V.

Captain Armand Jacot of the Foreign Legion sat upon an outspread saddle

blanket at the foot of a stunted palm tree. His broad shoulders and his

close-cropped head rested in luxurious ease against the rough bole of

the palm. His long legs were stretched straight before him overlapping

the meager blanket, his spurs buried in the sandy soil of the little

desert oasis. The captain was taking his ease after a long day of weary

riding across the shifting sands of the desert.

Lazily he puffed upon his cigarette and watched his orderly who was

preparing his evening meal. Captain Armand Jacot was well satisfied

with himself and the world. A little to his right rose the noisy

activity of his troop of sun-tanned veterans, released for the time

from the irksome trammels of discipline, relaxing tired muscles,

laughing, joking, and smoking as they, too, prepared to eat after a

twelve-hour fast. Among them, silent and taciturn, squatted five

white-robed Arabs, securely bound and under heavy guard.

It was the sight of these that filled Captain Armand Jacot with the

pleasurable satisfaction of a duty well-performed. For a long, hot,

gaunt month he and his little troop had scoured the places of the

desert waste in search of a band of marauders to the sin-stained

account of which were charged innumerable thefts of camels, horses, and

goats, as well as murders enough to have sent the whole unsavory gang

to the guillotine several times over.

A week before, he had come upon them. In the ensuing battle he had lost

two of his own men, but the punishment inflicted upon the marauders had

been severe almost to extinction. A half dozen, perhaps, had escaped;

but the balance, with the exception of the five prisoners, had expiated

their crimes before the nickel jacketed bullets of the legionaries.

And, best of all, the ring leader, Achmet ben Houdin, was among the

prisoners.

From the prisoners Captain Jacot permitted his mind to traverse the

remaining miles of sand to the little garrison post where, upon the

morrow, he should find awaiting him with eager welcome his wife and

little daughter. His eyes softened to the memory of them, as they

always did. Even now he could see the beauty of the mother reflected in

the childish lines of little Jeanne’s face, and both those faces would

be smiling up into his as he swung from his tired mount late the

following afternoon. Already he could feel a soft cheek pressed close

to each of his—velvet against leather.

His reverie was broken in upon by the voice of a sentry summoning a

non-commissioned officer. Captain Jacot raised his eyes. The sun had

not yet set; but the shadows of the few trees huddled about the water

hole and of his men and their horses stretched far away into the east

across the now golden sand. The sentry was pointing in this direction,

and the corporal, through narrowed lids, was searching the distance.

Captain Jacot rose to his feet. He was not a man content to see through

the eyes of others. He must see for himself. Usually he saw things long

before others were aware that there was anything to see—a trait that

had won for him the sobriquet of Hawk. Now he saw, just beyond the long

shadows, a dozen specks rising and falling among the sands. They

disappeared and reappeared, but always they grew larger. Jacot

recognized them immediately. They were horsemen—horsemen of the desert.

Already a sergeant was running toward him. The entire camp was

straining its eyes into the distance. Jacot gave a few terse orders to

the sergeant who saluted, turned upon his heel and returned to the men.

Here he gathered a dozen who saddled their horses, mounted and rode out

to meet the strangers. The remaining men disposed themselves in

readiness for instant action. It was not entirely beyond the range of

possibilities that the horsemen riding thus swiftly toward the camp

might be friends of the prisoners bent upon the release of their

kinsmen by a sudden attack. Jacot doubted this, however, since the

strangers were evidently making no attempt to conceal their presence.

They were galloping rapidly toward the camp in plain view of all. There

might be treachery lurking beneath their fair appearance; but none who

knew The Hawk would be so gullible as to hope to trap him thus.

The sergeant with his detail met the Arabs two hundred yards from the

camp. Jacot could see him in conversation with a tall, white-robed

figure—evidently the leader of the band. Presently the sergeant and

this Arab rode side by side toward camp. Jacot awaited them. The two

reined in and dismounted before him.

“Sheik Amor ben Khatour,” announced the sergeant by way of

introduction.

Captain Jacot eyed the newcomer. He was acquainted with nearly every

principal Arab within a radius of several hundred miles. This man he

never had seen. He was a tall, weather beaten, sour looking man of

sixty or more. His eyes were narrow and evil. Captain Jacot did not

relish his appearance.

“Well?” he asked, tentatively.

The Arab came directly to the point.

“Achmet ben Houdin is my sister’s son,” he said. “If you will give him

into my keeping I will see that he sins no more against the laws of the

French.”

Jacot shook his head. “That cannot be,” he replied. “I must take him

back with me. He will be properly and fairly tried by a civil court. If

he is innocent he will be released.”

“And if he is not innocent?” asked the Arab.

