A FLIGHT--AND A FIGHT
Mrs. Haxton was no laggard in her hammock on the day after Royson's
departure from the camp, but, early riser though she was, Irene was up
and dressed when the older woman came to her tent and asked if she
might have a word with her. In fact, Irene had not undressed at all the
previous night. When she tore herself from Dick's arms, she hurried
back to the oasis, it is true, but only to draw a chair out into the
open, and sit there under the stars, dreaming the dreams of a girl to
whom the heaven of love has just thrown wide its portals.
Even the midnight chill did not drive her to bed. She closed the flap
of her tent, lit a lamp, and tried to read, but the letters danced
before her eyes. Instead of the scenes portrayed by the book, she saw
three ghostly camels shuffling through stones and sand in the darkness,
and, on one of them, the tall figure of the man whose parting words had
filled her soul with honey sweetness. At last, weary with anxiety on
his behalf, she threw herself, fully dressed, on her low-hung hammock,
this being Mr. Fenshawe's clever device to protect European skins from
the attacks of the insects that swarm in the desert wherever there is
any sign of dampness. She slept a few fitful hours, and her first
waking thought was a prayer for Dick's well-being.
Then came Mrs. Haxton, and the girl received her with unaffected
friendliness, being in the mood that demanded the sympathy she was
prepared to offer to all who suffered. Her visitor was observant. Her
woman's eyes noted that Irene was still attired in a muslin dinner
dress, whereas she invariably wore a riding costume of brown holland or
Assam silk in the morning.
"My dear Irene," she said, "I hope you will not allow that stupid
dispute of yesterday to worry you into sleepless nights."
"But I have slept--quite a long time," was the girl's smiling
disclaimer.
"Well, now--let us consider. Mr. Royson left the camp about ten
o'clock. A young lady who shall be nameless said good-bye to him half
an hour later--"
"You saw me?" Irene flushed scarlet.
"No, indeed. I was too busy with my own sad affairs to act the part of
a female Paul Pry, even involuntarily. But I did see you go to your
tent, and I caught a glimpse of you at midnight when you were lighting
your lamp. It is not yet six, so I am guessing things."
"If I were to return the compliment--"
"You would say that I, too, was not a heavy sleeper. Well, I make no
secret of a perturbed night. That is why I am here now. I want your
help, Irene. Strange as it may seem, I appeal to you because I know you
have always been opposed to my aims. Perhaps I am to blame for that.
Had I forced Baron von Kerber to take you and Mr. Fenshawe fully into
his confidence, events might have shaped themselves quite differently.
But it is too late to talk of what might have been. You are more
concerned with the future than with the past. Last night, while you
were looking into the wonderland of the years to come, I was reviewing
lost opportunities. Therefore, I come to you this morning somewhat
chastened in spirit. May I talk without reserve?"
"Please, do," cried Irene, drawing her chair closer. In the sharp
clarity of sunrise she saw that Mrs. Haxton's beautiful face was drawn
and haggard. She was beginning to probe unsuspected depths in this
woman's temperament. She understood something of the intense
disappointment which the failure of the expedition must evoke in one to
whom wealth and all that it yields constituted the breath of life. And
then, she was in love, which predisposes its votaries towards charity.
Mrs. Haxton sighed. A consummate actress, for once her art was
supplemented by real feeling.
"Ah," she murmured, her eyes filling with tears, "I find your pity hard
to bear."
"Surely you are not going to cry just because I am sorry for you,"
cried the girl. "There now. Don't give way. Let me call one of the men.
He will bring us some tea, and we can have a nice long chat before
breakfast."
"Yes, do that. We both need it. My grief is rather selfish, Irene. I
know your secret, dear girl, and I wish you every happiness, though the
phrase carries with it the bitter self-communion that, for my own part,
I have forfeited most things that make life happy. Well, that is not
what I want to say. The storm has passed. Summon your slave, and bid
the kettle boil."
Surprised and touched by the emotion displayed by her companion, Irene
hastened to procure the beverage which Providence evidently intended
for the consolation of afflicted womankind. The camp was already astir,
and the crew of the _Aphrodite_ were preparing their morning meal, so
two cups of hot tea were quickly available.
When Mrs. Haxton spoke again, the tears had gone, and her voice resumed
its pleasantly modulated tone.
"May I begin by assuming that you intend to marry Mr. Royson?" she
asked.
