all was silent. The Great Dane was never noisy when he fought.
Nita broke into a run. The gun was in her hand now, clenched ready in a white fist. She sprang across a narrow stream, stumbled, recovered and raced on. The grade ahead was steep. Her run slowed to a rapid walk, and even that became difficult to maintain.
Footing was uncertain now, and the light was almost gone. Nita tripped over a vine, sprang up silently and hurried on. Her lips were open and her lungs panted for air. Ahead, through the trunks of the trees, she could see the crest of the hill against the sky, and it was empty of life. A great rocky eminence thrust upward just below its top and its jagged peak was like the masked face of a man.
Nita halted, tried to still her laboring breath, to listen. The evening hush had fallen upon the woods. The birds were silent. The insects had not yet taken up the orchestration of the night. Faint wind rustled through the leaves with a sound like men whispering. That was all. Yet somewhere near here, Apollo had bayed, had snarled in anger and charged.
More cautiously now, her eyes questing through the blackening night, Nita advanced. Had the great dog triumphed, bowled over the man she trailed! Or had her faithful Apollo been killed? Was that man even now lying in ambush for her among the shrubs and great fragments of rocks, that tumbled from that peak which was near at hand now, were strewn across her path?
The pulsing of her blood was a throbbing excitement in Nita's ears. She thrust the gun ahead of her and pushed on, jerked to a sudden halt. What was that sound!
It was soft and gentle, yet seemed to have strong volume. Hearing it, Nita wondered why she had not detected it before. It was such a sound as a church full of people might make whispering a prayer together. Each one made little sound, but together, the volume filled the vast vault of the building. But this was without sibilance. It was all round vowels in two tones, a—a cooing!
And in a flash, Nita knew. Somewhere near her, together in the blackness, were vast numbers of pigeons! Kirkpatrick had spoken of pigeons in connection with the Black Death. Wentworth had sought a clue here, and she had followed a suspicious man to a hiding place that was filled with pigeons!
There could be one answer only to this. She had stumbled on the secret spot from which the Plague Master loosed the dread Black Death upon the city, sending the doom of thousands on the homing wings of flocks of pigeons.
A strong shudder shook Nita. Here all about her was probably the contagion of this terrible new form of the Bubonic Plague which killed so horribly. But Nita did not turn and flee from the terror of that discovery as another woman might have done, as indeed many men would. Instead, her face became drawn with the intensity of her determination. Holding the gun ready, she moved forward again—toward the cooing of the pigeons, toward the lair of the Black Death!
As she advanced, the soft, gentle sound grew louder. It was fantastic that their muted voices meant a horrible death. Yet she realized how efficient was the plan this monster had devised. For who would suspect that death hovered on their wings? Who but the Spider!
And who, discovering how the Master of the Plague operated, could turn aside the swift, homing flight of a flock. As well try to shut the air from the city! A few might be killed; a flock might be turned aside for a while. But ultimately even their dying wings would speed them to their habitation in the city, and the Black Plague would stride grimly through the streets, touching this man and that, clutching its strangling fingers about a baby's throat.
Grimly Nita resolved that if she died in doing it, she would destroy these messengers of death, checkmate the Black Death. It was for the Spider.
“Dick,” the girl murmured. “Dick.”
And as if that word had been a magic talisman, it gave her strength. She moved on.
Then the shadow of a rock seemed to come to life! Nita fired as quick as thought, and a man cursed. Footsteps sounded behind her. She whirled, gun ready, too late!
Steel bands seemed to clamp about her arms from behind. Her wrists were pinioned at her sides. The automatic was wrenched from her hand. On the back of her neck was the panting of a man's hot breath.
“I've got the little hell-cat!” a hoarse voice grated in her ear.
“The she-devil!” cursed another voice. “She got me in the arm.”
Footsteps approached, and a shadow loomed before her. A hand slapped her face violently, and she gasped at the pain.
“Lay off that!” the man behind her rasped. Another blow. Nita kicked out with her riding boot, and a man howled in agony. The shadow danced before her.
“Good for you, baby,” said the man who gripped her.
She struck backward at him with her boot. But her heel thumped against a rock and the man laughed—then snarled.
“Cut it out, Bill,” he ordered. “Served you right. Now lay off that and help me tie her up.”
Ropes bit into her wrists then. The man she had kicked yanked them savagely tight, cursing at the pain his arm caused him.
“Hurt you bad, Bill?” asked the man who still held her from behind.
“Not as bad as I thought,” the man grumbled, trapping her kicking feet and tying those, too. “Bullet just burned my arm.”
He finished binding her and the two men, one at her feet, one with his hands beneath her arms, carried her through the darkness toward the sound of the pigeons, until the cooing became like the washing of soft waves that blurred all other sound.
Echoes clapped back the footsteps of the men then. They rang hollowly, and she realized that she had been carried into a cave. Her feet were dropped, she heard a match scratch, and an end of candle flickered into yellow light.
She stared about her. The walls were lined with coops of pigeons. The stench was sickening. The men who had captured her were roughly dressed, and handkerchiefs hid their faces. One had blood on his left sleeve, and he glared at her hatefully.
Nita was suddenly aware of her torn blouse, of the low V of the collar which had been ripped. Suddenly the other man strode across to the one he called Bill.
“None of that,” he snapped. “We gotta wait and see what the boss says do. You get out and make sure that dog is dead. You hit him an awful wallop, but them things are tough to kill.”
Bill glared at him. “And leave you in here with her, huh? I ain't quite that big a fool!”
The two men glowered at each other. Then the larger man, the one who had captured Nita, shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay,” he said, “We'll both go.”
They clumped off together, first blowing out the candle, and the echoing cave brought back their voices to her.
“Damn!” said one, “I'll be glad when we don't have to hear these damned pigeons all the time.”
“It won't be long,” the other muttered. “We'll turn them loose before long. Then we'll see about the girl.”
“How long?”
“The plane with the money takes off at dawn. And about three hours after that—”
The man's voice trailed off into the distance, but there floated back to Nita's ears, as she lay helplessly straining at her bonds, the coarse laughter of the two men. It was lewd, suggestive.
Nita's eyes were wide with fear, and her face burned.