“He is charged with many murders. For any one of these, if he is proved

guilty, he will have to die.”

The Arab’s left hand was hidden beneath his burnous. Now he withdrew it

disclosing a large goatskin purse, bulging and heavy with coins. He

opened the mouth of the purse and let a handful of the contents trickle

into the palm of his right hand—all were pieces of good French gold.

From the size of the purse and its bulging proportions Captain Jacot

concluded that it must contain a small fortune. Sheik Amor ben Khatour

dropped the spilled gold pieces one by one back into the purse. Jacot

was eyeing him narrowly. They were alone. The sergeant, having

introduced the visitor, had withdrawn to some little distance—his back

was toward them. Now the sheik, having returned all the gold pieces,

held the bulging purse outward upon his open palm toward Captain Jacot.

“Achmet ben Houdin, my sister’s son, MIGHT escape tonight,” he said.

“Eh?”

Captain Armand Jacot flushed to the roots of his close-cropped hair.

Then he went very white and took a half-step toward the Arab. His fists

were clenched. Suddenly he thought better of whatever impulse was

moving him.

“Sergeant!” he called. The non-commissioned officer hurried toward him,

saluting as his heels clicked together before his superior.

“Take this black dog back to his people,” he ordered. “See that they

leave at once. Shoot the first man who comes within range of camp

tonight.”

Sheik Amor ben Khatour drew himself up to his full height. His evil

eyes narrowed. He raised the bag of gold level with the eyes of the

French officer.

“You will pay more than this for the life of Achmet ben Houdin, my

sister’s son,” he said. “And as much again for the name that you have

called me and a hundred fold in sorrow in the bargain.”

“Get out of here!” growled Captain Armand Jacot, “before I kick you

out.”

All of this happened some three years before the opening of this tale.

The trail of Achmet ben Houdin and his accomplices is a matter of

record—you may verify it if you care to. He met the death he deserved,

and he met it with the stoicism of the Arab.

A month later little Jeanne Jacot, the seven-year-old daughter of

Captain Armand Jacot, mysteriously disappeared. Neither the wealth of

her father and mother, or all the powerful resources of the great

republic were able to wrest the secret of her whereabouts from the

inscrutable desert that had swallowed her and her abductor.

A reward of such enormous proportions was offered that many adventurers

were attracted to the hunt. This was no case for the modern detective

of civilization, yet several of these threw themselves into the

search—the bones of some are already bleaching beneath the African sun

upon the silent sands of the Sahara.

Two Swedes, Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn, after three years of

following false leads at last gave up the search far to the south of

the Sahara to turn their attention to the more profitable business of

ivory poaching. In a great district they were already known for their

relentless cruelty and their greed for ivory. The natives feared and

hated them. The European governments in whose possessions they worked

had long sought them; but, working their way slowly out of the north

they had learned many things in the no-man’s-land south of the Sahara

which gave them immunity from capture through easy avenues of escape

that were unknown to those who pursued them. Their raids were sudden

and swift. They seized ivory and retreated into the trackless wastes of

the north before the guardians of the territory they raped could be

made aware of their presence. Relentlessly they slaughtered elephants

themselves as well as stealing ivory from the natives. Their following

consisted of a hundred or more renegade Arabs and Negro slaves—a

fierce, relentless band of cut-throats. Remember them—Carl Jenssen and

Sven Malbihn, yellow-bearded, Swedish giants—for you will meet them

later.

In the heart of the jungle, hidden away upon the banks of a small

unexplored tributary of a large river that empties into the Atlantic

not so far from the equator, lay a small, heavily palisaded village.

Twenty palm-thatched, beehive huts sheltered its black population,

while a half-dozen goat skin tents in the center of the clearing housed

the score of Arabs who found shelter here while, by trading and

raiding, they collected the cargoes which their ships of the desert

bore northward twice each year to the market of Timbuktu.

Playing before one of the Arab tents was a little girl of ten—a

black-haired, black-eyed little girl who, with her nut-brown skin and

graceful carriage looked every inch a daughter of the desert. Her

little fingers were busily engaged in fashioning a skirt of grasses for

a much-disheveled doll which a kindly disposed slave had made for her a

year or two before. The head of the doll was rudely chipped from ivory,

while the body was a rat skin stuffed with grass. The arms and legs

were bits of wood, perforated at one end and sewn to the rat skin

torso. The doll was quite hideous and altogether disreputable and

soiled, but Meriem thought it the most beautiful and adorable thing in

the whole world, which is not so strange in view of the fact that it

was the only object within that world upon which she might bestow her

confidence and her love.

