"Did they mention my butterflies, or your beetles?"
"Not that I remember."
"That's strange. Surely naturalists would have recorded such freaks of nature."
"Perhaps it was the wrong season of the year for either the butterflies or the beetles to be conspicuous, as they are now," she pointed out.
"Very well," he agreed. "What about this tremendous hot spring? Did they mention it? This must be one of the greatest hot springs in the world."
For a fraction of a second she seemed to hesitate before replying.
"I don't recall their mentioning it," she answered. "But then, I might not have paid much attention to a detail – no matter how interesting of itself – that had nothing to do with plants."
"Of course. I'll bet you a dinner when we get home that these men left an elaborate account of this spot in their report."
"Done! I'll have roast turkey, mashed potatoes, creamed cauliflower and English plum pudding. Perhaps a glass of port, too."
"Don't," he implored. "We've got nothing but the eternal canned stuff again tonight."
"It will be steaming hot," she reminded him. Somewhat cheered, they followed Ali to dinner.
Anticipating a luxurious sleep on the warm rocks, all hands went early to bed. All seemed well till shortly before midnight, when Vartan woke, conscious of an intolerable, stinging, burning itch all over his body. His first thought, rather naturally, was of Marjorie's 'jewels', the myriads of tiny, iridescent insects packed solid in a two inch layer under the snow. A hastily struck light acquitted these suspects. There was not an insect visible on his body, and his sleeping bag was as clean as usual. Hearing several of the porters tossing and muttering in their sleep, he walked over to inspect.
Old Ali was fully awake, groaning dismally but softly. Like the perfect caravan leader that he was, Ali Baba was not going to spoil his men's rest merely because he himself was having a bad night of it. Marjorie had seen Vartan's moving light, and hailed him softly.
"Can't you sleep?"
"No. Have you got it too?"
"Yes, whatever it is."
"May I come over?"
"Do. And please bring your light."
Careful examination of Marjorie's effects but deepened the mystery. No insect, apparently, was guilty in their distress. Moving about with the light, Vartan accidentally cast it full on Marjorie's exposed throat. An angry red welt extended from chin to collar bone.
"Where do you feel it worst?" he asked casually.
"Here." She fingered her throat. "It's all I can do to refrain from tearing at it with my nails. But that would probably only make it worse."
"Undoubtedly." He stared at the back of his left hand, where a similar welt swelled up visibly. "I think we had better get out of here as fast as we can."
A chorus of dismay from the porters' quarters suddenly seconded the motion. Ali hurried over to Vartan, volubly explaining the situation in all of his many tongues but English. At last Vartan calmed the old fellow to the extent of uttering a single intelligible word, 'ponies'.
"I had better see what Ali thinks is wrong," he explained to Marjorie. "Dress for marching at once. We shall be out of here in ten minutes."
"Have you any idea what is the matter?" she called after him. "Yes; but it may be wrong. I'll tell you later."
"Is it serious?"
"I think so. But don't worry. Get into your marching clothes."
Before investigating Ali's theory, Vartan got the groaning porters to work. They were ready enough to break camp in the middle of the night. To their simple minds it was clear that the vicinity of the boiling springs was populated by legions of aggressive devils. They couldn't get out of that accursed place too fast.
When finally Ali reduced himself to English, Vartan learned that the ponies also were showing signs of uneasiness. This however was not his most important news. He divulged in a whisper that one of the porters had developed an evil looking sore on his back, strangely like those from which the ponies had been suffering for days past.
"Did this man bathe in the hot water like the others?"
"Yes, Sahib. He stood in one of the hottest places, where the water comes up from the black rocks."
"I see. The pack's ready. Give the order to march."
"Which way?"
"Forward, of course."
"But, Sahib–"
"Forward!"
Grumbling to himself, Ali obeyed. At a sharp command from Vartan he ordered the men to step out for all that was in them. They needed but little urging, although the backs of several smarted and itched grievously under the heat and pressure of their heavy loads. In five minutes they were slushing through the last of the half melted snow and emerging on the hard, frozen surface. There was no moon. The fleeing caravan looked utterly forlorn and helpless in the icy starlight on the snow, and the colossal precipices on either hand seemed to stride forward in the dim light to unite and trample the presumptuous men who had violated their iron solitudes. Vartan hastened to overtake Marjorie. She was staggering slightly, but doing her best to keep up with the caravan.
"How do you feel now?" he asked.
She parried his question.
"Did you or any of the others drink any of that water?"
