NOT A CHEERFUL OUTLOOK
George, his brain in tumult, a fierce tigerish courage giving fictitious
strength to his body, staggered toward her. It was a mad dream, a mirage
of his own disordered thoughts. Fortune there? It was not believable.
What place had she in this tangled web? He ran his fingers into his
hair, gripped, and pulled. If it was a dream the pain did not waken him;
Fortune sat there still. Through what terrors might she not have passed
the preceding night? Alone in the desert, without any of those
conveniences which are to women as necessary as the air they breathe! He
tried to run, but his feet sank too deeply into the pale sand; he could
only plod. He must touch her or hear her voice; otherwise he stood upon
the brink of madness. There was no doubt in his mind now; he loved her,
loved her as deeply and passionately as any storied knight loved his
lady; loved her without thought of reward, unselfishly, with great and
tender pity, for unconsciously he saw that she, like he, was all alone,
not only here in the desert, but along the highways where men set up
their dwellings.
Mahomed, having an eye upon all things, though apparently seeing only
that which was under his immediate concern, saw the young man's
intention, and more, read the secret in his face. He was infinitely
amused. There were two of them, so it seemed. Quietly he stepped in
between George and the girl, and his movement freed George's mind of its
bewilderment. Unhesitatingly, he flung himself upon the Arab, striving
to reach the lean, brown throat. Mahomed, strong and unwearied, having
no hand in the actual warfare, thrust George back so vigorously that the
young man lost his balance and fell prone upon the sand. He was so weak
that the fall stunned him. Mahomed stepped forward, doubtless with the
generous impulse to prove that in the matter of kicks he desired to show
no partiality, when a hand caught at his burnouse. He paused and looked
down. It was the girl.
"Don't! A brave man would not do that."
Mahomed, moved by some feeling that eluded immediate analysis, turned
about. It was time to be off, if he wished to reach Serapeum the
following night. Pursuit he knew to be out of the question, since who
was there to know that there was anything to pursue? But many miles
intervened between here and his destination. He dared not enter Serapeum
in the daytime. Lying upon the canal-bank as it did, the possibility of
encountering a stray white man confronted him. Every camel-way
frequented by Europeans must of necessity be avoided, every town of any
size skirted, and all the while he must keep parallel with known paths
or become lost himself. Not to become lost himself, that was his real
concern. The caravan was provisioned for months, and he knew Asia-Minor
as well as the lines upon his palms. There were sand-storms, too; but
against these blighting visitations he would match his vigilant eye and
the instinct of his camels. The one way in which these peculiar storms
might distress him lay in the total obliteration of the way-signs,
certain rocks, certain hills, without the guidance of which, like a good
ship bereft of its compass, he might fall away from his course,
notwithstanding that he would always travel toward the sun.
And there was also the vital question of water; he must never forget
that; he must measure the time between each well, each oasis. So, then,
aside from these dangers with which he felt able to cope, there was one
unforeseen: the chance meeting with a wandering caravan headed by white
men in search of rugs and carpets. These fools were eternally hunting
about the wastes of the world; they were never satisfied unless they
were prowling into countries where they had no business to be, were
always breaking the laws of the caliphs and the Koran.
The girl was beautiful in her pale, foreign way; beautiful as the star
of the morning, as the first rose of the Persian spring; and he sighed
for the old days that were no more. She would have brought a sultan's
ransom in the markets. But the accursed Feringhi were everywhere, and
these sickly if handsome white women were more to them than their
heart's blood; why, he had never ceased to wonder. But upon this
knowledge he had mapped out his plan of torture in regard to Ryanne. The
idea of selling Fortune had dimly formed in his mind, while his blood
had burned in anger; but today's soberness showed him the futility of
such a procedure. He would have to make the best of a foolish move; for
the girl would eventually prove an encumbrance. At any rate, he would
wring one white man's heart till it beat dry in his breast. That her
health might be ruined, that she might sicken and die, in no manner
aroused his pity. This attribute was destined never to be awakened in
Mahomed's heart.
The _kisweh_, the _kisweh_, always the Holy Yhiordes; that he must have,
even if he had to forego the pleasure of breaking Ryanne. He was too old
to start life anew; at least, too old to stir ambition. He had wielded
authority too many years to surrender it lightly; he had known too long
his golden-flaked tobacco, his sherbet, his syrupy coffee, the pleasant
loafing in the bazaars with his merchant friends. To return to the
palace, to confess to the Pasha that his carelessness had lost him the
rug, would result either in death or banishment; and so far as he was
concerned he had no choice, the one was as bad as the other. So, if the
young fool who had bought the rug of Ryanne told the truth when he
declared that it had been stolen again, then Ryanne knew where it was;
and he could be made to tell; he, Mahomed, would attend to that. And
when Ryanne confessed, the girl and the other would be conveyed to the
nearest telegraph-post. That they might at once report the abduction to
the English authorities did not worry Mahomed. Not the fleetest
racing-camel could find him, and behind the walls of the palace of
Bagdad, only Allah could touch him. He had figured it all out closely;
and he was an admirable strategist in his way. Revenge upon Ryanne for
the dishonor and humiliation, and the return of the rug; there was
nothing more beyond that.