Everyone else with whom Meriem came in contact was, almost without

exception, either indifferent to her or cruel. There was, for example,

the old black hag who looked after her, Mabunu—toothless, filthy and

ill tempered. She lost no opportunity to cuff the little girl, or even

inflict minor tortures upon her, such as pinching, or, as she had twice

done, searing the tender flesh with hot coals. And there was The Sheik,

her father. She feared him more than she did Mabunu. He often scolded

her for nothing, quite habitually terminating his tirades by cruelly

beating her, until her little body was black and blue.

But when she was alone she was happy, playing with Geeka, or decking

her hair with wild flowers, or making ropes of grasses. She was always

busy and always singing—when they left her alone. No amount of cruelty

appeared sufficient to crush the innate happiness and sweetness from

her full little heart. Only when The Sheik was near was she quiet and

subdued. Him she feared with a fear that was at times almost hysterical

terror. She feared the gloomy jungle too—the cruel jungle that

surrounded the little village with chattering monkeys and screaming

birds by day and the roaring and coughing and moaning of the carnivora

by night. Yes, she feared the jungle; but so much more did she fear The

Sheik that many times it was in her childish head to run away, out into

the terrible jungle forever rather than longer to face the ever present

terror of her father.

As she sat there this day before The Sheik’s goatskin tent, fashioning

a skirt of grasses for Geeka, The Sheik appeared suddenly approaching.

Instantly the look of happiness faded from the child’s face. She shrunk

aside in an attempt to scramble from the path of the leathern-faced old

Arab; but she was not quick enough. With a brutal kick the man sent her

sprawling upon her face, where she lay quite still, tearless but

trembling. Then, with an oath at her, the man passed into the tent. The

old, black hag shook with appreciative laughter, disclosing an

occasional and lonesome yellow fang.

When she was sure The Sheik had gone, the little girl crawled to the

shady side of the tent, where she lay quite still, hugging Geeka close

to her breast, her little form racked at long intervals with choking

sobs. She dared not cry aloud, since that would have brought The Sheik

upon her again. The anguish in her little heart was not alone the

anguish of physical pain; but that infinitely more pathetic anguish—of

love denied a childish heart that yearns for love.

Little Meriem could scarce recall any other existence than that of the

stern cruelty of The Sheik and Mabunu. Dimly, in the back of her

childish memory there lurked a blurred recollection of a gentle mother;

but Meriem was not sure but that even this was but a dream picture

induced by her own desire for the caresses she never received, but

which she lavished upon the much loved Geeka. Never was such a spoiled

child as Geeka. Its little mother, far from fashioning her own conduct

after the example set her by her father and nurse, went to the extreme

of indulgence. Geeka was kissed a thousand times a day. There was play

in which Geeka was naughty; but the little mother never punished.

Instead, she caressed and fondled; her attitude influenced solely by

her own pathetic desire for love.

Now, as she pressed Geeka close to her, her sobs lessened gradually,

until she was able to control her voice, and pour out her misery into

the ivory ear of her only confidante.

“Geeka loves Meriem,” she whispered. “Why does The Sheik, my father,

not love me, too? Am I so naughty? I try to be good; but I never know

why he strikes me, so I cannot tell what I have done which displeases

him. Just now he kicked me and hurt me so, Geeka; but I was only

sitting before the tent making a skirt for you. That must be wicked, or

he would not have kicked me for it. But why is it wicked, Geeka? Oh

dear! I do not know, I do not know. I wish, Geeka, that I were dead.

Yesterday the hunters brought in the body of _El Adrea_. _El Adrea_ was

quite dead. No more will he slink silently upon his unsuspecting prey.

No more will his great head and his maned shoulders strike terror to

the hearts of the grass eaters at the drinking ford by night. No more

will his thundering roar shake the ground. _El Adrea_ is dead. They

beat his body terribly when it was brought into the village; but _El

Adrea_ did not mind. He did not feel the blows, for he was dead. When I

am dead, Geeka, neither shall I feel the blows of Mabunu, or the kicks

of The Sheik, my father. Then shall I be happy. Oh, Geeka, how I wish

that I were dead!”

If Geeka contemplated a remonstrance it was cut short by sounds of

altercation beyond the village gates. Meriem listened. With the

curiosity of childhood she would have liked to have run down there and

learn what it was that caused the men to talk so loudly. Others of the

village were already trooping in the direction of the noise. But Meriem

did not dare. The Sheik would be there, doubtless, and if he saw her it

would be but another opportunity to abuse her, so Meriem lay still and

listened.

Presently she heard the crowd moving up the street toward The Sheik’s

tent. Cautiously she stuck her little head around the edge of the tent.

