THE FLYING BLOODHOUND

INTRODUCTION, by Vella Munn

Pioneering pulp writer Homer Eon Flint loved technology of his day—anything up until his untimely death in 1924. Yes, he spent his days working in a San Jose, California shoe repair shop, but that hardly hampered his curiosity, creativity, and imagination.

It’s no surprise that he wrote about an airplane-flying sheriff in the short mystery “The Flying Bloodhound.” After all Homer was fifteen when, on December 17, 1903 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, Orville and Wilbur Wright made their historic flight. Much closer to home (Grass Valley, California) the reclusive Lyman Gilmore claimed to have achieved flight on May 15, 1902 in a steam-powered plane. Homer had friends and relatives living in the Grass Valley. Perhaps he met Gilmore or saw the first commercial airfield Gilmore established there in 1907. Quite possibly as a young man Homer attended shows and fairs where post World War I pilots demonstrated their skills.

As far as anyone knows, Homer never stepped inside an airplane, but he could dream—and design. In fact, as a young man he proposed an aeroplane with balloon lift that in part read, “this differs radically from the designs at present in vogue. The conventional aeroplane is intended to secure high speed and extreme maneuverability, particularly as a military craft. My proposed design has for its chief purpose, perfect stability, so that no special ability would be required to operate it.”

Homer chose New Almaden California’s quicksilver (mercury) mine for The Flying Bloodhound’s setting. Known as the United States’ oldest and most productive quicksilver mine, its output played a critical role in California’s Gold Rush.

Why a mystery when Homer was most known for his speculative fiction? In part because, like today, the fiction market of his era was constantly changing. His longtime editor and sometimes agent Bob Davis (Davis’ most famous client was Edgar Rice Burroughs who created Tarzan) had noticed an upsurge of reader interest in mysteries and suggested Homer try the genre. Obviously Homer heeded the advice. The Flying Bloodhound represents reading sensibilities of his age in that it contains no violence—just a vulture with a broken beak as the vital clue.

THE FLYING BLOODHOUND

Parker didn’t know that his favorite outdoor sport would lead to the greatest temptation of his life, or perhaps he would not have devoted every Sunday morning so religiously to the pursuit of it.

The man was really a fanatic. In the social and business life of the city he was nobody; but among the hunters he was king. He had reached the point where men said of him when he aimed his rifle at a deer it was his.

He had reached this degree of perfection through sacrifice—but not on his part. Squirrels were the victims. Ground squirrels, the pest of farmers, were the helpless; target of this super-hunter. But, for years, he had made it a rule never to shoot them when they were motionless. He got them on the run, and he did it with a small rifle.

If a squirrel were standing when he spied it, he would purposely send a shot somewhere near the little gray rodent; then, when it was scurrying towards its hole, a tiny .22 caliber hollow-pointed bullet would snap through the air. Such was Parker’s skill that he rarely used the gun’s repeating mechanism.

When he went into the big game fields, he made a specialty of difficult shots such as few other hunters would dream of trying. With Parker there was no such thing as waiting for a good chance. Any chance was good; he could catch a deer in mid-leap, at three hundred yards with his semi-military rifle, as neatly as he had gotten the innumerable squirrels with the .22 at seventy-five.

One Saturday night there had been a violent storm, culminating in a cloudburst. Parker, awakening at dawn to glance at the weather, cursed to think that he had been cheated of his sport. He changed his plans; and, suitcase in hand, took the train for Pacific Grove, intending to visit a fellow gun-fan there. In the suitcase lay his take-down, high power rifle.

Soon after the train started he noticed that rain was no longer falling; the clouds were lightening somewhat. When a stop was made at Hillsdale, the devotee of the rifle could not resist taking a chance. He left the train, and half an hour later trudged contentedly up to the summit of his favorite hill.

