The Scarlet Scourge E-Book

Johnston McCulley

• Herausgeber: Alien Ebooks
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In Johnston McCulley's thrilling tale, The Scarlet Scourge, readers are introduced to a masked vigilante striking fear into the hearts of wrongdoers. Set in the turbulent Old West, this mysterious hero battles corruption and injustice with unparalleled skill and cunning. With a sharp blade and a keen mind, the Scarlet Scourge defends the innocent, leaving a mark of crimson retribution. As danger looms and enemies close in, the true identity of this daring avenger remains shrouded in secrecy, captivating readers and leaving them eagerly turning the pages in anticipation.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

THE SCARLET SCOURGE, by Johnston McCulley

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

THE SCARLET SCOURGE,by Johnston McCulley

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1925 by Johnston McCulley.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com

INTRODUCTION,by John Betancourt

Johnston McCulley (1883-1958) may be best known for creating the iconic character Zorro, but his contributions to pulp fiction extend far beyond this masked avenger of Spanish California. McCulley also brought to life numerous other colorful heroes, such as The Black Star, a master criminal; The Spider, an early vigilante; and The Crimson Clown, a thief with a penchant for justice. These characters thrived in the lurid, action-packed pages of pulp magazines, captivating readers with their daring exploits and vivid personas.

The Scarlet Scourge, another of McCulley’s pulp heroes, epitomizes his knack for crafting compelling masked avengers. This hero, like Zorro, operates under a secret identity, fighting against corruption and tyranny with unmatched bravery and cunning.

My personal favorite among his pulp creations is the antihero Thubway Tham, who appeared in more than 100 short stories over most of McCulley’s career. Tham, a lisping pickpocket with a heart of gold, often butted heads with other criminals. His arch nemesis, though, was a police detective named Cranston, whose one goal in life was to nail Tham.

Whichever pulp hero of McCulley’s you’re reading, his ability to blend adventure, romance, and intrigue ensures that each of his characters leaves a lasting impression on the world of pulp fiction. For fans of swashbuckling adventures and masked heroes, his works remain timeless treasures.

CHAPTER I

FRIENDS FALL OUT

Madame Violette stood before the open window, sensing the heat which came in waves from pavements and buildings, sniffing at the stagnant air, watching the seething, sweltering humanity on the street below her.

She glanced up at the blazing sky and into a yellowish haze that seemed to be making an ineffectual attempt to counteract the work of the merciless sun.

“There will be a storm,” she whispered to herself. “I can feel it—there is going to be a storm!”

Madame Violette sighed and turned away from the window, and for a moment regarded her reflection in the full-length mirror in one corner of the room. She saw a rather stout person of fifty, with an abundance of hair which was “touched up” continually, a face that knew frequent massage, hands that were well kept and often manicured. Madame Violette represented the ever-present tragedy of a woman refusing to grow old, clinging to a youth that was past and gone, seeking yet some things that had been denied her.

Her customers often had remarked how Madame Violette could arch her too-perfect brows, how she could speak in just the proper pitch, as though born to the drawing-room, and how her face always was radiant. But those things were parts of her business; they went to make up her stock in trade.

Madame Violette operated a beauty parlor on the second floor of a huge building constructed many years before and recently repaired and remodeled, a parlor that catered to both men and women, and she was wise enough to know that members of neither sex would patronize a place whose proprietor appeared aged, unkempt, and dowdy. By her daily rejuvenated beauty—she had been a real beauty once—and her never-failing optimism, she caused other women to hope that they, too, could ward off age and retain their attractiveness.

But now that she was alone in the little parlor of her living suite adjoining her place of business, Madame Violette was her real self for a time. Her face was almost haggard as she looked into the mirror. The usual smile was not haunting the corners of her mouth. The flashing light was gone from her eyes. She did not look at all optimistic; her head drooped.

“A storm—there will be a storm!” she muttered to herself again, and she spoke in a low, almost sepulchral tone and shivered at the sound of her own subdued voice.

She shrugged her shoulders as though to cast off the spell of a premonition, and then stepped quickly across the room to a door that opened into her business establishment. She hesitated there for a moment, until she was able to force the smile back to her lips and the flash into her eyes, and then she opened the door.

