The Cat and the Perfume E-Book

Max Brand

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

One of the greatest western authors of all time, superstar pulpsmith Max Brand, the pen name of Frederick Faust, was an incredibly proficient author who wrote many books, stories, and even poetry. Also, he wrote somewhere around 12 or 13 historical swashbucklers not including the seven Tizzo stories. Faust spent time in Italy every year and soaked up the atmosphere and history. The Tizzo stories came out of his Italian sojourn. The complete tales of Tizzo contains the following stories: „The Firebrand”, „The Great Betrayal”, „The Storm”, „The Cat and the Perfume”, „Claws of the Tigress”, „The Bait and the Trap”, „The Pearls of Bonfadini”. These seven stories of 16th Century Italian Renaissance swashbuckling swordsman Tizzo are tightly-plotted, action-packed adventures which were rarely equaled in quality by Brand’s contemporaries.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. "GALLOP! GALLOP!"

II. WHEN A BORGIA SMILES

III. MASKED

IV. SACRIFICE FOR ITALY

V. CALLED BACK FROM THE DEAD

VI. THE SNAKE HISSED

VII. "I SMELL RATS!"

VIII. >DEADLY PERFUME

IX. MELROSE AND BORGIA

X. THE TURN OF A BLADE

I. “GALLOP! GALLOP!”

OUT of the Apennines the river plunged toward the flat strip of the Romagna, toward the gleam of the walls of distant Faenza that stands on the great Via Emilia; swiftly the river ran, and the road beside it, but swiftest of all was the gallop of Tizzo on a long-legged gelding that had made slow work through the climbing of the Apennines, but now on the downward slope stretched out in gigantic strides. And Tizzo let him run, only keeping a tight rein to balance the awkward beast on the corners. For a rain had ceased falling only a short time before and the river was frothed with new brown and bubbles and the big rocks beside the road flashed in the sun; the surface, being mere mud, was a treacherous footing, and the clumsy gelding needed a bit of steering. He was the fourth that Tizzo had ridden since he left Perugia. Even by the riverside the road sometimes went uphill. And now they came to a long rise up which the gelding started to gallop, fell to a trot, to a walk, and finally, in spite of spurring, stood still and let its head fall.

Tizzo, in a fury, tore the feathered cap from his head and dashed it on the ground; the steel lining of the headpiece clanged on a stone with a muffled note. Then, his passion leaving him as quickly as it had flared up, he slipped to the earth and glanced over the horse.

The eye of the gelding was dull, his muzzle twitched spasmodically, his sides heaved, and there was a tremor in his knees.

“Spent like a bad coin,” said Tizzo. “Done for and gone, and be damned to all long legs on men or beasts.”

He turned, his eyes straining toward the east, which was his goal, and through the strain of his baffled impatience he began to hear the musical conversation of the river, which talked to itself contentedly with many voices; he was aware of the blue of the sky, and the pines that climbed the mountains in thick, dark-green ranks. The river seemed to rush on with a redoubled speed and he was drifting back, back, losing fatal time in the race. A dim thunder began, behind him, and turned into a distinct rattling, and now a cart drawn by two mules appeared around the corner at the foot of the hill.

Tizzo at once stripped saddle and bridle from the dripping gelding. And from behind the saddle he took the leather-holstered ax which he hooked onto his belt so that the leather-covered head of it was behind his hip and the wooden handle sloped across his back toward his right shoulder. He wore, also, a short-bladed, light sword whose slender steel would be entirely useless to carve through the thick steel plate and the under-armoring of chain-mail of Milan such as men wore in Italy in the year 1500. The sword was balanced at the right hip by a slim-bodied little poniard, a very good instrument with which to look through the breathing holes of a visored helmet These were his weapons. He picked up his feather hat and put it on his head. That was the only defensive armor he wore. He had not even a shirt of fine mail under his long-sleeved, short-skirted jacket because his best guard was speed of hand and foot.

Now he stood waiting eagerly for the carter, with the wind ruffling the curled fringes of his flame-colored hair and tossing the plume in his steel-lined hat. At his call, the carter drew rein; the mules stretched their hind legs to keep the cart from rolling backward.

“When you went by me, back there,” said the peasant, “I saw the belly of your horse pumping and I guessed you’d come to a stand before long, highness.”

He added the last word out of respect to the plume and the edging of fur around the collar of the jacket. Tizzo flung bridle and saddle into the cart, laid his hand on the high edge of it, and vaulted lightly in.

“On toward Faenza, friend,” said Tizzo, “as fast as your mules can run; and if they gallop all the way, you get this!”

He held up a florin, beautifully new from the Florence mint. The peasant opened his eyes so wide that the pupils became pinpoints in the big white circles. “But the horse–to leave your horse–”

“My servants will pick up the beast when they come along behind me,” said Tizzo. “The whip! The whip! Gallop all the way, and you have the florin. Only half if the mules trot a step.”

THERE were no servants following him. No man could have followed the frantic course he had ridden since that night of tumult when he rode conquering into Perugia at the side of Giovanpaolo Baglioni and then saw, far before him, the man on the gray horse, such a horse as Tizzo never had seen before, a horse of silk, a horse that flowed over miles like the wind. He had intended to chase the rider no farther than the northern wall of Perugia; and then, a single mile beyond the town he was prepared to halt, but the imp of the perverse and the beauty of the gray, horse had led him on, and on. For four days he had been led, stopping for brief moment, hollow-eyed for the lack of sleep, hardly ever in sight of the fugitive but always guided by report, for when men saw the gray stallion, they did not forget it readily.

The peasant, with one half-frightened glance over his shoulder, began to beat the mules with his long staff; by the time the cart reached the top of the hill, the gray mules were galloping with the short-striding, stiff-legged swing peculiar to the race.

“You hurry, my lord,” said the peasant.

“Did you see a man on a gray horse?” said Tizzo. “A gray horse with four black points on its legs and a black silk muzzle?”

“I saw it,” said the peasant. “A half hour before you went by me–”

“Gallop! Gallop!” said Tizzo. “If you bring me up with him, ten florins! Ten florins, d’you hear?”

“I hear!” said the peasant, and struck his mules in turn.

“Was the gray horse weakening?” asked Tizzo.

“It was only trotting when I saw it,” said the peasant, “but it trotted faster than most horses would gallop, on a long road.”