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who never wore a policeman’s uniform or were licensed to be crime fighters. These characters were just everyday people who became involved in crime-fighting more or less by ‘accident.’ And when I began writing that kind of story, with a hero who was not a professional crime-fighter, but just an ordinary Joe like most of us, the editor of Detective Fiction Weekly liked them and so did the readers.”

      Both Crippen & Landru volumes were published in two states—a trade paperbound edition and a limited clothbound edition, signed and numbered by the author. Included with the latter was a separate pamphlet, reprinting an additional Cave pulp story not found in the paperbound edition of that particular book.

      With over eight-hundred stories moldering away in the crumbling pages of seventy-year-old magazines never meant for permanence, these seventeen collections reprinting over 130 stories have only scratched the surface of Cave’s prodigious output. Hopefully, the appearance of Cave of a Thousand Tales, a biography of the author written by Milt Thomas and released by Arkham House in June of this year, will provide the impetus for further collections of this wonderful craftsman of the pulp era.1 After all, the Arizona Kid, Wildcat and Range Wolf, and Senor Bravo are all still having “Trouble Tamin’ Tumbleweed” in the pages of Western Story Magazine and Wild West Weekly.

      1 Starmont House published a short biography of Hugh Cave, Pulp Man’s Odyssey, written by Audrey Parente, in 1988. It was followed in 1994 by Cave’s autobiographical Magazines I Remember, based on his long correspondence with fellow author Carl Jacobi and published by Tattered Pages Press.

      SKULLS, by H. BEDFORD-JONES

      I

      The entire affair occupied an incredibly short space of time, considering what was involved. It happened in a corner of the smoking room of the Empress of China, the evening before we were to dock in San Francisco.

      Looking back on it now, I suppose it is impossible to convey the full shock which accompanied the ghastly denouncement of Larsen’s story, Larsen was sharing my stateroom; we were friends. He was returning after spending a year away out in western China, gathering specimens for some museum. A thin, dark, sallow man, he possessed that rare charm which comes of deep, strong character. He was full of surprises; and, I have since thought, full of an inexorable, grim puritanical sort of righteousness, as well.

      Mainwaring, who occupied the odd chair in our corner of the smoking room, had taken a liking to Larsen from the start, and stuck with us the whole voyage. We liked him, also. He was lonely and homesick, poor devil, anxious to be back home. He had spent several years in the Orient, in the silk business; a big chap he was, bearded, with gently imaginative blue eyes and a great reticence of manner.

      We had the place pretty much to ourselves that evening, since everyone was packing, Mainwaring showed us a couple of very fine old netsukes, abominably indecent, which he meant to bring past the customs in his pocket. At this, Larsen flushed slightly and rose.

      “I’ll show you chaps something interesting,” he said, and left us.

      He returned presently, bringing a small Chinese box. This he opened, and took from wads of cotton two shallow, oval bowls, handing once to each of us. I examined mine. At first I took it for rhinoceros horn; it had the same rich brown coloring and feel. Then I perceived the lines upon it, and knew the thing for what it was—the top of a skull.

      “Hello!” exclaimed Mainwaring with interest. “You must have been up in Tibet to get hold of these, eh? I’ve heard the lamas use human skulls for bowls.”

      “Yes and no.” Larsen lighted a cigar and leaned back in his chair, smiling oddly. “I got these at a lamasery, right enough, but it was across from the Tibetan border—up in the Lolo country in northern Yunnan.”

      Mainwaring glanced up from the skull in his hands. His brows lifted in quick interest.

      “Oh! By the way, did you ever hear of an expedition that got lost up in that country a couple of years ago? Three Americans—I can’t recall their names. I heard something about it at the time, but never learned whether they got out.”

      Larsen nodded. His eyes held an air of singular intensity, yet his words were calm.

      “Yes. Oh, yes! The Bonner party, eh? I knew old Bonner very well indeed, years ago. And his nephew Stickley; a fine chap, and an excellent botanist, Creighton was the third of that party. Yes, I got the whole story from the lamas up there. Rather interesting, in connection with these skull-bowls.”

      “They got out, then?” questioned Mainwaring.

      “No,” said Larsen, inspecting his cigar ash. “No. They’re still there—in parts.” An indescribable gleam flashed in his eye as he said this.

      “Yes, of course,” I put in carelessly. “It was quite a famous case at the time—they were murdered by the Lolos or by bandits. If you’ve learned the truth of it, Larsen, I suppose you’ll take it up with the government? Washington should do something about it.”

      Larsen looked at me, and his dark eyes held a devil.

      “What do you really suppose, now,” he drawled, “that Washington would do about it? Saint Paul mentioned two kinds of faith, I believe. You’ve just been up in Assam? Well, if some native had stuck a spear into you, what would have been done about it? No, no; I believe in faith through works, not in faith through notes. I shan’t trouble poor Washington.”

      Mainwaring leaned forward. “Tell us about it, will you?” he asked quickly. His blue eyes were alight with eagerness, “What happened to them?”

      “They died,” said Larsen. “I got their papers, some of them, from the lamas, and then got the whole story. Well, I don’t mind, if you fellows want to listen to a yarn; it has an intimate connection with those skull-bowls, as I mentioned.”

      We assured him that we did want to listen.

      II

      Bonner was an elderly man, fussy and crotchety—said Larsen—but a fine old chap in his way. Young Stickley, his nephew, was headed for the top notch in botanical fame; both of them were keen on exploring the Lolo country. Creighton, who joined their party, was after big game. He was a handsome brute, with plenty of money, and I understand he partly backed the expedition. Most people liked Creighton at sight.

      At all events, they reached the Clouds of Heaven lamasery, an isolated place up in the hills. They reached there alone, for the mafus had abandoned them for fear of the Lolo men, who were raiding the hill people about that time. The lamas were hospitable, put them up in a small outlying temple, and the three of them went to work at their own lines of endeavor.

      Third parties and accidents cause most of the trouble in this world. The third party in this instance was a Lolo woman, the daughter of a chief. She stepped out of the brush just as Creighton, who had seen her tiger-skin garment, thought he was being attacked by Stripes and let go with both barrels of his shotgun. You can imagine what the two loads did to the girl.

      I imagine this smashed Crieghton’s nerve completely. It would, you know, to bowl over a girl that way. Old Bonner took the matter in hand at once and paid over good indemnity to the Lolos; but indemnity would not satisfy the fellow who had been about to marry the girl. He swore death to the white men, and took to the brush with his arrows. The Lolo, like the Chung Miao, use a virulent poison on their barbs, you know.

      After that, Creighton probably fancied that he discerned this warrior lurking behind every bush and tree. He ceased his hunting trips, and only went out in company with Bonner and Stickley. The picture of the dead girl must have haunted him frightfully.

      Well, the end came very suddenly. The three of them went out to visit some traps Bonner had set for small animals. A mile or so from the lamasery, they were going up a narrow, steep hill-trail with one pack-mule. Creighton was ahead and beyond sight of the other two, trying to get a sambur they had seen when, abruptly, out of the brush stepped the warrior who had sworn to get them, the fiancé of the dead girl.

      Creighton might have warned his friends. He might have shot the man. He did neither. Instead, he gave

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