Before George had the opportunity of speaking to Fortune, he was raised
from the sand and bodily lifted upon his camel; and by way of passing
pleasantry, his hat was jammed down over his eyes. He swore as he pulled
up the brim. Swearing was another accomplishment added to the list of
transformations. He had a deal to learn yet, but in his present mood he
was likely to proceed famously. He readjusted the hat in time to see
Ryanne unceremoniously dumped into one of the yawning pack-baskets, his
arms and legs hanging out, his head lolling against his shoulder,
exactly like a marionette, cast aside for the time being. A man of
ordinary stamina would have died under such treatment. But Ryanne
possessed an extraordinary constitution, against which years of
periodical dissipation had as yet made no permanent inroads. Moreover,
he never forgot to keep his chin up and his waist-line down. They put
him into the pack-basket because there was no alternative, being as he
was incapable of sitting upon a camel's back.
Next, George saw Fortune, unresisting, placed upon the camel, under
canopy. At least, she would know a little comfort against the day's long
ride. His heart ached to see her. He called out bravely to her to be of
good cheer. She turned and smiled; and he saw only the smile, not the
swift, decisive battle against the onset of tears: she smiled, and he
was too far away to see the swimming eyes.
A bawling of voices, a snapping of the _kurbash_ upon the flanks of the
camels, and the caravan was once more under way. George looked at his
watch, which fortunately had been overlooked by the thieving natives,
and found it still ticking away briskly. It was after nine. It was a
comfort to learn that the watch had not been injured. Most men are
methodical in the matter of time, no matter how desultory they may be in
other things. There is a peculiar restfulness in knowing what the hour
is, whether it passes quickly or whether it drags.
Further investigation revealed that his letter of credit was undisturbed
and that he was the proud possessor of six damaged cigars and a box of
cigarettes. Instantly the thought of being days without tobacco smote
him almost poignantly. He was an inveterate smoker, and the fact that
the supply was so pitiably small gave unusual zest to his craving. He
now longed for the tang of the weed upon his lips, but he held out
manfully. He would not touch a cigar or cigarette till nightfall, and
then he made up his mind to smoke half of either. The touch, selfish and
calculating, of the miser stole over him. If Ryanne was without the
soother, so much the worse for him. The six cigars he would not share
with the Archangel Michael, supposing that gentleman came down for a
smoke.
Forward, always forward, winding in and out of the valleys, trailing
over the hills, never faster, never slower. Noon came, and the
brilliance of afternoon dimmed and faded into the short twilight. Were
they never going to stop? One hill more, and George, to his infinite
delight, saw a cluster of date-palms ahead, a mile or so; and he knew
that this was to be the haven for the ship of the desert. The caravan
came to it under the dim light of the few stars that had not yet
attained their refulgence. Under the palms were a few deserted
mud-houses, huddled dejectedly together, like outcasts seeking the
nearness rather than the companionship of their co-unfortunates. Men had
dwelt here once upon a time, but the plague had doubtless counted them
out, one by one. They made camp near the well, which still contained
water.
Prayers. A wailing chanted forth toward Mecca. "God is great. There is
no God but God."
George had witnessed prayers so often that he no longer gave attention
to the muezzin calling at eventide from a minaret. But out here, in the
blank wilderness, it caught him again, caught him as it had never done
before. A shiver stirred the hair at the base of his neck. The lean
bodies, one not distinguishable from the other now, kneeling, standing,
sweeping the arms, touching the forehead upon the rug, for even the
lowest camel-boy had his prayer-rug, ceaselessly intoning the set
phrases--George felt shame grow in his heart. Was he as loyal to his God
as these were to theirs?
A good fire was started, and the funereal aspect of the oasis became
quick and cheerful. A little distance from the blaze, George saw Fortune
bending over the inanimate Ryanne. She was bathing his face with a wet
handkerchief. After a time Ryanne turned over and flung his arms limply
across his face. It was the first sign of life he had exhibited since
the start. Fortune gently pulled aside his arms and continued her tender
mercies.
"Can I help?" asked George.
"You might rub his wrists," she answered.
It seemed odd to him that they should begin in such a matter-of-fact
way. It would be only when they had fully adjusted themselves to the
situation that questions would put forth for answers. He knelt down at
the other side of Ryanne and massaged his wrists and arms. Once he
paused, catching his breath.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A rib seems to bother me. It'll be all right to-morrow." He went on
with his manipulations.
