EDITH RIDES ALONE
In the varied collection of guidebooks and tourist schedules in the
possession of Miss Catherine Rand there had been one pamphlet that
described briefly the location, climate, picturesqueness, points of
interest, population, and means of travel of the mountain city of
Kashgar.
Four kingdoms, said the guidebook in florid phrases, met at the center
of the Himalayas. But the makers of maps hesitated over the Himalayas.
They were a no man's land. Only in Kashgaria did the slovenly,
quilted, musket-bearing soldiers of the Celestial Republic emerge from
guardhouses of mud and cry "Halt!"
But the guidebook _did_ say that there were two Kashgars, two cities:
the old and the new, some five miles apart. In the new were progressive
Chinese merchants, silk-clad magistrates, and the Taotai with all his
pomp and power; likewise Samarkand and Punjabi traders, two isolated
but indefatigable British missionaries, and even a native officer of
British India who acted as a makeshift _chargé d'affaires_.
Edith Rand had not seen the guidebook. She was ignorant of the nature
of the two towns of Kashgar. Iskander of Tahir would have said that
destiny drew her to the older city, away from the men of her own race.
To tell the truth, Edith came to the crossroads leading to the two
towns and chose the walled town swiftly--swiftly because she feared
pursuit, and because the wall suggested to the girl, who was not
acquainted with the vagaries of architecture in the Orient, more of a
sanctum than the rambling streets of the modern Kashgar.
Not that she fancied, even in her agitation, that the men of the
caravan were immediately behind her. Experience had taught Edith the
utmost speed of the powerful Bactrian camels, and the length of time
needed to propel, beat, and curse the protesting beasts into momentum;
and Iskander's horse, even if the Arab had set out at once on her
track, was tired. The white stallion was fleet of gait. The high-peaked
saddle afforded the girl a rough pommel for her knee.
Her spirits rose as rider and horse swept downhill through broken
brush, past cypress clumps tranquil in the quiet of evening, into the
dust haze that hung over the sandy expanse, with its spots of verdure
lining rough canals.
The beat of the white stallion's hoofs struck an echo of joy in Edith's
heart. She was free! Surely, there would be somebody in Kashgar to
appeal to for protection from Iskander--local authorities, perhaps even
Arthur Rand.
They had passed outlying huts by the canals where ragged children
stood at gaze, peering through the soft dust which is ever in the air
of Kashgar. The stallion's hoofs left a trail of denser dust. Now, he
slowed obstinately to a walk, panting and grinding at the bit.
Edith urged him on under an archway through the wall of the town. They
pounded over a ramshackle wooden bridge which spanned the ancient moat
under the wall. And a myriad smells assailed horse and rider. Edith
grimaced and the stallion fought for his head.
It was by then the last afterglow of evening. Purple and velvety
crimson overspread the sky. Stars glimmered into being and slender
minarets uprose against the vista of distant mountains. There was a
great quiet in the atmosphere; but in the streets of the old city of
Kashgar pandemonium reigned.
Into a narrow alley, flanked with canopies stretched across the odorous
fronts of booths and stalls, the horse paced protesting. Figures
stepped aside reluctantly, only to hasten after. Glancing back, the
girl saw that a crowd was following her--a crowd made up of motley and
grotesque forms: smocked, wizened Chinamen; sheepskin-clad, swaggering
youths, hideously degenerate of face; bulky women with giant, gray
headdresses; half-naked urchins--all shrilling and chuckling in a dozen
tongues and with a hundred gestures.
Laden donkeys pressed against her knees. She heard the curses of the
donkeys' owners. Peering about for sign of a clean and European-looking
house, she saw only square gray and brown huts of dried mud with some
loftier edifices of blank stone walls.
A yelling lama, beating about him with a heavy staff, his body
grotesquely dressed in white and black squares of cloth with a peaked
cap of brightest orange, pushed her horse back, staring at her with
a louder yell of surprise. Behind him grunted and squealed a line of
laden camels, tied nose to rump. Dust swelled and swathed all in the
alley.
In a fury of irritation at the camels, the white stallion backed
obstinately against the open front of a structure covered with grass
matting from which lights gleamed. In the reflection, Edith could see a
leprous beggar mouthing at her.