There was nobody in the front room of the beauty parlor except beneath a shaded light at a table in a corner, where one of her manicurists was trimming a man’s nails and indulging in a mild flirtation at the same time. That meant that all the private rooms were filled, and that her other girls were busy with regular patrons. Madame Violette nodded and smiled at the man in the corner, who was a steady customer, and beamed upon the girl.

“Flirting hurts nobody, and it is good for the business,” she mused.

She walked on down a little hallway and peered through the curtains into the booths where women were having face and hair treatments. Business was excellent without doubt, yet Madame Violette sighed as she retraced her steps and again sought the seclusion of her little parlor.

Walking slowly, as though fatigued, she went across to the window and drew the shade part way down until the room was plunged into semidarkness and elusive shadows played about it. Then she drew up a chair and sat down. For an instant she was motionless, and then she passed her hands across her face, sighed once more and leaned back in the big chair. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

The door from the beauty parlor was opened suddenly, and another woman came into the room.

“Oo, la, la!” she cried.

Madame Violette looked up quickly. “You—you startled me, my friend,” she said.

The newcomer closed the door and strode forward, to stand with her arms akimbo, a knowing smile on her face, her head cocked to one side like that of a parrot. She was a modiste with a prosperous establishment on the ground floor, and she was known as Madame Moonshine. She was French, with a name that was hard to pronounce; Moonshine was a literal translation.

“Your face!” Madame Moonshine exclaimed, her own face assuming a tragic expression. “Is it that you have lost your last friend and have found a host of new enemies? One would think that the wolf had entered through the door and was even now sniffing at your heels! Is it that the business is bad?”

“Oh, I guess that business is as good as usual,” Madame Violette replied quickly, endeavoring to smile.

“You guess? You do not know?”

“Oh, I know, of course. I have as many customers as ever, and get many good new ones every day. But Raoul really attends to the business.”

“How can he?”

“I mean that he handles the receipts and pays the bills, gives me what I ask for myself, and puts the remainder in the bank.”

“It is a ticklish thing,” Madame Moonshine observed, “to let so young a man endure such big responsibilities, even though he is one’s own son. Is it not so?”

Madame Violette’s face suddenly beamed.

“But my Raoul is a born business man,” she said.

“Oo, la! I have heard you say that many times before now, my friend!”

“He will be a rich man some day. I am glad to allow him to attend to all the details of the business and manage the place. Friends have told me—gentlemen who know—that my Raoul is a born financier. Only last month he bought one thousand shares of oil stock at ten cents a share and sold them again for twelve and a half cents.”

“A new Wall Street lion!” observed Madame Moonshine, not without some sarcasm, which passed unnoticed. “But tell me, what made you so sad just now?”

“A storm—there is a storm coming,” answered the other.

“Of a certainty!” Madame Moonshine answered. “Did you ever see such a summer day in New York, with such heat, when there was not a storm came afterward? We shall have thunder, and perhaps lightning, and—if Heaven is kind—we shall have some rain. It cannot come too soon to suit me.”

“But also,” Madame Violette explained, “there is some grave trouble coming. I cannot explain to you just how I feel. But I have a feeling of dread, a premonition of—”

“You have a case of indigestion!” Madame Moonshine declared, seating herself. “If Lorenzo Brayton could hear of your premonitions, he would laugh until his shoulders shook.”

Madame Violette smiled. “Of course! Mr. Brayton is a practical man,” she observed.

“He is all of that! A busy man! He is growing very rich—and is making others rich, too.”

“How is that?” Madame Violette asked suddenly.

“What a tone you use! Is it anything so very wonderful? He is a broker, as you know, and if he gives a friend a tip as to the market now and then—”

“I see! He has been giving you tips?”

“Now and then a little one,” said Madame Moonshine. “I never met him until about two months ago, when he came into my shop, with a friend who bought a blouse for his little daughter. But he has dropped in to see me several times since.”

“Indeed?”

“Does it not make the heart of a woman flutter? We are widows, my friend, and yet the fire still burns in our hearts—eh? And he would be a good catch, isn’t it so?”