Spread on the hillside before him was his sacrificial altar, the brown, rock-strewn earth which housed his victims. He took a seat in the crotch of some rocks, adjusted the telescope sight of his powerful rifle, and through it inspected the surrounding ranges. He was alone. The rain-soaked landscape was devoid of life, except for a premature fuzz of green which the recent rains had coaxed up.

Parker did not expect to shoot squirrels today. He knew better than to look for them just after a cloud-burst. But he did intend to fire a few shots over extremely long ranges at stationary objects, so as to be able to take care of that impudent buck, safe on the other side of the canyon, next time he saw him.

He did not begin shooting at once. He waited until his nerves steadied after his climb. Meanwhile he examined the hills through the glass, and shortly afterwards saw the other man.

He appeared on the ridge to the west, about a quarter of a mile away from Parker. From his manner, he seemed to be looking for something. Parker scrutinized him closely, and soon recognized him.

The newcomer was Will Bastian, a time-keeper in the great quicksilver mines at New Almaden, further south. Parker knew him only casually. He had heard that Bastian was also a fanatic, in his own peculiar way.

Bastian’s religion was cinnibar. And cinnabar is sulphuret of mercury, a reddish ore which, when properly treated, yields the stuff that thermometers and gun primers are made of. Bastian had a faith as strong as Parker’s; only, his faith lay in luck, in the hope that sooner or later he would find a new outcropping of the precious ore.

The great ledge being worked at New Almaden was, everybody knew, only a part of the total that was still buried in the district. Somewhere under that green-tinged, brownish surface lay more than one rib of the reddish skeleton, more than one potential “strike” as wonderful as the parent. Bastian felt that some day he was bound to find such an outcropping.

The cloud-burst pleased him greatly. It had washed away a large amount of detritus; almost anywhere, today, he might find a rusty layer of rock which would justify his faith. He had looked for years.

Calvin Parker, invisible among the rocks on the hill to the east, watched the prospector with a slight feeling of contempt. Bastian was only a gambler; a game one, perhaps, but he was taking a tremendously long chance. He, Parker, was after a sure thing. His place among men was assured as long as the squirrels held out.

All of a sudden Bastian, who was climbing north along his ridge, stopped still as though stricken; then made a wild dive forward. Parker saw him drop on his knees; and through the glass, saw that Bastian was feverishly shattering some rock with his hammer. Then he saw the prospector rushing here and there over a small area, pecking away at the ground like mad. Clearly he had found something valuable.

Incredulous, Parker continued to watch, his rifle temporarily forgotten. Bastian, after excitedly pacing about for some minutes, settled his nerves enough to make out his claim notices. These he fastened securely to two stakes which, true to his faith, he always carried with him on these trips. He drove the stakes as far as he could into the ground, and then piled stones neatly around their bases; His claim was duly made.

A quarter of a mile east of him Parker sat concealed among some rocks. On his face, the expression of amazement had given way to that of greed. Quicksilver! It meant wealth almost unlimited; Parker was well aware that Bastian would know a great strike when he saw it.

The prospector had come up from the southwest. Now, his stakes firmly set, he started off towards the northeast, quartering down the hill towards the road in the little valley between him and Parker’s hill. The road led off towards the city. Bastian meant to record his claim at once.

The man with the rifle thought quickly and unscrupulously. He glanced hurriedly around. Nobody else was in sight; nobody else would come near this spot on such a morning. He and Bastian were alone.

A sharp-pointed .30 caliber cartridge clicked into the chamber of the rifle. The marksman settled himself comfortably, sitting with his back to a rock, his elbows resting on his knees, rifle held steady in his practiced grip. Bastian was a third of the way down the hill.

The cross-lines of the telescope, tiny filaments made of spider’s web, swung into line with the prospector’s march. Through the rifleman’s brain automatically ran the data of the gun’s ballistics; just how much to hold over, just how much to hold ahead. At the same instant his finger tightened on the trigger; and without dwelling a fifth of a second on his aim, shooting exactly as he had shot squirrel after squirrel, the instant the gun was pointed right, Parker fired.