Irene laughed softly, and her glance wandered beyond the busy camp to
the distant hills.
"I have known more unlikely events to happen," she said.
"I thought so. I recognized the symptoms. Well, I want to make a sort
of bargain with you. If you help me, I can help you, and, to show that
I can give effect to my words, I shall tell you exactly what form my
help will take before I state the nature of the assistance I ask from
you, so that you may be at perfect liberty to give or withhold it as
you choose."
"This is a rather one-sided contract, is it not?"
"No. I fancy it will be equitable. I have not lived in close intimacy
with you during so many weeks without arriving at a fair estimate of
your character. You are one of the fortunate people, Irene, who find it
more blessed to give than to receive. At any rate I am satisfied to
settle matters that way. And to come to the point, while you may
experience grave difficulty in obtaining your grandfather's consent to
your marriage with a penniless young gentleman of striking physique but
no profession--Mr. Royson being even a second mate on sufferance, so to
speak--the aspect of your affairs changes materially when your suitor
becomes Sir Richard Royson, Baronet, with a fine estate and a rent-roll
of five thousand pounds a year."
"How can you possibly know that?" gasped Irene, spilling half her tea
in sheer excitement.
"It is more than possible--It is true. I happen to be aware of the
facts. That thrice fortunate young man came into our lives at a moment
when, by the merest chance, I was able to acquire some knowledge of his
family history. His uncle, the twenty-sixth baronet, I believe,
sustained an accident in childhood which unhappily made him a cripple
and a hunchback. He grew up a misanthrope. He hated his only brother
because he was tall and strong as befitted one of the race, and his
hatred became a mania when Captain Henry Royson married a young lady on
whom the dwarf baronet had set his mind. There never was the least
reason to believe that she would have wed Sir Richard, but that did not
prevent him from pursuing her with a spite and vindictiveness that
earned him very bad repute in Westmoreland. His brother and nephew
were, however, his heirs, though the estate was a poor one, but, when
minerals were discovered on the property, he persuaded Captain Royson
to agree that the entail should be broken, as certain business
developments could then be carried out more effectively. This was a
reasonable thing in itself, but, unhappily, the younger brother was
killed in the hunting-field, and some legal kink in the affair enabled
the baronet to reduce the widow and her son to actual poverty. Young
Royson made a gallant attempt to support his mother, but she died
nearly five years ago. Naturally, there was a mortal feud between him
and his uncle. Sir Richard's constant aim has been to crush his nephew.
He arranged matters so that the bare title alone would pass to the heir
at his death. Yet, on the very day that young Royson stopped your
frightened horses in Buckingham Palace Road, the baronet slipped on the
oak floor of the picture gallery in Orme Castle--that is the name of
their place in the North--and injured his spine. The nearness of death
seems to have frightened him into an act of retribution. He made a new
will, constituting your Richard his heir, and he died the day before
our caravan left Pajura."
A certain cold disdain had crept into Irene's face as she listened.
Mrs. Haxton was well aware of the change in the girl's manner, but she
did not interrupt the thread of her story, nor seek to alter its
significance.
"Mr. Royson knows nothing of these later events that are so vitally
important to him?" she asked, when the other woman's quiet narration
ceased its even flow.
"No."
"Then how is it--"
"That I am better informed? It is quite simple. Baron von Kerber
intercepted and read all letters and telegrams that came for him by
camel post."
Irene rose. Anger flamed in her face, and her brown eyes darkened.
"You dare to tell this to me?" she said.
"Exactly. You gave me permission to speak unreservedly. Please sit
down. I have not finished yet."
Somehow, despite her indignation, the girl was swayed into compliance.
"You forget that the twenty-sixth Sir Richard was dead, and that it
really did not matter one jot to the twenty-seventh whether he learnt
the news a few weeks earlier or later. But it mattered everything to
us, to Baron von Kerber and myself, I mean. We were determined that
this expedition should succeed, and we boggled at no means which
promised to achieve our end. We have been beaten, but not through any
fault of ours. We felt, not without good reason, that if Mr. Royson
were compelled to return home you would be converted from a passive
into an active enemy. So we adopted the leave-well-enough-alone policy,
and, as one woman speaking to another, I really don't see what you have
to grumble about. Blame us as much as you like, you still have the
delightful knowledge that the progress of your love affair was
unaffected by titles or wealth, and I have left to you the pleasant
duty of telling your fiancé of his good fortune."