“I—I suppose so. But, my friend, perhaps he is only being courteous and polite.”

“Oo, la, la! Trust a woman, and especially a widow, to know when a man is interested more than the ordinary.”

Madame Violette got up suddenly and crossed the room to the window, but she did not throw up the shade. She did not want Madame Moonshine to observe the expression in her face. She glanced down at the street, at the jostling humanity there, at the lathered horses, and at the steaming pavements, and tried to conquer a sudden emotion. When she faced about again, her countenance was inscrutable.

“The heat is terrible!” she said, as though trying to change the subject. “Surely it will storm!”

But Madame Moonshine did not intend to allow the subject to be changed.

“Did Lorenzo Brayton ever bring his friend, Peter Satchley, to your place?” she asked.

“Mr. Satchley comes here regularly for his manicure,” Madame Violette said.

“There is another good catch, my friend—a wealthy bachelor. Why not look at him now and then? He’s not bad for the eyes to rest upon.”

“Must we talk eternally of men?”

“And why not?” demanded Madame Moonshine. “Oo, la! Listen to the timid one! You want a husband—you cannot deny it to me. We both want husbands. And since we are not silly young girls, it is best that we consider the men in the market carefully before making our choice.”

“I do not feel at all like discussing the subject today,” Madame Violette said.

“Because there is to be a storm? You and your premonitions!”

“Well, since you insist: Is Mr. Brayton very attentive, or are you merely expressing your hopes?”

Madame Moonshine giggled and pretended to blush.

“I confess that it is not time yet to wish me joy,” she replied. “But a woman can read a man’s mind—eh? The question now is on the tip of his tongue. But an old bachelor is very cautious—and more timid than a youth. He will gather enough courage some day.”

“You seem to be sure of it,” Madame Violette said.

“He has already told me that he admires the French type, and especially a woman old enough to have some common sense. And I am of the French type, am I not? You are French in your name, of course—”

“It is good for the business.”

“Exactly, my friend. And your real name—”

“Matilda Gray.”

“But few know that, eh? And violet is much more attractive as a color—there is romance in it. Oo, la! This Lorenzo Brayton will be quite a man when I have had him in hand for some time. Just now he is a bit timid, of course. It is easily to be seen that he has not made love to many.”

“Madame Moonshine, do you mean to sit there and tell me that he has tried to make love to you?”

“It is rather a personal affair—but of course you are my friend,” Madame Moonshine replied. “A sly kiss now and then, accompanying some tip as to investments and—”

Madame Violette sprang from her chair.

“Are you telling me the truth,” she demanded half angrily, “or are you merely trying to torture me?”

“Torture you, my friend? What on earth is the meaning of your queer speech?”

“Have you been spying upon me?”

“Merciful heavens! Is it that you are insane?”

“It is I who have received the sly kiss now and then—along with little tips as to investments,” Madame Violette declared, genuinely angry now. “And how could you know that, if you have not been guilty of spying?”

Now Madame Moonshine sprang from her chair also.

“You are telling me lies!” she declared. “You are jealous, and would make me the same. You have set your cap for Lorenzo Brayton, have you not, and have failed? And so you envy me who—”

“It is you who are lying to me!” Madame Violette cried. “It is you who have tried and failed! And you have spied on me, and are now trying to make me think that my Lorenzo is untrue—”

“Untrue? Oo, la, la! Untrue to whom, elephant? I tell you that he has been courting me.”

“And I tell you that he is just as good as engaged to me!” Madame Violette exclaimed, bending forward angrily, her face almost purple with wrath. “He has given me to understand as much. He is but waiting to conclude a big business deal before he really speaks.”

“This is monstrous!” Madame Moonshine interrupted. “That you, my old friend, should attempt such a game! Little good it will do you in the end! You and your fake French name!”

Madame Moonshine snorted angrily and moved swiftly toward the door.

“You are angry because your little scheme has failed,” Madame Violette cried.

“It is you who are angry because you have lost. Oo, la! Friend—you? Viper!”

Madame Moonshine stopped, with her hand on the knob, and turned to face the beauty-parlor proprietor. There was a tragic look in Madame Violette’s face.