Half a second later, Bastian stumbled to one side, slipped and fell, twitched spasmodically for a moment, and then lay still. On the opposite hill his murderer drew a deep breath, more of satisfaction than anything else. He blew the smoke out of the barrel, glanced around again and got to his feet.

There was a disagreeable job to be done; but he glanced up at those wonderful stakes on the ridge, and judged it would be well worth while. He knew of an abandoned mine a short distance from the body; he must work quickly. Next he would remove the claim stakes, conceal the outcropping with rocks, and later re-claim it, after people had forgotten. Today he would take the next train to Pacific Grove, just as though he had never come here.

The crime would be untraceable. He explored every gulch minutely with his powerful glass. There was not another being in sight throughout that lonesome, dripping range. He looked again and again to be sure. Not a living soul could possibly have witnessed his act; the spot was deserted. He himself had taken the only other life that had been there, except possibly a buzzard or two drifting aimlessly in the leaden sky.

* * * *

The sheriff’s flying machine had not given unmixed pleasure. An unfriendly newspaper had made sport of it the year before, in trying to prevent his re-election. But Rogers had kept the office despite the fun poked at his airplane, an old-fashioned but sturdy affair which he had bought when they first came out.

The machine was never intended for official business, of course; at first he used it just as other people use their cars. But in time he became so accustomed to travel in the air that he often flew to other towns to bring back prisoners. On these occasions it was never necessary to shackle the captive; he either cowered helplessly in fear or forgot his plight in sheer wonder, a depending upon his temperament.

As for the Bastian murder—it was Friday before it was discovered. A boy passing near the old mine on his evening’s trip with the cows noticed a buzzard stalk out of the place. Aside from noticing, as a boy will, that the tip had been broken from the bird’s hooked bill, he would have passed by unaware but for an unmistakable whiff from the mine. As soon as he saw what was there, he felt instantly in need of living companionship, and soon his parents knew. The sheriff was notified.

Rogers found little remaining except the skeleton and clothing. The bullet, passing entirely through the body, had left no trace. Besides, the coyotes and vultures had been very thorough. The prospector’s watch and similar indestructibles alone identified him. A heavy rock, pinioning both legs to the ground, apparently told the story.

The general theory, as suggested by the reporters and accepted by their readers, was one of accidental death. Also, these old mines were notoriously treacherous; probably the dampness had had something to do with the rock’s falling. Calvin Parker read these accounts and was satisfied. Sheriff Rogers read them, and was far from satisfied.

“Why in thunder did ·Bastian go into that old tunnel?” he demanded of one of his deputies. “Bastian knew those hills like I know this jail; he would be no more likely to inspect that mine than I would to examine a cell. That cloudburst might have uncovered fresh color on the surface of the hill, but hardly within the mine.” They knew, from Mrs. Bastian, what her husband’s purpose had been when he set out Sunday morning.

“Well,” commented the deputy. Triumphantly, “if Bastian didn’t go in there of ‘his own accord, then someone else put him there.”

“And consequently that rock we found on him was a plant. He died otherwise,” the sheriff mused;”how, only the coyotes could tell. “Of course, he might have been accidentally killed; but why should anybody hide him, then? Looks just like a murder, to me.”

”Question is, then,” finished, the deputy, “who else was out there Sunday?” These officers assumed that the affair had occurred on that day, since Bastian had told his wife he would be back for supper.

Rogers soon thought of Parker, whose weekly habit was well known to the police. Parker was highly respected for his prowess; he was counted a potential ally in any future posse. But this respect did not prevent the sheriff from suspecting him just a little.

Rogers made some inquiries, all indirect and all in the unofficial manner which made him so effective. He soon learned that Parker had not only planned to go to Pacific Grove, but his friend in that city declared that Parker had been there all day. The sheriff knew that the railroad, so close at hand, would give the suspect time enough for the deed; just the same, Parker had an alibi which the average jury would sustain.