"_Baksheesh_--plentee _baksheesh_. O my God! _Baksheesh_. O my God!"
This parrotlike ritual emerging from lips half eaten away from the
toothless mouth was his one stock in trade. Perhaps this unfortunate
plied his trade solely with the missionaries. But in Edith's
appearance, he sensed the opportunity of a declining life.
"No!" she cried, motioning him away frenziedly. "No _baksheesh_." To
the crowd she appealed eagerly. "English! Where are the English? Don't
you understand? Does any one speak English? _Sahib log!_"
A Chinese merchant of the higher ranks would undoubtedly have gone to
Edith's help, from various motives--perhaps from the instinctive good
manners of his race. A Punjabi would have defended the girl against a
mob, so strong is the bond between Briton and Indian. Even a group of
Afghans might have assisted her boldly, enjoying the excellent pretext
for beating the despised Sarts and Chinese and perhaps letting a little
blood. Lather, they would have claimed a small ransom from the _chargé
d'affaires_.
But there was no Afghan to take the center of the street against the
throng of bazaar scum, indolent Sartish townsmen, idiotic Taghlik
shepherds, and staring, ignorant Kirghiz, and all manner of diseased
filth.
All were intent on her, all gazing, all talking. She could not move
the white horse forward against these _trouards_ of the bazaar of a--to
all intents--mediæval city. Instead, her mount backed against the reed
matting that covered the enclosure front.
A fat man in a fez ran out in his slippers and started a tirade against
the invader of his premises. Then, seeing the American girl, he fell
voiceless, with his great jaws agape. He backed into the house, through
the matting, still staring.
"English! I will pay!" Edith faced her tormentors stoically. "Oh, can't
you understand? Go--_Boro! Boro!_"--a phrase borrowed from Iskander, in
anger. "Take me to the sahibs, the _effendi_!"
She paused, biting her lips. The bleared eyes stared through the dust,
emotionless. The passing camels coughed and grunted. Vile odors swept
into the girl. From behind her through the matting billowed a pungent
scent of frying fish, mutton fat, dirt, smoke, stale human breath
wine-laden, and a penetrating, sweetish aroma she did not recognize as
opium.
"_Nakir el kadr!_"
A voice bellowed near her. At once a snapping, snarling chorus of dogs
arose as the curs of the alley felt encouraged to annoy the frantic
horse. Edith saw a beast with the body of a dachshund and the head of
a mastiff snap at the stallion's flank; a brown mixture of terrier and
setter with a Pekingese tail slunk near her. A giant wolfhound bared
vicious teeth.
The mob paid no attention, never ceasing to watch her.
It was hideous for Edith to think that in another street Englishmen
might be sitting down to dinner, or the governor of the city dining
upon his terrace. Perhaps an American missionary was walking near by.
She could not move toward them--if, indeed, she knew where to go.
For the first time in her life Edith knew the meaning of real fear.
Long-nailed hands felt of the silver that ornamented the elaborate
saddle of the horse; a greasy, pudgy fist clutched suddenly the
bracelet on her arm and wrenched it off. A parchment-hued face,
wrinkled and evil as sin itself, peered up at her, a clawlike hand
holding a paper lantern to her face. Other lanterns moved jerkily along
the alley as their owners joined the assembly of spectators.
Then the voice bellowed again behind her. The wrinkled face spat, and
vanished. The thieving hands fell away reluctantly. She saw the man in
the fez bowing and holding her rein. He pointed into the house. Edith
shook her head. Bad as the alley was, she preferred it to the walls of
such a building.
Whereupon the fat man jerked down a portion of the matting, revealing
a spacious room with a stone floor and a huge pot hung over a fire in
the great hearth. Shadowy figures of veiled women were visible, and one
or two men, also stout, sitting against the wall on cushions. It seemed
to be an inn, and the perspiring proprietor made a herculean effort at
English, or rather European speech.
"_Serai_--yah! Entrrez, surre--verree good, my word! _Serai_, good,
yah!"
But Edith would not forsake the vantage point of her horse. Her woman's
wit assured her that afoot she would be helpless in the hands of the
mob.