"Is he badly hurt?"
"I can't say."
His knowledge of anatomy was not wide; still, Ryanne's arms and legs
worked satisfactorily. The trouble was either in his head or back of his
ribs. He put his arm under Ryanne's shoulder and raised him. Ryanne
mumbled some words. George bent down to catch them. "Hit 'em up in this
half, boys; we've got them going. Hell! Get off my head, you farmer!...
Two cards, please." His face puckered into what was intended for a
smile. George laid him back gently. Foot-ball and poker: what had this
man not known or seen in life? Some one came between the two men and the
fire, casting a long shadow athwart them. George looked up and saw
Mahomed standing close by. His arms were folded and his face grimly
inscrutable.
"Have you any blankets?" asked George coolly.
Mahomed gave an order. A blanket and two saddle-bags were thrown down
beside the unconscious man. George made a pillow of the bags and laid
the blanket over Ryanne.
"Why do you waste your time over him?" asked Mahomed curiously.
"I would not let a dog die this way," he retorted.
"He would have let you die," replied Mahomed, turning upon his heel.
George stared thoughtfully at his whilom accomplice. What did the old
villain insinuate?
"Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?" speaking to Fortune.
"I'm all right. I was chilled a little while ago, but the fire has done
away with that. Thank you."
"You must eat when they bring you food."
"I'll try to," smiling bravely.
To take her in his arms, then and there, to appease their hunger and his
heart's!
Self-consciously, her hand stole to her hair. A color came into her
cheeks. How frightful she must look! Neither hair-pin nor comb was left.
She threw the strands across her shoulder and plucked the snarls and
tangles apart, then braided the whole. He watched her, fascinated. He
had never seen a woman do this before. It was almost a sacrilege for him
to be so near her at such a moment. Afterward she drew her blanket over
her shoulders.
"You've got lots of pluck."
"Have I?"
"Yes. You haven't asked a question yet."
"Would it help any?"
"No, I don't suppose it would. I've an idea that we're all on the way to
the home of Haroun-al-Rashid."
"Bagdad," musingly.
"It's the rug. But I do not understand you in the picture."
"No more do I."
With a consideration that spoke well of his understanding, he did not
speak to her again till food was passed. Later, when the full terror of
the affair took hold of her, she would be dreadfully lonely and would
need to see him near, to hear his voice. He forced some of the hot soup
down Ryanne's throat, and was glad to note that he responded a little.
After that he limped about the strange camp, but was careful to get in
no one's way. Slyly he took note of this face and that, and his
satisfaction grew as he counted the aftermath of the war. And it had
taken five of them, and even then the result had been in doubt up to
that moment when his head had gone bang against the stucco. He took a
melancholy pride in his swollen ear and half-shut eye. He had always
been doubtful regarding his courage; and now he knew that George
Percival Algernon Jones was as good a name as Bayard.
The camel-boys (they are called boys all the way from ten years up to
forty), having hobbled the beasts, were portioning each a small bundle
of tibbin or chopped straw in addition to what they might find by
grazing. Funny brutes, thought George, as he walked among the kneeling
animals: to go five days without food or water, to travel continuously
from twenty-five to eighty miles the day! Others were busy with the
pack-baskets. A tent, presumably Mahomed's, was being erected upon a
clayey piece of ground in between the palms. No one entered the huts,
even out of curiosity; so George was certain that the desertion had been
brought about by one plague or another. A smaller tent was put up
later, and he was grateful at the sight of it. It meant a little privacy
for the poor girl. Great God, how helpless he was, how helpless they all
were!
An incessant chatter, occasionally interspersed with a laugh, went on.
The Arab, unlike the East Indian, is not ordinarily surly; and these
seemed to be good-natured enough. They eyed George without malice. The
war of the night before had been all in a day's work, for which they had
been liberally paid. While he had spent much time in the Orient and had
ridden camels, a real caravan, prepared for weeks of travel, was a
distinct novelty; and so he viewed all with interest, knowing perfectly
well that within a few days he would look upon these activities with a
dull, hopeless anger. He went back to the girl and sat down beside her.
"Have you any idea why you are here?"
"No; unless he saw me in the bazaars with Horace, and thought to torture
him by bringing me along."
Horace! A chill that was not of the night ran over his shoulders. So she
called the adventurer by his given name? And how might her presence
torture Ryanne? George felt weak in that bitter moment. Ay, how might
not her presence torture _him_ also? He had never, for the briefest
space, thought of Ryanne and Fortune at the same time. She spoke,
apathetically it was true, as if she had known him all her life. The
wisest thing he could do was to bring Ryanne to a condition where he
could explain some parts of the enigma and be of some use. Horace!