“The murderer always returns to the scene of his crime—sometimes,” was one of Rogers’ rules. More than once the rule had held; and for want of any further data to base deductions upon, the sheriff decided to keep watch on the spot.

On Saturday Rogers and two deputies took turns in watching the scene of the tragedy, keeping in concealment on a distant hill and using field glasses. The day passed without results; and that night the sheriff concluded that the guilty man, if familiar with that locality, would be well aware of any spying and take good care not to be seen.

Before dawn the following morning Rogers got out his biplane, filled the tanks with enough gasoline to last for six hours, and sent an auto a point ten miles south of Hillsdale with a fresh supply. Taking a young deputy who knew the airplane well, Rogers ascended; and within half an hour was soaring in a circle some two miles in diameter, and as far from the earth, directly above the two hills.

The sheriff had no idea as to what he would see. He had only the vaguest notion that the culprit might appear. Not only that; it was a beautiful day and there would be numbers of people on the hills. He could scarcely suspect them all.

Meanwhile Parker had thought it over and decided to go to the hills as usual. Not that he succumbed to Rogers’ rule; he actually hated the spot. Neither was there any hurry about relocating the claim. The simple fact was, his regular weekly habit was so well known that he would almost certainly attract suspicion by remaining away.

So Parker took his little .22 and a hundred hollow-pointed cartridges, and went up on his hill exactly as he had done for years. It was the safest thing for him to do.

Before he arrived, several people passed on the area; below the sheriff. There was more green on the hills now, and the city’s hikers found them delightful. So far as the sheriff’s powerful binoculars showed him, none of the people acted at all suspiciously. Two or three went to the old tunnel and peered in curiously, as might be expected. None of them noticed the airplane; its blue paint made it almost indistinguishable against the sky.

Parker did not come on the train. He argued that to do so would needlessly expose the flaw in his alibi. He rode on an interurban car, and reached his hill from another direction.

Rogers saw him climbing the eastern slope, and identified him by the rifle. He saw Parker reach the ridge and stop there to gaze at the mysterious mine for a moment. Parker knew better than to disregard the place entirely.

Then the man descended westward towards his favorite clump of rocks, making his way easily in his customary business-like fashion. Rogers was disappointed. The man was, to all appearances, quite innocent. Rogers mentally discarded him as a suspect; but at that instant he saw something that sent a chill into the roots of his hair.

Below him a black speck circled. The glasses showed it to be a large bird. The moment Parker approached the rocks, the bird swooped earthward. Rogers followed.

And then the sheriff saw that it was a buzzard. Hovering five hundred yards above the two hills, the bird began a long, oval flight from east to west. First it circled silently over the man with the rifle; then, soaring deliberately across to the other hill, it looped surely above the mine and came back. Again and again it flew, relentlessly round and round in that awful, damning path, from murderer to mine and from mine to murderer.

It was a buzzard with a broken bill.

* * * *

“But why were you so sure?” asked the court stenographer as he glanced over his notes of Parker’s confession. “How could you be sure that he was the man?”

The sheriff turned from the phone. He had just told Mrs. Bastian where to find her husband’s claim.

“I wasn’t sure, at all,” he stated. “But I had a mighty fine hunch. Of course, that buzzard kind of gave me the creeps, at first. Then I did some thinking. I recalled that Parker had been going out there every Sunday for a good many years. The point is, he never took a dog.”

The stenographer looked confused. “What has that to do with it?” he puzzled.

“Think a little. Parker had no use for the squirrels he shot. He just let the pests lie where he killed them. This buzzard always had a feast after Parker left.”

“See? The moment the man showed up, the bird dropped down for his weekly handout. Parker’s appearance meant just one thing—food. Maybe the buzzard never saw the crime itself; anyhow, it would never remember that. But it did remember the awful meal it had down in that tunnel, and unwittingly it connected up Bastian with Parker.

“He broke down as soon, as I showed him.”