"I am afraid your reasoning is too plausible for my poor wits, Mrs.
Haxton," said the girl slowly. "Indeed, I am not sure that I care to
listen to you any further."
"But you must, you shall," came the fierce outburst. "Do you think I am
lowering myself in your eyes without cause? I have told you the plain
truth, careless of the worst interpretation you may choose to place on
my motives. Now, in return, I want you to make these things known to
Mr. Fenshawe. He will be even more disgusted with Baron von Kerber and
my wretched self than he is at present, if that be possible. Hence, he
will agree, in all probability, to do what we ask--we wish him to give
us sufficient equipment and escort to travel direct to the coast from
here--at once--within the hour. When we reach the sea we can cross to
Aden in an Arab dhow, and neither Mr. Fenshawe nor you will ever see or
hear from us again, save in a business sense. It is not a wildly
extravagant demand. None of us can look forward with pleasure to a
month's journey in company back to Pajura. If I go to Mr. Fenshawe with
the proposal I have made to you, he will suspect some hidden intent. He
will believe you, and you can convince him that it is the only
satisfactory way out of a disagreeable position."
A full minute elapsed before Irene answered.
"I take it that you are here with Baron von Kerber's consent," she said.
"Yes. We discussed matters from every aspect last night. That is why I
am so well posted in your movements. We prefer not to await Mr.
Royson's return. Alfieri has defeated us. We have lost caste with you
and your grandfather. For Heaven's sake, let us go!"
Again there was a pause. For some reason, Irene's sympathies conquered
her again. She had risen, and she approached a little nearer.
"I wish to say," she murmured, "that--I am--sorry for you."
Mrs. Haxton looked up at her. Her face was frozen with misery. She
seemed to be incapable of tears just then. She stood up, held herself
erect for an instant, and walked out of the tent.
"Thank you," she said, without turning her head, as though she wished
to avoid the girl's eyes, "Now go, please. Tell Mr. Fenshawe that we
shall be glad to get away while it is possible to march. If your
grandfather sanctions our plan, we have all details ready for his
approval. There need be no delay. We do not want a great deal in the
way of stores, and we give our promise to repay the small sum of money
which will be necessary for the voyage to Aden and thence to London."
Irene, conscious of some unknown element in this wholly unexpected
outcome of the previous evening's discord, hurried off to arouse her
grandfather. At that hour the _kafila_ was usually beginning the day's
march, but Mr. Fenshawe, like the others, had remained up late, and he
was unwilling to be disturbed until his servant told him that his
granddaughter was exceedingly anxious to see him.
As soon as she began to relate Mrs. Haxton's story, she realized that
it implied a confession of the attachment existing between Royson and
herself. She stammered and flushed when it came to explaining the
interest she took in all appertaining to Dick, but the old gentleman
listened gravely and without comment.
"What do _you_ think, Irene?" he asked when she had finished.
"I think we should all be happier and freer from restraint if Mrs.
Haxton and the Baron left us," she said.
"I agree with you. Mrs. Haxton, as a chaperone, can easily be dispensed
with. You say they have a scheme drawn up for my signature--setting
forth the number of camels, etc., they need? Bring it to me. We can go
through it together, and you and Stump can check the actual splitting
up of the caravan. Of course, they know that we have a thirty days'
march before us, as compared with their five or six, and we may also be
compelled to remain here another day or two. In the matter of funds I
shall be generous, at any rate where the woman is concerned. I believe
that von Kerber is a scoundrel, that he has led her blindfolded along a
path of villainy, and she thinks now that she cannot recede. However,
let us see what they want."
He was somewhat surprised to find that their demands were studiously
moderate. Their tent equipage, seven days' supplies, a dozen camels,
two horses, and the necessary number of men, made up the list. Mr.
Fenshawe gave them sufficient silver for current expenses, and a draft
payable in Aden for the steamer and hotel charges, while he sent Mrs.
Haxton a note offering her five hundred pounds when she arrived in
London, and promising further assistance in the future if she shook
herself free of von Kerber.
Irene, who was acquainted with her grandfather's liberal intent,
watched Mrs. Haxton closely while she read that kindly message. Her
pallid face was unmoved. Its statuesque rigor gave no hint of the
thoughts that raged behind the mask.
"Tell Mr. Fenshawe that he has acted exactly as I expected," was her
listless reply, and, within five minutes, the small cavalcade started.