Instead, she signed to the _serai_-keeper to send away the mob. He
nodded readily and pounced upon a half-naked boy to whom he whispered
urgently. The youth slipped out into the shadows of the alley. Edith
noticed this byplay but could not judge whether evil or good inspired
it Then the fat innkeeper summoned the sitting men with a single word.
They leaped up, grasping staves, and flew at the throng. It was fez
against turban, with objurgation rising to the roofs of the alley,
slippered feet planted against broad buttocks and staves thrust into
spitting faces.
Apparently the alley scum were not disposed to fight for the chance of
plundering the girl. They seemed listless in defense as well as attack.
The men from the inn cleared a small ring around the now passive horse
and squatted there, apparently to wait.
To Edith the pause was intolerable. She could not ride free of the
alley. The tired horse would not budge--disliking, beyond doubt, the
presence of skirts upon his back. The actions of the _serai_-keeper
suggested that he had sent for some one. For whom? Iskander?
Edith decided to wait and see. Every muscle in her slender body ached
with fatigue. She dared not dismount to ease her cramped limbs.
Where were Iskander and Aravang? Had they traced her to the walled
city? She hoped that they had taken the other turning. Every minute
increased the suspense.
Then swaggering men bearing scimitars pushed through the throng that
gave back readily. The leader of the file gripped Edith's reins and
led the stallion into the _serai_ and she recognized her friend of
the tamarisk grove. At this, the innkeeper placed matting across the
front of his room with care. One of the newcomers with bared scimitar
remained at the entrance.
"Mees Rand!" smiled the man at Edith's side, adding to himself:
"Verily is the luck of Monsey good, for here is the woman herself,
alone and quite harmless."
In this fashion he of the leadership, the soiled fez, the immense shawl
girdle and the very dirty drill suiting introduced himself--Abbas Abad,
just arrived in Kashgar--and gave sharp command to one of his men to
seek out Monsey in the new town.
To Edith, it was clear that Abbas Abad was turning deaf ear to her
pleas that he take her to the sahibs--if, indeed, he understood.
Her heart had leaped when she heard her name spoken. Eagerly she stared
at Abbas, trying to place him. Then her heart sank.
The whole appearance of the man--oily black hair, moist, bloodshot
eyes, and flabby mouth--was against him. He met her gaze boldly and
grinned, muttering to himself.
"Who is your master?" she asked.
Abbas shrugged his shoulders, not understanding. When Edith drew back,
he gripped her arm in an iron clasp and pulled downward. Instinct
warned the girl to keep to the saddle. Abbas only grinned the more
and dragged her down with the calm assurance of a constrictor coiled
about a gazelle. She slid from the saddle. And Abbas passed a tentative
hand across her slim shoulders and the breast of her jacket, after the
manner of a skilled Kirghiz feeling a sheep.
"If the American father will not pay," he muttered to himself, "you
will be worth much--much, but otherwise. A beautiful slave."
Edith shrank back from the smiling Alaman in angry revolt. The
followers of Abbas looked on apathetically but with some curiosity at
the dilemma of the white woman. Usually in Abbas' seizure of women
there had been wrangling and a price to pay. This was different. They
gazed idly at the girl's flushed face and indignant eyes.
She saw the _serai_-keeper approach Abbas servilely and the Alaman
toss him some silver coins. It was as if a price had been paid for her
capture. The cold expanse of the wall touched her back and Edith leaned
against it wearily, as she understood the true nature of these men and
the futility of her escape.
Hopelessly, she scanned the smiling Abbas, the leering innkeeper, the
two armed followers--and she saw Aravang standing inside the matting.
It did not take an instant for the girl to make up her mind which of
her captors was preferable.
"Aravang!" she called appealingly.
The sentry at the matting touched the newcomer warningly and motioned
to the alley. By way of response the scarred follower of Iskander
gripped the guard of the scimitar, jerked it from the man, struck him
viciously with the hilt between the eyes, and leaped toward Abbas.
Edith stifled a scream and watched, absorbed by the swift flash of
weapons and leap of bodies. She saw Abbas bury his knife in the arm of
Aravang--saw Aravang fling a useless sword at the remaining enemy with
his left hand and spring to grips with the powerful Alaman.