"No. Did you?"
"I swallowed some while I was bathing."
"We made the tea from snow water, as usual. Feeling queer?"
"I'm on fire."
"Inside?"
"Yes. Give me your arm. I'll stick it. Probably exercise will work it out."
"Shane told me you had grit," he said to encourage her. From the sensations of his own toughened skin he could only guess what hers must be. "Now you're going to prove that he knows what he's talking about."
She gripped his arm but made no reply.
The flight became a rout, then a horrible waking nightmare. First one porter suddenly threw away his pack, tore off his clothes, to wallow bellowing in the frozen snow, then another. Presently all of the natives, with the exception only of Ali Baba, were screaming and floundering, stark naked, in the snow. Like the two whites, Ali Baba endured his torments in silence, or at worst an occasional groan, too proud to yield to the devils that possessed his body.
Marjorie became violently ill. Vartan could do nothing for her.
"Leave me alone," she begged. "I'll get over it."
With instinctive common sense he took her at her word, and hurried off with Ali Baba to corral the ponies which had taken flight at the unaccountable antics of their human masters.
Nature, it is often said but seldom believed, is the best doctor. While human physicians were half roasting their wretched fever patients under stacks of heavy blankets, and driving them almost insane by depriving them of all liquids, instinct shouted for an ice pack and all the cold water the body could hold. Only when one unfortunate escaped, half demented, from his nurse, and drank a bucket of dirty water left in his room by a careless attendant, was the simple, natural way of reducing most fevers revealed. Vartan's porters, fortunately, had only nature to treat them. Their bodies were on fire; by jumping with all their weight on the ice crust they could reach the dry, frozen snow beneath. It was simple, and no doubt would have been questioned by a licensed practitioner had one been present, but it worked.
First one victim, then another, after a lapse of three frantic hours, ceased bellowing and crawled over the ice to try to locate his clothes in the dark. The worst was over – for those who had taken nature's prescription. Their violent exercise had kept their blood circulating. All being hardy and in first class physical condition, except for their 'bums', and the high mountain air being absolutely free of germs, there was no danger of pneumonia or lesser evils. Those who had endured their torments to preserve what morale remained, still suffered intolerably. Vartan, seeing what had happened to the porters, ordered Ali to strip and take a snow bath. At first the old fellow protested vigorously. Vartan was obdurate, and Ali saved his dignity by retiring in the starlight
to a distant spot, where only the eye of God could see his nakedness.
Vartan hurried over to Marjorie. She lay moaning, and was only too evidently unable to care for herself. Getting her attention at last, he explained what she must do.
"I'll take off your boots and your outer things, and crack the ice. Slip in naked. If you need help, shout. But you won't. It cured the porters and it will cure you!" He hurried off to attend to his own raging skin.* * *
Dawn strode into the craggy defile with startling abruptness. A faint yellow tinged the sky above one rampart for perhaps two minutes; the rays of the risen sun turned the loftiest pinnacle to glaring red, and instantly the narrow valley between the barren precipices was thrust into the day.
In that first shock of light, the huddled porters were the picture of wretchedness. Although their skins no longer burned, their spirits were broken. To their simple minds the tormented night was nothing more or less than a supernatural warning that their work was impious. Or, more crudely, they were in the pay of one who was in league with devils.
Ali had succeeded in clothing himself decently before the sun rose. joining the porters, he proceeded to use his tongue. Vartan, also fully dressed, and feeling fairly comfortable, strolled up, fascinated. He would have given all he possessed at the moment to follow Ali's eloquent denunciations. As it was, he could only stand stock still and admire, as one by one the dazed porters shuffled to their half frozen feet and stumbled off to their regular duties. His satisfaction was tempered, however, when he observed the ugly red boils on the faces, hands and necks of the porters. Ali acted as if he were afflicted, and Vartan was only too well aware of his own disfigurements. He left Ali to superintend the getting of breakfast, and hurried off to search for Marjorie.
He found her sitting, fully clothed, on the edge of her snow bath. She glanced up at him with a rueful smile.
"Don't look at my neck. I know it's horrible."
"How do you feel? Inside, I mean?'
"Pretty awful. But snow helps. I've been eating it by the handful."
"Care for a hot drink?"
"There's no fuel."
"Yes, there is. Lots. This is an emergency. I'll use one can of our frozen heat. Tea or coffee?"
"Coffee. I'm frozen and as weak as a cat."