She could not resist the temptation, for the sameness of the village

life was monotonous, and she craved diversion. What she saw was two

strangers—white men. They were alone, but as they approached she

learned from the talk of the natives that surrounded them that they

possessed a considerable following that was camped outside the village.

They were coming to palaver with The Sheik.

The old Arab met them at the entrance to his tent. His eyes narrowed

wickedly when they had appraised the newcomers. They stopped before

him, exchanging greetings. They had come to trade for ivory they said.

The Sheik grunted. He had no ivory. Meriem gasped. She knew that in a

near-by hut the great tusks were piled almost to the roof. She poked

her little head further forward to get a better view of the strangers.

How white their skins! How yellow their great beards!

Suddenly one of them turned his eyes in her direction. She tried to

dodge back out of sight, for she feared all men; but he saw her. Meriem

noticed the look of almost shocked surprise that crossed his face. The

Sheik saw it too, and guessed the cause of it.

“I have no ivory,” he repeated. “I do not wish to trade. Go away. Go

now.”

He stepped from his tent and almost pushed the strangers about in the

direction of the gates. They demurred, and then The Sheik threatened.

It would have been suicide to have disobeyed, so the two men turned and

left the village, making their way immediately to their own camp.

The Sheik returned to his tent; but he did not enter it. Instead he

walked to the side where little Meriem lay close to the goat skin wall,

very frightened. The Sheik stooped and clutched her by the arm.

Viciously he jerked her to her feet, dragged her to the entrance of the

tent, and shoved her viciously within. Following her he again seized

her, beating her ruthlessly.

“Stay within!” he growled. “Never let the strangers see thy face. Next

time you show yourself to strangers I shall kill you!”

With a final vicious cuff he knocked the child into a far corner of the

tent, where she lay stifling her moans, while The Sheik paced to and

fro muttering to himself. At the entrance sat Mabunu, muttering and

chuckling.

In the camp of the strangers one was speaking rapidly to the other.

“There is no doubt of it, Malbihn,” he was saying. “Not the slightest;

but why the old scoundrel hasn’t claimed the reward long since is what

puzzles me.”

“There are some things dearer to an Arab, Jenssen, than money,”

returned the first speaker—“revenge is one of them.”

“Anyhow it will not harm to try the power of gold,” replied Jenssen.

Malbihn shrugged.

“Not on The Sheik,” he said. “We might try it on one of his people; but

The Sheik will not part with his revenge for gold. To offer it to him

would only confirm his suspicions that we must have awakened when we

were talking to him before his tent. If we got away with our lives,

then, we should be fortunate.”

“Well, try bribery, then,” assented Jenssen.

But bribery failed—grewsomely. The tool they selected after a stay of

several days in their camp outside the village was a tall, old headman

of The Sheik’s native contingent. He fell to the lure of the shining

metal, for he had lived upon the coast and knew the power of gold. He

promised to bring them what they craved, late that night.

Immediately after dark the two white men commenced to make arrangements

to break camp. By midnight all was prepared. The porters lay beside

their loads, ready to swing them aloft at a moment’s notice. The armed

_askaris_ loitered between the balance of the _safari_ and the Arab

village, ready to form a rear guard for the retreat that was to begin

the moment that the head man brought that which the white masters

awaited.

Presently there came the sound of footsteps along the path from the

village. Instantly the _askaris_ and the whites were on the alert. More

than a single man was approaching. Jenssen stepped forward and

challenged the newcomers in a low whisper.

“Who comes?” he queried.

“Mbeeda,” came the reply.

Mbeeda was the name of the traitorous head man. Jenssen was satisfied,

though he wondered why Mbeeda had brought others with him. Presently he

understood. The thing they fetched lay upon a litter borne by two men.

Jenssen cursed beneath his breath. Could the fool be bringing them a

corpse? They had paid for a living prize!

The bearers came to a halt before the white men.

“This has your gold purchased,” said one of the two. They set the

litter down, turned and vanished into the darkness toward the village.

Malbihn looked at Jenssen, a crooked smile twisting his lips. The thing

upon the litter was covered with a piece of cloth.

“Well?” queried the latter. “Raise the covering and see what you have

bought. Much money shall we realize on a corpse—especially after the

six months beneath the burning sun that will be consumed in carrying it

to its destination!”

“The fool should have known that we desired her alive,” grumbled

Malbihn, grasping a corner of the cloth and jerking the cover from the

thing that lay upon the litter.

At sight of what lay beneath both men stepped back—involuntary oaths

upon their lips—for there before them lay the dead body of Mbeeda, the

faithless head man.

Five minutes later the _safari_ of Jenssen and Malbihn was forcing its

way rapidly toward the west, nervous askaris guarding the rear from the

attack they momentarily expected.