"I'm going to have another try at him," he said.
She nodded, but without any particular enthusiasm.
George worked over Ryanne for the better part of an hour, and finally
the battered man moved. He made an effort to speak, but this time no
sound issued from his lips. At the end of the hour he opened his eyes
and smiled. It was more like the grin George had once seen upon the face
of a boxer who had returned to the contest after having been floored
half a dozen times.
"Can you hear me?" asked George.
Ryanne stared into his face. "Yes," thickly. "Where are we?"
"In the desert."
"Which one?"
"Arabian."
Ryanne tried to sit up alone.
"Better not try to move. They banged you up at a great rate. Best thing
you can do is to go to sleep. You'll be all right in the morning."
Ryanne sank back, and George bundled him up snugly. Poor devil!
"He'll pull himself together in the morning," he said to Fortune. "I did
not know that you knew him well."
"I have known him for eight or nine years. He used to visit my uncle at
our villa in Mentone." She smiled. "You look very odd."
"No odder than I feel," with an ineffectual attempt to bring together
the ends of his collar-band. "I must be a sight. I was in too much of a
hurry to get here. Did you eat the soup and fish?"
"The soup, yes; but I'm afraid that it will be some time before I can
find the dried fish palatable. I hope my courage will not fail me," she
added, the first sign of anxiety she had yet shown. She was very lonely,
very tired, very sad.
It is quite possible that Mahomed, coming over, spoiled a pretty scene;
for George had some very brave words upon the tip of his tongue.
"Come," said Mahomed to Fortune. "You will sleep in the little tent. No
one will disturb you."
"Good night, Mr. Jones. Don't worry; I am not afraid."
George was alone. He produced one of his precious cigars and lighted it.
Then he drew over his feet one of the empty saddle-bags, wrapped his
blanket round him, and sat smoking and thinking till the heat of the
fire, replenished from time to time, filled him with a comfortable
drowsiness; and the cigar, still smoking, slipped from his nerveless
fingers, as he lay back upon the hard clay and slept. Romance is the
greatest thing in the world; but for all that, a man must eat and a man
must sleep.
The cold dew of dawn was the tonic that recalled him from the land of
grotesque dreams. He sat up and rubbed his face briskly with his hands,
drying it upon the sleeve of his coat, as hasty and as satisfying a
toilet as he had ever made. There was no activity in camp; evidently
they were not going to start early. The cook alone was busy. The fire
was crackling, the kettle was steaming, and a pot of pleasant-smelling
coffee leaned rakishly against the hot ashes. The flap to Fortune's tent
was still closed. And there was Ryanne, sitting with his knees drawn up
under his chin, his hands clasped about his shins, and glowering at no
visible thing.
"Hello!" cried George. "Found yourself, eh?"
Ryanne eyed him without emotion.
"When and how did they get you?" George inquired.
"About three hours before they got you. Something in a glass of wine.
Dope. I'd have cleaned them up but for that."
"How do you feel?"
"Damned bad, Percival."
"Any bones broken?"
"No; I'm just knocked about; sore spot in my side; kicked, maybe. But it
isn't that."
George didn't ask what "that" was. "Where do you think he's taking us?"
"Bagdad, if we don't die upon the way."
"I don't think he'll kill us. It wouldn't be worth his while."
"You did not give him the rug?"
"Not I!"
"It comes hard, Jones, I know, but your giving it up will save us both
many bad days. He asked you for it?"
"He did."
"Then why the devil didn't you give it to him? What's a thousand pounds
against this muddle?"
"For the simple reason I didn't have it to give up."
"What's that?"
"When I went up to my room, night before last, some one had been there
ahead of me. And at first I had given you the credit," said George, with
admirable frankness.
"Gone!" There was no mistaking the dismay in Ryanne's voice.
"Absolutely."
"Well, I be damn!" Ryanne threw aside the blanket and got up. It was a
painful moment, and he swayed a little. "If Mahomed hasn't it, and I
haven't it, and you haven't it, who the devil has, then?"
George shook his head.
"Jones, we are in for it. If that cursed rug is Mahomed's salvation, it
is no less ours. If we ever reach the palace of Bagdad and that rug is
not forthcoming, we'll never see the outside of the walls again."
"Nonsense! There's an American consul at Bagdad."
"And Mahomed will notify him of our arrival!" bitterly.
"Isn't there some way we two might get at Mahomed?"
"Perhaps; but it will take time. Don't bank upon money. Mahomed wants
his head. If the rug...." But Ryanne stopped. He looked beyond George,
his face full of terror. George turned to see what had produced this
effect. Fortune was coming out of her tent. "Fortune? My God!" Ryanne's
legs gave under and he sank, his face in his hands. "I see it all now!
Fool, fool! He's going to get me, Jones; he's going to get me through
her!"