“Perhaps—perhaps he is but fooling both of us,” Madame Violette said. “Perhaps he is untrue to both.”

“My Lorenzo untrue?”

“I have spoken the truth.”

“And you think that I shall believe it? Was I born but yesterday?” the modiste wanted to know. “You and your plots!”

Madame Violette took a couple of steps toward her.

“Wait,” she begged. “I believe that you have told me the truth—and I swear that I have told you nothing else. If we are being made fools—”

“Such an idea is ridiculous! As though he would look at you when he could look at me! And Lorenzo is the soul of honor,” Madame Moonshine said.

“Is any man the soul of honor where a woman is concerned? Or where gold is concerned?”

“Now I cannot fathom your meaning.”

“Perhaps I have been a foolish woman. But he led me to believe that his interest in me was out of the ordinary. He—he showed me how to invest. I have put my money in that rubber company of his—what money Raoul did not know about. I was not sure that Raoul would approve.”

“Oo, la! Spy! That is just what I have done—put money into his rubber company. He allowed me to do so, as a great favor, though big financiers wanted all the stock. He even made a jest about it—about keeping all the profits in the family—”

“Liar!” Madame Violette suddenly interrupted. “He made that jest to me, and only last week. Now I know that you overheard! We were sitting in this very room. I suppose you were in the beauty parlor, snooping around the door.”

“This to me? I snoop around a door?” Madame Moonshine cried. “You are a detestable person, Madame Violette! I have wasted many good hours in being acquainted with you!”

She jerked the door open, darted through it, slammed it, and was gone.

“Hussy!” Madame Violette exclaimed, shaking her fist toward the door.

CHAPTER II

A NEW EMPLOYEE

Then came the reaction, and Madame Violette threw herself full length upon a couch and gave way to a tempest of tears. But she was a woman of resource who had been compelled for some years to fight against the world for a living, and so the fit of weeping passed soon, and she bathed her eyes, then rolled up the shade at the window and sat looking down at the street again.

“That is it—the storm!” she said.

Perhaps, she tried to tell herself, Madame Moonshine had listened at the door and now was endeavoring to awaken jealousy in the bosom of Madame Violette, so that she would show Lorenzo Brayton that she was a jealous woman. Most old bachelors, she had understood, had a horror of jealous women.

So she decided that she would be very careful, and ascertain the truth or falsity of Madame Moonshine’s statements before indulging in accusations. If Madame Moonshine had spoken the truth, then Lorenzo Brayton was a scoundrel. For, in truth, he had led Madame Violette to believe that she would be his wife one day, and she had listened to his song of approaching prosperity, and had invested in his rubber company almost every cent she possessed about which her son did not know.

She trembled a bit when she considered that perhaps Lorenzo Brayton was a scoundrel and the money lost. In years gone by, before the beauty parlor started her on the road to prosperity, she had saved that money a few cents at a time, put it into a savings bank, and watched the sum total grow. It had been her fond intention to save enough to send her son to college.

But he had told her, on a certain day, that wealth opened doors that knowledge did not, and so he had elected to go to a business school. At the end of the first term he had decided that he had learned all there was to know of business methods. Then he had assumed charge of Madame Violette’s business and bank account.

Their ambition was changed. Now they were saving money until the son could have enough to open a broker’s office and take a chance at the market. They had discussed it much, and it had become their goal in life. Madame Violette did not know the extent of the bank account as handled by her son, but she felt that it was growing substantially; and she looked forward to the day when she could sell out the beauty parlor and live in luxury.

Lorenzo Brayton had been a prospect, too. Madame Violette was ready to become his wife, not only because of his money and agreeable disposition, but also because she felt that her position would be more secure as a married woman. She did not anticipate reaching the heights in society, but she did wish fervently to predominate in a little corner of her own and make certain of her friends of old days envious.

“That cat was playing a game—and I saw through it!” Madame Violette assured herself now. “It is well that I have found her out. I do not need her friendship!”

She glanced into the mirror again and saw that traces of tears still remained on her cheeks. So she bathed her face and eyes again, and then resorted to her make-up table. Within a few minutes the artificial smile was on her face once more, and she even was humming a tune. She was forcing herself to be the optimistic Madame Violette her patrons knew.