Mrs. Haxton elected to ride a Somali pony. She mounted unaided, forced
the rather unruly animal to canter to the head of the caravan, and thus
deliberately hid herself from further scrutiny.
"Poor thing!" murmured Irene with a sigh of relief, and hardly
conscious that she was addressing Stump. "I cannot help pitying her,
though I am glad she has gone."
"She an' the Baron make a good pair, Miss," said Stump. "I've had my
eye on 'em, an' they're up to some mischief now, or my name ain't wot
it is."
The girl glanced at him wonderingly, for the sturdy sailor's outspoken
opinion fitted in curiously with her own half-formed thought.
"You would not say that if you knew why they have left us," she said.
"Mebbe not, Miss Fenshawe, an' mebbe you've on'y heard half a yarn, if
you'll pardon my way of puttin' it. Anyway, the Baron is in a mighty
hurry to be off; an' isn't it plain enough that he doesn't want to be
here when Mr. Royson comes back? You mark my words, Miss. You'll hear
something that'll surprise you when our second mate heaves in sight."
Never did man prophesy more truly, yet never was prophet more amazed at
his own success....
Royson and Abdur Kad'r, flying for their lives, spurred on by the
further knowledge that even if they escaped capture or death they yet
had to undertake a difficult journey on tired beasts if they would save
the expedition from the attack evidently meditated by Alfieri and his
cohort of plunderers, the two, then--Englishman and Arab--rode like men
who valued their necks but lightly.
Bullets sang close to their ears, and one actually chipped the stock of
Dick's rifle, almost unseating him by the force of the blow. But the
Bisharins were excited, and forgot their fatigue for a mile or so, by
which time night fell, and the uncanny darkness soon rendered it quite
impossible to ride at all. They dismounted, and led the camels. Abdur
Kad'r, true son of the desert, pressed forward nimbly, since every yard
gained was a yard stolen from the pursuers. After a while they were
able to mount again, but now the jaded camels lagged, and not all the
sheik's prayers or imprecations could force them even into the
regulation pace of two and a half miles an hour.
To make matters worse, a hot breeze sprang up from the south, and
stirred the desert into curling sand-wraiths, which blinded them and
made it hard to detect sounds even close at hand. They were fully
thirty miles distant from the camp, with eight hours of darkness before
them, during which time they could hope to cover only half the march.
The thought rose unbidden that the remaining half must be undertaken in
daylight, with wornout camels, while the Hadendowa _kafila_ was
presumably in fresh condition.
Something of the sort must have been in Abdur Kad'r's mind when, he
said:
"The misbegotten thieves who follow, Effendi, will count on overtaking
us soon after daybreak. We must keep the water-bags fastened until the
dawn. Then let the camels empty them."
Royson silently debated the chances for and against an endeavor to rush
the journey on foot. If practicable, he would have attempted it,
leaving the Arab to save himself and the camels by adopting a longer
route. He decided that the project must fail. He could not find the
road at night, and his thin boots would be cut to pieces by the rocks
before he had gone many miles.
Yet, if they were overtaken, what would happen to Irene and the others?
A sharp pain gripped his breast, and his eyes clouded. He threw back
his head, and passed a hand over his clammy brow. The action seemed to
clear his brain, and he saw instantly that there was only one course
open to him. "Abdur Kad'r," he said, when a level space enabled them to
walk side by side, "which of our camels is the stronger?"
"They are both weary, Effendi, but mine has carried less weight than
yours. Ere he fell for the last time, he would lead."
"Listen, then, and do as I say. If we are attacked to-night I shall
stand and face our assailants. You ride on alone. I shall try to gain a
fair start for you. You know what depends on your efforts. Should you
fail, you not only lose life and fortune, but you also endanger the
lives of many. You must reach the camp by some means. And, when you see
Miss Fenshawe, tell her that my last thought was of her. Do you
understand?"
"Effendi--"
"Have you understood my words? Will you deliver that message?"
"Yes, Effendi, but we men of the desert do not fly while our friends
fight."
"I well believe it, Abdur Kad'r. Yet that is my order. Will you obey?"
"I like it not, Effendi."
"There is no other way. What can you suggest that will be better? I
remain--that is a settled thing. You gain nothing by not trying to
escape. And remember, these Arabs will think twice before they slay a
European."
"They will shoot first and think afterwards, Effendi."
"Well, we shall see. Perhaps they have given up the chase. In case they
come upon us, lash your camel into a trot, and wait not for me, because
I shall ride back, not forward."
