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Chapter VIII. I Go Hunting · The House of Skulls

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  Chapter eight of the House of Skulls by H. Bedford Jones. This LibriVox
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  recording is in the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker. Chapter eight,
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  I go hunting. Martha Balliol had fallen against the cobbled chimney of the fireplace
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  and lay in a crumpled heap, arms outflung. To my horror, I
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  thought her dead. Then I saw upon the floor the muddy tracks of the
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  flying dragon. She stirred a little, and at the motion I leaped for
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  the door. The room was empty, safe for the girl. But I
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  knew that the creature was somewhere close at hand, and I had left a
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  shot gun in the boat. I went down the path like a madman,
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  secured the gun, tore open the box of shells, and as I ran
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  back up to the house, I loaded both chambers. As I came to
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  the doorway, I saw that Martha Balliol was sitting up, holding one hand
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  to her head. She stared at me. But what was it, she
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  exclaimed, That's what I want to know. I turned my back on her,
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  perhaps ungallantly to seek some sign of movement from the yard. Nothing stirred.
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  If the thing had been here, it had gone quickly it had vanished
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  among the trees. I heard you scream something. Some one came up behind
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  and pushed me. Martha Balliol was standing now, and anger was flashing in
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  her blue eyes. I heard nothing at all. The surprise made me scream,
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  and I must have fallen against the stones here. She suddenly saw the
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  tracks upon the floor and paused. Her eyes widened with a swift fear as
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  she pointed to them. I nodded carelessly, then left the door and placed
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  a chair for her, without exaggeration, but omitting nothing, I told her
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  about the skull eyes, which I had seen only that morning, and also
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  the pterodactyl. She listened in silence, but her incredulous gaze made me squirm
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  a bit. You speak as if you believed it, she commented. At
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  last, look at the tracks for yourself, I countered. Then, getting
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  her Balliol's book, I showed her the illustration in question that shook her fine
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  scorn of the story. She declared herself quite unhurt and refused to let the
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  matter drop, but sat in thoughtful silence for a little. There's something queer
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  about this house, she said at last, and rose, let's look at
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  those skulls. Mister Desmond. I believe Jack said something about them in one
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  of his letters, but I don't remember the exact words. They were Indian
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  relics. I believe he did not say that he was building them into the
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  house. Together, we went outside, and while she inspected the skulls,
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  I scrutinized the trees and shores. But vainly, the devilish thing had hidden
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  itself absolutely, and I could see no particular sense in going to find it.
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  I can't honestly say that I care for this scheme of decoration, declared
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  Martha Balliol. Jack was always given to odd notions like this. However,
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  as for your story of the red eyes, well, I'll pass on it
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  when I see them for myself. Well, let's go up and look at
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  the house, that is, if you still care to have me do so.
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  Do you still want to, I queried, surprised by her coolness.
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  You've had a shock. I've been very silly. You mean, she corrected
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  me severely, as we walt toward the steps About this prehistoric thing, mister
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  Desmond, didn't you say that the steps always came into the center of a
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  room then ended the footprints? I mean, well, that does not look
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  right to me. Of course, the creature might have come so far then
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  have flown away. You admit there's a creature, Then I struck in.
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  I admit there's something to make those tracks, she said, and laughed merrily.
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  I wish I had looked over my shoulder when I felt the shove.
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  Perhaps the confounded places haunted, I said gloomily. We spent half an hour
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  going over the house. Miss Balliol picked out a few pictures and other things
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  which she would like to have, and I promised to pack them up for
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  her. She was planning to stay for a week or two with the Dawsons,
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  although she did not say it in so many words. I realized that
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  her reason for coming here had been to settle the mystery which surrounded her brother's
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  death, and she would settle it. There was no doubt that within a
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  few days she would find out about that note at the bank. The other
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  trouble, the trouble which had smashed Balliol's nerves, and which was somehow concerned
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  with John tooksa whoever he was, lay in the background unsolved. So when
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  she had finished with the house, I told her frankly what the banker had
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  just telephoned to me. To be more exact, I told it with some
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  additions and evasions, for I did not think it necessary to say I was
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  paying off the five thousand. I got round that by saying that the creditor
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  had paid up, having unexpectedly gotten some money, and that the banker had
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  phoned to let Balliol know it was all right beyond question. I got things
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  a little involved. But Martha Balliol did not probe the story. To her
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  mind, her brother might still have been living had he only learned in time
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  that he would not have to meet the note. It was a sad business,
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  of course, out of justice to the dead chap, I felt an
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  honor bound to relate his reasons for suicide, which did his heart better credit
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  than his head. Yes, taking it up and down, it was a
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  sorry and as sordid and a dashed, brave little story. Balliol was a
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  fool and a coward, perhaps, but the thing he did was done in
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  a bravely silent fashion. Martha Balliol cried a little and tried to laugh little,
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  but she finished with a clear and sober understanding of why her brother had
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  killed himself. Then she said that she thought I'd better take her on to
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  Dawson's by road, the sun being pretty hot on the water, so I
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  went out and got the car ready, and I kept the shotgun handy.
