Chapter 5
Captain Armand Jacot of the Foreign Legion sat upon an outspread saddleblanket at the foot of a stunted palm tree. His broad shoulders andhis close-cropped head rested in luxurious ease against the rough boleof the palm. His long legs were stretched straight before himoverlapping the meager blanket, his spurs buried in the sandy soil ofthe little desert oasis. The captain was taking his ease after a longday of weary riding across the shifting sands of the desert.
Lazily he puffed upon his cigarette and watched his orderly who waspreparing his evening meal. Captain Armand Jacot was well satisfiedwith himself and the world. A little to his right rose the noisyactivity of his troop of sun-tanned veterans, released for the timefrom the irksome trammels of discipline, relaxing tired muscles,laughing, joking, and smoking as they, too, prepared to eat after atwelve-hour fast. Among them, silent and taciturn, squatted fivewhite-robed Arabs, securely bound and under heavy guard.
It was the sight of these that filled Captain Armand Jacot with thepleasurable satisfaction of a duty well-performed. For a long, hot,gaunt month he and his little troop had scoured the places of thedesert waste in search of a band of marauders to the sin-stainedaccount of which were charged innumerable thefts of camels, horses, andgoats, as well as murders enough to have sent the whole unsavory gangto the guillotine several times over.
A week before, he had come upon them. In the ensuing battle he hadlost two of his own men, but the punishment inflicted upon themarauders 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 thelegionaries. And, best of all, the ring leader, Achmet ben Houdin, wasamong the prisoners.
From the prisoners Captain Jacot permitted his mind to traverse theremaining miles of sand to the little garrison post where, upon themorrow, he should find awaiting him with eager welcome his wife andlittle daughter. His eyes softened to the memory of them, as theyalways did. Even now he could see the beauty of the mother reflectedin the childish lines of little Jeanne's face, and both those faceswould be smiling up into his as he swung from his tired mount late thefollowing afternoon. Already he could feel a soft cheek pressed closeto each of his--velvet against leather.
His reverie was broken in upon by the voice of a sentry summoning anon-commissioned officer. Captain Jacot raised his eyes. The sun hadnot yet set; but the shadows of the few trees huddled about the waterhole and of his men and their horses stretched far away into the eastacross 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 seethrough the eyes of others. He must see for himself. Usually he sawthings long before others were aware that there was anything to see--atrait that had won for him the sobriquet of Hawk. Now he saw, justbeyond the long shadows, a dozen specks rising and falling among thesands. They disappeared and reappeared, but always they grew larger.Jacot recognized them immediately. They were horsemen--horsemen of thedesert. Already a sergeant was running toward him. The entire campwas straining its eyes into the distance. Jacot gave a few terseorders to the sergeant who saluted, turned upon his heel and returnedto the men. Here he gathered a dozen who saddled their horses, mountedand rode out to meet the strangers. The remaining men disposedthemselves in readiness for instant action. It was not entirely beyondthe range of possibilities that the horsemen riding thus swiftly towardthe camp might be friends of the prisoners bent upon the release oftheir kinsmen by a sudden attack. Jacot doubted this, however, sincethe strangers were evidently making no attempt to conceal theirpresence. They were galloping rapidly toward the camp in plain view ofall. There might be treachery lurking beneath their fair appearance;but none who knew The Hawk would be so gullible as to hope to trap himthus.
The sergeant with his detail met the Arabs two hundred yards from thecamp. Jacot could see him in conversation with a tall, white-robedfigure--evidently the leader of the band. Presently the sergeant andthis Arab rode side by side toward camp. Jacot awaited them. The tworeined 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 everyprincipal Arab within a radius of several hundred miles. This man henever had seen. He was a tall, weather beaten, sour looking man ofsixty or more. His eyes were narrow and evil. Captain Jacot did notrelish 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 himinto my keeping I will see that he sins no more against the laws of theFrench."
Jacot shook his head. "That cannot be," he replied. "I must take himback 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 isproved guilty, he will have to die."
The Arab's left hand was hidden beneath his burnous. Now he withdrewit disclosing a large goatskin purse, bulging and heavy with coins. Heopened the mouth of the purse and let a handful of the contents trickleinto the palm of his right hand--all were pieces of good French gold.From the size of the purse and its bulging proportions Captain Jacotconcluded that it must contain a small fortune. Sheik Amor ben Khatourdropped the spilled gold pieces one by one back into the purse. Jacotwas eyeing him narrowly. They were alone. The sergeant, havingintroduced the visitor, had withdrawn to some little distance--his backwas 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. Hisfists were clenched. Suddenly he thought better of whatever impulsewas moving him.
"Sergeant!" he called. The non-commissioned officer hurried towardhim, saluting as his heels clicked together before his superior.
"Take this black dog back to his people," he ordered. "See that theyleave at once. Shoot the first man who comes within range of camptonight."