The sheikh muttered a comprehensive curse on things in general and the
Hadendowa tribe in particular. They stumbled on in silence for nearly
two hours. At the end of that time they descended a difficult slope
into a deep wady. Fortunately, they had crossed it by daylight early
that morning, so its hazards were vivid in memory. In the rock-strewn
bed of the vanished river, Abdur Kad'r halted a moment. The light of
the stars was strong enough to reveal the horizon, which was visible
through the fall of the valley, and the nearer crests of the
neighboring watershed were quite distinct--showing black against
luminous ultramarine.
"That seaward track I spoke of, Effendi, passes this way to the hills.
The Well of Moses lies down there," and the Arab, more by force of
habit than because Royson could see him in that gloomy defile, threw
out his chin towards the east.
Suddenly, it struck Royson that provided he had guessed aright, the
Roman Legion which sacked Saba must have marched over this identical
spot, in their effort to reach the Nile. After twenty marches, von
Kerber said, they were waylaid by a Nubian clan and slain--every
man--from the proud tribune down to the humblest hastatus. Perhaps they
were surrounded in some such trap as this valley would provide. And
what a fight that was! What deeds of valor, what hewing and stabbing,
ere the last centurion fell at the head of the last remnant of a
cohort, and the despairing Greek commissary, gazing wild-eyed from some
nook of safety, saw the Roman eagle sink for ever!
Abdur Kad'r, little dreaming of the train of thought he had aroused,
moved on again. Dick had drawn taut the head-rope of his unwilling
camel when the brute uttered a squeal of recognition, and both men saw
several mounted Arabs silhouetted against the northern sky-line. An
answering grunt came from one of their camels, and a hubbub of voices
sank faintly into the somber depths, as the wind was not felt in that
sheltered place.
The sheikh swore fluently, but Royson spoke no word until they were
free of the boulders, and had gained a passable incline which led to
the steeper path up the opposing cliff.
"Now, Abdur Kad'r--" he said.
"Name of Allah, Effendi, this thing must not be!"
"It must. Go, my good comrade. It is for the best."
Abdur Kad'r smote his camel on the cheek.
"I never imagined, Bisharin, that thou would carry me away from a
friend in danger," he growled, "but this is God's doing, and thou art a
rogue at all times. I shall either ride thee to death or kill thee for
a feast," He would not bid Royson farewell. Dick heard him tugging the
camel forward.
"Forget not my words to the Effendina," he said quietly.
"I shall not forget," came a voice from the darkness, and he was alone.
Though he knew he was face to face with death, he felt no tremor of
fear. He surveyed his position coolly, and took his stand in the shadow
of a mass of granite close to whose base the track wound up the
hillside. In case the unexpected happened, he fastened his camel to a
loose stone behind the rock, and the poor animal knelt instantly,
thinking that a night's rest was vouchsafed at last. Dick threw off the
Arab robes he had worn since Abdur Kad'r and he climbed the hill
overlooking Suleiman's Well. He opened and closed the breech of his
heavy double-barreled Express rifle to make sure that the sand clouds
had not clogged its mechanism, and fingered the cartridges in his
cross-belt.
Then he waited. It would take the Hadendowas fully five minutes to come
up with him, and he experienced a feeling akin to astonishment that he
could bide his time so patiently, without any pang of anxiety, or hope,
or agonizing misgiving. He thought of Irene, but only of her welfare.
If he were not brought down by a chance bullet early in the fray, he
felt quite certain of being able to stave off the final rush long
enough to give Abdur Kad'r a breathing spell, he had sufficient
confidence in that wily old Arab's resources to believe that he would
outwit his pursuers, provided they lost a good deal of time in passing
this barrier.
Plan he had none, save to hail the enemy in Arabic and English, and
then put up a strenuous fight for the benefit of those who approached
nearest.
Round the shoulder of the rock he could look eastward, and a glimmering
mist in that direction reminded him of the sea, and of the _Aphrodite_.
What a difference a hundred miles made! The luxuriously appointed yacht
sailed out there in the midst of the ghostly cloud not so long ago. And
here was he, clutching a rifle and preparing to sell his life in order
to save most of her passengers and crew from a sudden attack by a gang
of bloodthirsty ruffians led by a frenzied Italian. As a study in
contrasts that was rather striking, he fancied.
At last he heard the shuffling of camels' feet and the mutterings of
men. The Hadendowas were crossing the river bed.