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  The road, which ran down along the lake shore was very dusty. The
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  dust was six inches deep in places. This did not trouble the Paragon,
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  of course, as we hummed into the Dawson yard in fine fettle. Missus
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  Dawson was there to receive us, and under her wing Martha Balliol vanished almost
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  at once. I paused to help myself to a few nectarines from a tree
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  near the house, then set forth for home. I drove rather fast,
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  for the road was good, and I got almost to my own place when
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  something happened. Both front tires blew at the same instant. Fortunately the Paragon
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  was a heavy boat, or we'd have gone topsy turvy. As it was,
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  I almost went into the trees. Of course, cord tires do not
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  act as those had acted without very definite reasons. The reasons were in the
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  shape of stout nails, sett inces, scraps of board which had been buried
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  in the dust. I am afraid that I said some very unscriptural things as
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  I drove home on the rims who was the miscreant. The thing was intentional.
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  Those bits of board had been planted since I had left home. I
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  cursed some more while I sat working on the tubes and then pumping up the
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  refitted tire sufficiently to reach lakeport and an air hose. One thing was sure
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  I had inherited John Balliol's enemies. Of this I had no further doubt.
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  If some one were lurking about the place, it was a case of catch
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  or get caught, And the afternoon was young or young enough to do a
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  good deal of catching. In with these brilliant deductions crowding me into action,
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  I began to use my head a little. Obviously I had two sets of
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  enemies, human and inhuman. The human type was very possibly the man John
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  talksa. The inhuman was the pterodactyl. I was as much concerned over one
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  as over the other. And as I abandoned my tire labors and glanced up
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  at the house, a sudden scheme struck me. I picked up my shotgun
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  and sauntered around to the front of the house. For a moment, I
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  stood at the lip of the bluff, watching the water and the shore,
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  planning just what I would do. Then I hurried down the path to the
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  boat house, and beneath its shelter, laid the gun in the canoe and
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  covered it with fishing tackle and some burlap. After this, I shoved out
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  and paddled down the shore away from Dawson's. Since I kept close in to
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  the shore, I was in five minutes beyond sight of my place and to
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  anyone watching. Was off for a fishing trip. But I jerked into shore
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  and landed before I had gone fifty feet farther. Pulling up the canoe,
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  I stowed it among the bushes, took my shotgun and struck directly up the
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  steep slope. It was a hard scramble, but I made it, and
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  in fifteen minutes I gained the road. Hot and puffing. I was not
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  a mile from the house, and I went down the road at a good
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  walking clip, certain of being unobserved. The trees to either hand effectually concealed
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  me. When at length the trees opened up to the left, I had
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  an excellent view of my house and farm yard. I paused, made myself
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  comfortable among the trees, got my pipe going, and began to watch,
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  flattering myself that I had flanked the entire place very neatly. I was well
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  placed to see whatever was going on. But nothing was going on. It
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  seemed things happened around that place in bunches, and just now was a quiet
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  moment. I sat with the gun over my knees and reflected that this had
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  been a crowded day. It was very nice to think that Martha Balliol was
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  just across the bay at Dawson's farm. The neighborhood seemed very agreeable to me.
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  Of course, the poor girl was overcome because of her brother, but
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  this was a grief which lay in the past. She had nothing unhappy ahead
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  of her. I wished that I were sure of the same for myself.
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  Then, abruptly, in the sunlight flooded clearing around my house. I saw
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  that for which I had been watching and waiting. End of Chapter eight