For a moment the two muscular bodies swayed and trampled across the
floor, the men cursing and panting. One of Abbas' men gripped Aravang
from behind. Whereupon Edith's guardian--for now she thought of him
so--thrust Abbas away, to reel back to the opposite wall. Then the
other assailant, gripped by the back of the neck, flew head over heels
to the floor. Aravang sprang to the hearth and flung a blazing log at
Abbas, who dodged. Seeking a new weapon, the scarred champion of Edith
bellowed defiance and seized the great black pot from its rests.
"Sayak!" he roared.
Abbas caught up one of the low tabourets that stood in front of the
cushions by the wall and advanced on Aravang, knife in hand. The pot of
steaming meat and boiling water was hurled, but the table resisted it
and the next moment Abbas was on his foe, stabbing and grunting with
rage.
Aravang was thrust back, moaning, almost into the fire. He looked over
the shoulder of his assailant, motioning, in spite of his own peril,
to Edith to run from the room. But even if she had had command of her
limbs, the two men of Abbas were hovering about the hearth with drawn
weapons. The _serai_-keeper lurked cautiously by the door, wishful to
keep intruders out, but with a keen eye for the safety of his own skin
the while.
With a cry Edith covered her eyes with her hands. She had seen Abbas'
knife flash red in the firelight--with a redness that was not of the
fire. She had seen the mute appeal in the eyes of struggling Aravang.
Two shots roared in the narrow confines of the room.
Startled anew, Edith dropped her hands. She saw Iskander's tall form
framed against the mats, a smoking revolver in his hand. The Arab's
face was utterly tranquil, save for a slight smile and a certain
alertness of the keen eyes.
The two followers of Abbas staggered and slumped slowly to the stone
floor, their hands groping and their mouths wide in dumb amazement.
Abbas himself turned from Aravang to hurl his knife. Seeing the flash
of steel, Iskander swayed aside, so that the hurtled blade barely tore
the skin of his side, pinning his cloak to the matting. He wrenched
himself free at once, but Abbas had vanished into a curtained archway.
Nor was the innkeeper any longer to be seen.
Iskander cast a brief glance at the two bodies, moving slowly on the
floor and shot a question at Aravang. The big native bared his fine
teeth in a smile and shook his head. Then the Arab took Edith by the
arm.
Revolver in hand, he led her out of the _serai_. The white stallion had
galloped free during the struggle. Iskander strode through the alley,
followed by Aravang, whose strong frame seemed able to stand upright
and walk in spite of the stabbing it had endured.
Edith was silent, feeling very much as she had felt once when her
father caught her playing truant from school and escorted her home. Dim
forms emerged to look at them and the dog pack gave tongue.
They passed under grotesque wooden arches, between tumble-down huts,
across a turgid canal on one of the curving Chinese bridges, and came
to the shadowy bulk of a waiting carriage.
Into this Iskander thrust Edith with scant ceremony. There was a roomy
space about the rear seat, covered with straw. Aravang lay down at once
and Iskander, who had jumped upon the front seat beside the driver,
called back softly for Edith to sit in the straw until they were free
of the town.
With Aravang beside her, she would Have no chance to leave the
carriage. But Edith did not intend to try. What she had seen in the
eyes of Abbas and his men had struck deep into her consciousness.
"_Allah!_" muttered the Arab impatiently.
But there was the flash of a match and the driver--a bearded giant with
bronzed, high-cheeked face, and enormous sheepskin hat--lit his pipe
with care. This done, the Kirghiz leaned back indolently and cracked
his whip.
The four-horse _tarantass_ sped through the night, under the stars. As
they went, the driver rumbled a kind of song in his throat. He seemed
utterly indifferent to the horses who plunged forward into the dark.
Again they were going up and by the feel of the wind and sight of the
stars Edith fancied they were on their former course, to the north.
Once when they stopped long enough for a man by the roadside to pass
something to Iskander--something that very much resembled the medicine
pail--she ventured to speak.
"Poor Aravang," she observed to the Arab. "Can't we stop at a house to
see how badly he is hurt?"
"A house? Before long we will come to one that is yours. Until then you
must sleep. Sleep! Aravang has said he will not die."
The callousness of the words chilled Edith more than the growing cold
into which they plunged headlong. A hand touched her and she started.
Then, since her nerves had suffered, she almost cried--out of pity.
The injured Aravang was trying to place his heavy coat about her as a
covering against the cold.