THE RUSSIAN DAGGER
Johnny Thompson, with his interpreter by his side, found himself in the
camp of the Mongols. It was a vast tented city, a moving city of traders.
Down its snow-trod streets drifted yellow people of all descriptions. Men,
women and children moved past him. Some were young, some very old. All
appeared crafty and capable of treachery.
"It was against these people that the Chinese built their great wall,"
said Johnny thoughtfully. "I don't wonder."
"When do we see his highness, the great high chief who deals in cattle?"
His interpreter smiled. "I have just come from there. We may go to see him
now."
Johnny twisted one shoulder as if adjusting a heavy burden, then turned to
follow the interpreter.
He did not like the looks of things; he longed to be safely back in
Vladivostok with Mazie. There were times like this when he wished he had
not taken it upon himself to play the fairy godfather to Russia's starving
hosts. But since he had undertaken the task, however difficult it might
prove, he must carry on.
He soon found himself sitting cross-legged on a floor so deeply imbedded
in soft, yielding skins that he sank half out of sight beneath them.
Before him, also reposing in this sea of softness, was a Mongol of unusual
size, whose face was long and solemn. He puffed incessantly at a
long-stemmed Russian pipe.
Forming the third corner of the triangle, was the little interpreter.
The two members of the yellow race conversed in low tones for some time.
At last the interpreter turned to Johnny:
"I have told him that you want to buy cattle, much cattle. He say, how
much you want to pay? How you want to pay? How much you want to buy?"
"You tell him that I saw six of his cattle out here just now. They are
very poor. But we will take them--maybe. Ask him how much?"
"He say, have you got gold?"
"You say," grinned Johnny, "that we have got gold. We don't need a
button-hook to button up our purse, but we've got gold. We pay gold. How
much?"
The interpreter puckered up his brow and conveyed the message. The Mongol
mumbled an answer.
"He say, how much you want pay?"
"Tell him for six cattle I pay one pound gold. All same."
He drew from his pocket a small leather sack, and unlacing the strings
held it open before the Mongol.
The crafty eyes of the trader half closed at sight of the glistening
treasure. His greedy fingers ran through it again and again. Then he
grunted.
"He say," droned the interpreter, "how much cattle you want to buy?"
"Maybe three hundred," stated Johnny casually.
The interpreter started, but delivered the message.
The Mongol, upon receiving this word, sprang from the furs like a jack
from his box and hot words rushed rapidly from his lips.
When he had finished, the interpreter explained that he said Johnny was
jesting with him. It was impossible that anyone would buy three hundred
head of cattle with gold in the starving land of Russia.
The Mongol sank back to his place among the furs, and the bickering was
continued. For two hours it waged, ending finally by the promise of the
Mongol that, in the morning, the cattle should be at hand; that they would
be better than those Johnny had seen; and that Johnny's "beggarly" price
of one pound of gold for six cattle would be accepted.
Once the bargaining was over, the Mongol was transformed in a second's
time into the most charming of hosts. Johnny and his interpreter must dine
with him. Yes, indeed! They must sleep in his tent that night. They should
talk long and of many things. It was not often that he had the honor of
playing host to such a rich and clever guest. Indeed, it was not. But they
should not converse so long together that Johnny and his most excellent
interpreter should be robbed of their night's repose.
Several hours later, Johnny was buried to the point of smothering beneath
rugs of fur that would bring the price of a king's ransom. His mind was
still in a whirl. Perhaps it was the tea, perhaps the excitement of big
business, and again, it may have been a premonition of things to happen.
Whatever it may have been, he could not sleep.
His racing mind whispered to him of treachery out of the night. It had
been a wonderful evening. They had been treated to a feast such as he had
seldom dreamed of. Surely these Mongols could concoct from beef, rice,
sweet potatoes and spices the most wonderful of viands. And, as for tea,
he had never tasted real tea before. The aroma of it still haunted his
nostrils.
And the Mongol had told him many things. He had traveled far, had this
trader; he had seen much. He spoke of Russia, of China, Japan and India.
He told of matters that made Johnny's blood run cold, of deeds done in
that border-land between great countries, each seething with revolution
and bloodshed. Not that he, the Mongolian, had done these things, but he
had seen them accomplished. And he had traded for the spoils, the spoils
of rich Russians driven from their own land and seeking refuge in another.
He was a trader. It was his business. He must have profit. What should one
do? If he did not take the riches, another would. But as for committing
these deeds himself, Confucius forbid it; he had scowled to show his
disapproval.
At the same time, as Johnny thought it all through, and felt the hard
lumps about him that were sacks of gold, he found it very difficult to
fall asleep.