"Stop!" he shouted, in Arabic. "You die otherwise!"
There was an instant silence. They were evidently not prepared for this
bold challenge.
"I am an Englishman," he added, still in Arabic, and, in the belief
that some of them might at least recognize the sound of English, he
went on:
"You have no right to molest me and my servants. I call on you to
return to your master, and set at liberty the Arab Hussain--"
He was answered by a perfect blaze of rifles. Every man fired at
random. At least a dozen bullets crashed against the rock. A violent
tug at his left sleeve and some spatters of hot lead on his cheek
showed that one missile had come too near to be pleasant. After passing
through his coat it had splashed on the granite just behind him.
He did not speak again, nor would he fire until sure of a mark. Another
volley lit the darkness. This time he made out the forms of his
attackers. They were standing some twenty yards away, and he marveled
that they seemed not to see him; though he reflected at once, with the
utmost nonchalance, that the blinding flash of the guns screened him
quite effectually from their eyes.
Then he saw two dim figures moving swiftly forward. He brought both
down, and their yells rent the air.
He sprang sideways, as far as the narrow road permitted, and reloaded.
The Arabs aimed wildly at the place where he had just been standing.
One of their number screamed a command, and they made a combined rush.
He fired both barrels into their midst, clubbed his rifle and jumped
forward. That was good generalship, of the sort dear to the heart of
his great ancestor. At the first tremendous sweep of his weapon he
broke off its stock against an Arab's body. That did not matter. The
heavy barrels were staunch, and iron deals harder blows than wood. He
was active as a cat, and had the strength of any four of his
adversaries. With lightning-like whirls he smote them so resolutely
that when five were laid low the rest broke, and ran. He actually
pursued them, and brought down two more, before he stumbled over the
body of one whom he had shot.
And that ended the fight. He heard men scrambling over the rocks in
panic, and he knew by the grunting and groaning of distant camels that
all the _kafila_ had stampeded. Searching the fallen man at his feet,
he found a full cartridge-belt and rifle. He took them, lest there
should be further need, but did not relinquish the trusty weapon which
had more than equalized an unequal combat.
Then he went to his camel. The terrified brute had risen, and was
tugging madly at its rope. It seemed to recognize him, and be grateful
for his presence, if ever a camel can display gratitude. He gave it the
contents of the water-bag, led it to the top of the cliff, and stood
there a brief space to listen. Some wounded men were calling loudly for
help, and he was sorry for the poor wretches; but there was no response
from their flying comrades. He fixed on a star to guide his course by,
mounted, and rode away to the south, trusting more to his camel's sense
of direction than to his own efforts to keep on the track.
When dawn appeared, a dawn that was glorious to him beyond measure, he
caught sight of a precipitous hill which he remembered passing on the
outward march. Looking back at the first favorable point, he could see
nothing that betokened the presence of Hadendowas, or any other human
beings, in all that far-flung solitude. Were it not for the presence of
the Italian rifle and cartridge-belt, and the blood-stained gun-barrels
resting across his knees, the fierce struggle in that forbidding valley
might have been the delirium of a fever-dream.
He rode on, munching contentedly at a biscuit from his haversack, until
his glance was drawn to a cloud of dust hanging in the air, for the
unpleasant wind of the previous night had given way to a softer and
cooler breeze. He read its token correctly, and smiled at the picture
which his fancy drew of Stump, when that choleric skipper heard what
had happened to his second mate. Surely he would be among those now
hurrying to the rescue!
And he was not mistaken. With Stump came Abdur Kad'r, six of the
_Aphrodite's_ crew, and a score of well-armed Arabs and negroes. Even
before they met, Royson saw two Arabs race back towards the camp, and
Stump, after the first hearty congratulations, explained the hurry of
those messengers.
"It's mainly on account of Miss Irene," he said. "She took on something
awful when the sheikh blew in an' tole us you had gone under. He heard
the shootin', you see, an', accordin' to his account, you were as full
of lead as Tagg'll be full of beer when he listens to the yarn I'll
spin nex' time we meet."
Abdur Kad'r's black eyes sparkled when Royson spoke to him.
"_Salaam aleikum_, Effendi!" he cried. "You have redeemed my honor.
Never again could I have held up my head had you been slain while I
ran. And that shaitan of a camel--he stirred himself. By the Prophet, I
must kill an older one to make a feast for my men."