Free The Best of Robert E. Howard, Volume 1 by Robert E. Howard

shimmered hazily, making silvery mists of illusion among the shadowy trees. A faint breeze whispered down the valley, bearing a shadow that was not of the moon-mist. A faint scent of smoke was apparent.
    The man whose long, swinging strides, unhurried yet unswerving, had carried him for many a mile since sunrise, stopped suddenly. A movement in the trees had caught his attention, and he moved silently toward the shadows, a hand resting lightly on the hilt of his long, slim rapier.
    Warily he advanced, his eyes striving to pierce the darkness that brooded under the trees. This was a wild and menacing country; death might be lurking under those trees. Then his hand fell away from the hilt and he leaned forward. Death indeed was there, but not in such shape as might cause him fear.
    “The fires of Hades!” he murmured. “A girl! What has harmed you, child? Be not afraid of me.”
    The girl looked up at him, her face like a dim white rose in the dark.
    “You–who are–you?” her words came in gasps.
    “Naught but a wanderer, a landless man, but a friend to all in need.” The gentle voice sounded somehow incongruous, coming from the man.
    The girl sought to prop herself up on her elbow, and instantly he knelt and raised her to a sitting position, her head resting against his shoulder. His hand touched her breast and came away red and wet.
    “Tell me.” His voice was soft, soothing, as one speaks to a babe.
    “Le Loup,” she gasped, her voice swiftly growing weaker. “He and his men–descended upon our village–a mile up the valley. They robbed–slew–burned–”
    “That, then, was the smoke I scented,” muttered the man. “Go on, child.”
    “I ran. He, the Wolf, pursued me–and–caught me–” The words died away in a shuddering silence.
    “I understand, child. Then–?”
    “Then–he–he–stabbed me–with his dagger–oh, blessed saints!–mercy–”
    Suddenly the slim form went limp. The man eased her to the earth, and touched her brow lightly.
    “Dead!” he muttered.
    Slowly he rose, mechanically wiping his hands upon his cloak. A dark scowl had settled on his somber brow. Yet he made no wild, reckless vow, swore no oath by saints or devils.
    “Men shall die for this,” he said coldly.
    II
    T HE L AIR OF THE W OLF
    “You are a fool!” The words came in a cold snarl that curdled the hearer’s blood.
    He who had just been named a fool lowered his eyes sullenly without answer.
    “You and all the others I lead!” The speaker leaned forward, his fist pounding emphasis on the rude table between them. He was a tall, rangy-built man, supple as a leopard and with a lean, cruel, predatory face. His eyes danced and glittered with a kind of reckless mockery.
    The fellow spoken to replied sullenly, “This Solomon Kane is a demon from Hell, I tell you.”
    “Faugh! Dolt! He is a man–who will die from a pistol ball or a sword thrust.”
    “So thought Jean, Juan and La Costa,” answered the other grimly. “Where are they? Ask the mountain wolves that tore the flesh from their dead bones. Where does this Kane hide? We have searched the mountains and the valleys for leagues, and we have found no trace. I tell you, Le Loup, he comes up from hell. I knew no good would come from hanging that friar a moon ago.”
    The Wolf strummed impatiently upon the table. His keen face, despite lines of wild living and dissipation, was the face of a thinker. The superstitions of his followers affected him not at all.
    “Faugh! I say again. The fellow has found some cavern or secret vale of which we do not know where he hides in the day.”
    “And at night he sallies forth and slays us,” gloomily commented the other. “He hunts us down as a wolf hunts deer–by God, Le Loup, you name yourself Wolf but I think you have met at last a fiercer and more crafty wolf than yourself! The first we know of this man is when we find Jean, the most desperate bandit unhung, nailed to a tree with his own dagger through his