Sheik Amor ben Khatour drew himself up to his full height. His evileyes narrowed. He raised the bag of gold level with the eyes of theFrench officer.
"You will pay more than this for the life of Achmet ben Houdin, mysister's son," he said. "And as much again for the name that you havecalled me and a hundred fold in sorrow in the bargain."
"Get out of here!" growled Captain Armand Jacot, "before I kick youout."
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 ofrecord--you may verify it if you care to. He met the death hedeserved, and he met it with the stoicism of the Arab.
A month later little Jeanne Jacot, the seven-year-old daughter ofCaptain Armand Jacot, mysteriously disappeared. Neither the wealth ofher father and mother, or all the powerful resources of the greatrepublic were able to wrest the secret of her whereabouts from theinscrutable desert that had swallowed her and her abductor.
A reward of such enormous proportions was offered that many adventurerswere attracted to the hunt. This was no case for the modern detectiveof civilization, yet several of these threw themselves into thesearch--the bones of some are already bleaching beneath the African sunupon the silent sands of the Sahara.
Two Swedes, Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn, after three years offollowing false leads at last gave up the search far to the south ofthe Sahara to turn their attention to the more profitable business ofivory poaching. In a great district they were already known for theirrelentless cruelty and their greed for ivory. The natives feared andhated them. The Eu
ropean governments in whose possessions they workedhad long sought them; but, working their way slowly out of the norththey had learned many things in the no-man's-land south of the Saharawhich gave them immunity from capture through easy avenues of escapethat were unknown to those who pursued them. Their raids were suddenand swift. They seized ivory and retreated into the trackless wastesof the north before the guardians of the territory they raped could bemade aware of their presence. Relentlessly they slaughtered elephantsthemselves as well as stealing ivory from the natives. Their followingconsisted of a hundred or more renegade Arabs and Negro slaves--afierce, relentless band of cut-throats. Remember them--Carl Jenssenand Sven Malbihn, yellow-bearded, Swedish giants--for you will meetthem later.
In the heart of the jungle, hidden away upon the banks of a smallunexplored tributary of a large river that empties into the Atlanticnot 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 housedthe score of Arabs who found shelter here while, by trading andraiding, they collected the cargoes which their ships of the desertbore northward twice each year to the market of Timbuktu.
Playing before one of the Arab tents was a little girl of ten--ablack-haired, black-eyed little girl who, with her nut-brown skin andgraceful carriage looked every inch a daughter of the desert. Herlittle fingers were busily engaged in fashioning a skirt of grasses fora much-disheveled doll which a kindly disposed slave had made for her ayear or two before. The head of the doll was rudely chipped fromivory, while the body was a rat skin stuffed with grass. The arms andlegs were bits of wood, perforated at one end and sewn to the rat skintorso. The doll was quite hideous and altogether disreputable andsoiled, but Meriem thought it the most beautiful and adorable thing inthe whole world, which is not so strange in view of the fact that itwas the only object within that world upon which she might bestow herconfidence and her love.
Everyone else with whom Meriem came in contact was, almost withoutexception, either indifferent to her or cruel. There was, for example,the old black hag who looked after her, Mabunu--toothless, filthy andill tempered. She lost no opportunity to cuff the little girl, or eveninflict minor tortures upon her, such as pinching, or, as she had twicedone, searing the tender flesh with hot coals. And there was TheSheik, her father. She feared him more than she did Mabunu. He oftenscolded her for nothing, quite habitually terminating his tirades bycruelly beating her, until her little body was black and blue.
But when she was alone she was happy, playing with Geeka, or deckingher hair with wild flowers, or making ropes of grasses. She was alwaysbusy and always singing--when they left her alone. No amount ofcruelty appeared sufficient to crush the innate happiness and sweetnessfrom her full little heart. Only when The Sheik was near was she quietand subdued. Him she feared with a fear that was at times almosthysterical terror. She feared the gloomy jungle too--the cruel junglethat surrounded the little village with chattering monkeys andscreaming birds by day and the roaring and coughing and moaning of thecarnivora by night. Yes, she feared the jungle; but so much more didshe fear The Sheik that many times it was in her childish head to runaway, out into the terrible jungle forever rather than longer to facethe ever present terror of her father.
As she sat there this day before The Sheik's goatskin tent, fashioninga skirt of grasses for Geeka, The Sheik appeared suddenly approaching.Instantly the look of happiness faded from the child's face. Sheshrunk aside in an attempt to scramble from the path of theleathern-faced old Arab; but she was not quick enough. With a brutalkick the man sent her sprawling upon her face, where she lay quitestill, tearless but trembling. Then, with an oath at her, the manpassed into the tent. The old, black hag shook with appreciativelaughter, disclosing an occasional and lonesome yellow fang.