And then came her son, whom she called Raoul.

His entrance was timid, in a way, but Madame Violette did not notice that. She went toward him, smiling, and pressed a peck of a kiss against one of his cheeks. Madame Violette was foolish where her son was concerned.

“It is early,” she commented.

“Oh, there’s nothing doing today, so I came home,” Raoul replied.

“And what is this look in your face?” Madame Violette continued. “Are you not feeling well?”

“It—it is just the heat,” he replied.

“My baby must take better care of himself.”

“And you must stop calling me your baby!” he declared. “One of these days you’ll forget and call me that before somebody.”

“But you are my baby—my little Raoul!”

“Oh, stop it!” he exclaimed. “My name is George Gray, and you know it! I’m getting mighty sick of all this fake French business!”

“But it brings the trade,” Madame Violette observed. “No woman with an ordinary name can charge the prices I charge. Women in general, my son, have the idea that nobody except a Frenchwoman knows how to massage a face or trim a nail or give a hair treatment. But it will not be for long. Soon we will have money enough, and then—”

“And then we’ll get out of this!” her son declared.

“Surely! That has been understood for some time,” Madame Violette answered. “You shall have your fine office, with mahogany furniture, and enough capital to make a start. You’ll be rich in a few months, and we can live uptown and—”

“Oh, I know the plans, mother! Please don’t go into them again now,” he said.

“You are peevish!” Madame Violette declared. “That is not like my boy. It is the heat, perhaps. You are sure that you feel quite well?”

“I’m all right—just a little off my feed.”

She watched as he sat down before the window, tossed his hat to one side, and looked down at the street. Her son was a good-looking young man, and had intelligence and wit. He was the sort of young man who makes good every day in New York or any other great city. But he was at an age where he was likely to make grave mistakes.

Most mothers—doting mothers, even—would have watched him carefully at this stage and shared all his responsibilities, but not Madame Violette! Already she had accepted him as a seasoned business man.

“I have just had a little spat with Madame Moonshine,” she told him now.

“I never did like that woman, mother, and I’ve told you a dozen times to stay away from her.”

“And perhaps you were right. I feel sure that she is a deceitful creature,” Madame Violette replied.

“What was the row about?”

“No row—just a little disagreement,” Madame Violette hastened to say. “Let us forget all about it. Was there anybody in the other room as you came in?”

“A couple of women waiting for service.”

“Mr. Brayton was not there?”

“I didn’t see him. Maybe he was in one of the booths. It seems to me that he hangs around here a lot. Does he get a manicure every other hour?”

“Perhaps he comes in the hope that he will catch a sight of me,” Madame Violette said, smiling at her son.

The boy turned around quickly and looked up at her.

“You’d better keep him away,” he said.

“Why, Raoul! I thought that you admired Mr. Brayton and thought him a great business man.”

“Maybe he is, and maybe again he isn’t!” the boy said. “He isn’t attending to his business when he’s hanging around here.”

“Then you—you object to a gentleman being interested in me?” she asked.

“Are you trying to tell me that you want to get married again?”

“Well, I grow lonely at times,” Madame Violette confessed. “And one of these days you will be getting married—and then I’ll be more lonely.”

“There are a lot of good men in New York. Lorenzo Brayton isn’t the only male human in our little village.”

“I—I scarcely understand you, Raoul. I thought that you admired him very much. He admires you—he has told me that you are destined to be a great business man.”

“He did, did he?”

“He said that you were wise to the ways of business, and that nobody ever would fool you. You had a nose for good investments, he told me.”

“I’m obliged to him!” the boy muttered.

“He said that he was willing to help you at any time—give you tips, and all that.”

“He’ll have to show me that the tips are mighty good, then! I can get along without his tips.”

“You speak as though you had taken his advice and had lost money,” his mother accused.

“Oh, I—I just don’t feel well!” he said. “It is this confounded heat! I want to be left alone.”

“Raoul!”

“And I don’t want to be called Raoul!”

“Why, I never saw you like this before!” Madame Violette said. “I can’t understand you.”

“A business man has worries.”

“Of course. Has some of your business been going wrong? Anything about the beauty parlor?”