His interpreter, lying not an arm's length away, breathed with the steady
ease of one in deep slumber. The Mongol had drawn a curtain of ermine
skins between them and his own bed. Could it be that this interpreter had
made his way into the good graces of Mazie only to turn murderer and
robber at the proper time? Johnny had only Mazie's word that the person
could be trusted, and Mazie was but a girl, not accustomed to the
deep-seated treachery in the oriental mind.
He had traveled far that day; he had talked long and dined well; he was a
healthy human being; and sleep came at last.
How long he had slept, he did not know when he was awakened by an
indescribable sensation. Had he heard something, felt something? He could
not tell. He breathed on, the steady deep breath of a sleeper, and did not
stir, but he opened an eye a mere crack. A shadow stretched across him. It
was made by a person who stood between him and an oriental lamp which
flickered dimly in the corner. His eye sought the place where the
interpreter lay. The skins were too deep there and he could not tell
whether he was there or not.
The shadow shifted. The person was moving into view. He could see him now.
He was short and brown of face.
"The interpreter!" These words formed themselves on his lips, but were not
spoken.
The next second he knew it was not the interpreter, for there came a stir
at his side as the interpreter sat up.
So there were two of them. Treachery! Well, he should not die alone. His
hand gripped the cold steel of his automatic. He tilted it ever so
slightly. Fired from where it lay, it would send a bullet crashing through
the crouching interpreter's chest. He was about to pull the trigger when
something arrested his attention.
A blade gleamed in the hand of the interpreter. Even in this darkness, he
recognized the weapon as one he had taken from a would-be murderer, a
Russian Chukche. He had given it to a very good friend, a Japanese
lady--Cio-Cio-San!
A cold chill ran down his spine. Had he come near killing a friend? Was
this one crouching in the act of defending him against an enemy? Cold
perspiration stood out upon his brow. He made a tremendous effort to
continue breathing evenly. He could only take a desperate chance and await
the turn of events.
* * * * *
Hardly had Dave Tower discovered the imminent peril of drifting out over
the ice-packed sea, than a ray of hope came to him. Scattered along the
mainland of this vast continent there was, here and there, an island.
Should they be so fortunate as to drift upon one of these, they might be
saved.
Hurriedly climbing down from his perilous perch, he hastened to inform
Jarvis of their position.
"Blind my eyes!" exclaimed Jarvis. "Wot don't 'appen to us ain't worth
'appenin'."
Then Dave told him of his hope that there might be an island ahead.
"I 'opes so," said Jarvis, as he seized a glass and rushed outside to scan
the broken surface of the sea.
In the meantime, the balloon was sinking rapidly. It was only a matter of
time until the cabin would bump upon an ice-pile. Then it was doubtful if
even the quickest action could save their lives.
They brought the stranger, who was now able to sit up and stare about him,
to the outer deck. He gazed down at the swaying, flying landscape and was
badly frightened when he discovered that they were in midair, but Dave
reassured him, while Jarvis brought sleeping-bags and boxes of food to a
position by the rail.
"If the worst 'appens, we'll at least h'eat and sleep on the floe until it
'eaps up an' buries us," he grumbled.
"Land ahead!" exclaimed Dave suddenly, throwing down his glasses and
rushing inside the cabin. He was out again in a moment, bearing on his
shoulder a coil of steel cable, and dragging a heavy land anchor after
him.
"We may be able to save the old boat yet," he yelled excitedly. "Jarvis,
bring out the rope ladder."
Jarvis hastened inside and reappeared almost immediately with the ladder.
"It's an island," said Dave, "and, as far as I can judge, we're only two
or three hundred feet from its surface when we get above it. We'll throw
over the anchor and if it catches somewhere, we'll go down the ladder. In
time the balloon will lose gas enough to bring her to earth."
"You 'ave a good 'ead, me lad," approved Jarvis. "'Ere's 'opin' it 'appens
that way!"
It did happen that way, and, in due course of time, the three men found
themselves on the brow of a low plateau which seemed as deserted as the
pyramids of Egypt, and quite as barren of life.
"One thing's sure," said Dave. "We've got to get the gas back into that
old cloth tank and catch a fair wind, or get that engine to working, if we
don't wish to starve."
"Aye," said Jarvis.
"There's a strange pile of rocks up on the ledge there. I'm going for a
look at it," said Dave.
He returned in a few moments, mingled excitement and amusement on his
face.
"Jarvis," he smiled happily, "we're not so badly off, after all. Here we
are right back in old United States of America!"
"United States?" Jarvis stared.
"Says so in this message I found in a brass can. Says--"
Dave broke off suddenly. Something on the crest to the right of them had
caught his attention. Grasping his automatic, Dave went skulking away in
the shadow of the hill.
Jarvis, too, had seen it and awaited the outcome of this venture with
eager expectancy.