When she was sure The Sheik had gone, the little girl crawled to theshady side of the tent, where she lay quite still, hugging Geeka closeto her breast, her little form racked at long intervals with chokingsobs. She dared not cry aloud, since that would have brought The Sheikupon her again. The anguish in her little heart was not alone theanguish of physical pain; but that infinitely more pathetic anguish--oflove denied a childish heart that yearns for love.
Little Meriem could scarce recall any other existence than that of thestern cruelty of The Sheik and Mabunu. Dimly, in the back of herchildish memory there lurked a blurred recollection of a gentle mother;but Meriem was not sure but that even this was but a dream pictureinduced by her own desire for the caresses she never received, butwhich she lavished upon the much loved Geeka. Never was such a spoiledchild as Geeka. Its little mother, far from fashioning her own conductafter the example set her by her father and nurse, went to the extremeof indulgence. Geeka was kissed a thousand times a day. There wasplay in which Geeka was naughty; but the little mother never punished.Instead, she caressed and fondled; her attitude influenced solely byher 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 intothe 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 knowwhy he strikes me, so I cannot tell what I have done which displeaseshim. Just now he kicked me and hurt me so, Geeka; but I was onlysitting 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 weredead. Yesterday the hunters brought in the body of El Adrea. El Adreawas quite dead. No more will he slink silently upon his unsuspectingprey. No more will his great head and his maned shoulders striketerror 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; butEl 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 thekicks of The Sheik, my father. Then shall I be happy. Oh, Geeka, howI wish that I were dead!"
If Geeka contemplated a remonstrance it was cut short by sounds ofaltercation beyond the village gates. Meriem listened. With thecuriosity of childhood she would have liked to have run down there andlearn what it was that caused the men to talk so loudly. Others of thevillage were already trooping in the direction of the noise. ButMeriem did not dare. The Sheik would be there, doubtless, and if hesaw her it would be but another opportunity to abuse her, so Meriem laystill and listened.
Presently she heard the crowd moving up the street toward The Sheik'stent. Cautiously she stuck her little head around the edge of thetent. She could not resist the temptation, for the sameness of thevillage life was monotonous, and she craved diversion. What she sawwas two strangers--white men. They were alone, but as they approachedshe learned from the talk of the natives that surrounded them that theypossessed 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 narrowedwickedly when they had appraised the newcomers. They stopped beforehim, exchanging greetings. They had come to trade for ivory they said.The Sheik grunted. He had no ivory. Meriem gasped. She knew that ina near-by hut the great tusks were piled almost to the roof. She pokedher 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 tododge back out of sight, for she feared all men; but he saw her.Meriem noticed the look of almost shocked surprise that crossed hisface. 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. Gonow."
He stepped from his tent and almost pushed the strangers about in thedirection of
the gates. They demurred, and then The Sheik threatened.It would have been suicide to have disobeyed, so the two men turned andleft the village, making their way immediately to their own camp.
The Sheik returned to his tent; but he did not enter it. Instead hewalked 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 thetent, and shoved her viciously within. Following her he again seizedher, 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 thetent, where she lay stifling her moans, while The Sheik paced to andfro muttering to himself. At the entrance sat Mabunu, muttering andchuckling.
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 whatpuzzles 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 tohim would only confirm his suspicions that we must have awakened whenwe 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 ofseveral days in their camp outside the village was a tall, old headmanof The Sheik's native contingent. He fell to the lure of the shiningmetal, for he had lived upon the coast and knew the power of gold. Hepromised to bring them what they craved, late that night.
Immediately after dark the two white men commenced to make arrangementsto break camp. By midnight all was prepared. The porters lay besidetheir loads, ready to swing them aloft at a moment's notice. The armedaskaris loitered between the balance of the safari and the Arabvillage, ready to form a rear guard for the retreat that was to beginthe moment that the head man brought that which the white mastersawaited.
Presently there came the sound of footsteps along the path from thevillage. Instantly the askaris and the whites were on the alert. Morethan a single man was approaching. Jenssen stepped forward andchallenged 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. Presentlyhe understood. The thing they fetched lay upon a litter borne by twomen. Jenssen cursed beneath his breath. Could the fool be bringingthem 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 thelitter down, turned and vanished into the darkness toward the village.Malbihn looked at Jenssen, a crooked smile twisting his lips. Thething upon the litter was covered with a piece of cloth.
"Well?" queried the latter. "Raise the covering and see what you havebought. Much money shall we realize on a corpse--especially after thesix months beneath the burning sun that will be consumed in carrying itto its destination!"
"The fool should have known that we desired her alive," grumbledMalbihn, grasping a corner of the cloth and jerking the cover from thething that lay upon the litter.
At sight of what lay beneath both men stepped back--involuntary oathsupon their lips--for there before them lay the dead body of Mbeeda, thefaithless head man.
Five minutes later the safari of Jenssen and Malbihn was forcing itsway rapidly toward the west, nervous askaris guarding the rear from theattack they momentarily expected.
The Son of Tarzan Page 5