"The worst is over, I feet sure. Here; I'll help you up. Come over here and lie down in the sun. I'll get Ali's blankets and my own."
Having made her as comfortable as possible, he hurried off to brew her as stiff a pot of coffee as the stores afforded. It was a long business, at the high altitude, to get it hot enough, even in a pressure cooker, but at last he succeeded with Ali's expert help, and hastened back to her.
"Coffee!" he said, propping her up. "This will straighten you out."
"You will have some too?"
"Had mine already," he fibbed, "While I was making it."
She drank eagerly, and the steaming stimulant seemed to put new life into her.
"I'm going on," she announced after the fourth cup. "Don't hang back for me."
"Better not," he advised. "No," seeing the defiance in her eyes, "it is not only on your account. Ali tells me that some of the porters are too 'boily' to pack even twenty pounds. I shall order a halt till they recuperate."
"In this desolate place?" she protested in dismay.
"Can't be helped, although I hate to do it. Ali reports that there is almost a mutiny among the porters. Superstition and boils are a bad combination."
She sat up and looked him squarely in the eyes.
"Tell me the truth," she said. "Is there danger of a mutiny?"
"Yes."
"What will you do if it matures?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet. The sensible thing would be to go back to civilization with the mutineers, and turn them over to the proper authorities when we are out of danger."
"What does Ali say?"
"He's not saying much of anything at present. But I will bank on him to stick with us."
"So will I," she asserted. "Ali is intelligent."
"You remarked that once before," he laughed. "The other time it wasn't a compliment. What has changed your mind?"
"Nothing," she answered seriously. "My opinion is unaltered. Intelligence is good or bad according to circumstances. Pardon me if I say you do not understand Ali. I do. Thoroughly. I have walked with him ten hours to your one. And I know that he will always do the intelligent thing, simply because it will pay him best in the end. Now please don't think I am jealous of Ali's affection for you. He dislikes me as much as he likes you."
Vartan stared at her incredulously.
"You imply that I should have sent him back to Srinagar when Shane's black ice disappeared?"
"Don't let us go over that again," she begged. "All I want you to understand is this. If it comes to a serious disagreement with the men, watch Ali."
"I will," he promised. Her evident conviction caused him intense uneasiness. Was she right, after all, in her estimate of the grizzled, confiding Ali Baba, who recalled, irresistibly, a humble old tomcat, and he himself deluded? "You will have a chance," he continued, "of observing him as he is when off his guard."
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"Simply this. I don't want to precipitate trouble by giving an unnecessary order. So I shall not force the porters to march today. I shall push on alone and reconnoitre."
"Alone?" she echoed in alarm.
"Why not? In the Andes I was once out of touch with human beings for twelve days, in rougher country than this. And I thought nothing of it."
"Can't I go too? We can trust Ali to keep the men in order till we return."
"No. I shall have to travel as fast as my limit lets me. You are no good at present for more than half a march."
"'But, Mr. Vartan," she protested, "you surely cannot expect me to disobey my orders at this stage."
"Your orders? I don't understand."
"Mr. Brassey ordered me to accompany you as an observer."
"Spy?"
"Don't make it so hard for me," she begged.
"You mean you can't let me out of your sight?"
"If you persist in putting it rudely, yes."
"I see," he said. "But has it never occurred to you, Miss Driscott, that I am in command of this expedition?"
"It has."
"And don't you know that the leader of an expedition in unexplored territory has absolute authority? He is as supreme a despot as the captain of a vessel on the high seas."
"I know all that," she admitted. "Nevertheless I shall obey Mr. Brassey's order."
"And mutiny?"
"Yes."
"Then I shall put you under arrest. Now. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"You will remain here till my return." He unbuckled his holster and handed it to her with the revolver. "I shall tell Ali that you have orders to shoot any man who attempts to desert in my absence. That applies to him also. You suspect him; I don't. Take charge of the camp till I return."
"I might shoot you now," she said, a dangerous glint in her eyes, "and take charge of the expedition."
"You might," he retorted, turning his back on her. "But you won't." He tramped off, over the crunching ice.
"When will you be back?" she called after him.
"In twenty-four hours. If I'm not back in thirty-six, take the caravan back to Srinagar. I'm trusting to Grimsby's map and my own geological sense."
"You'll get lost."
"I shan't. And if you decide to run away in my absence and leave me stranded, cable my compliments to Brassey when you get to Srinagar, and tell him and all of his damned spies to go to hell. I'm going on."
"You–" she started, and suddenly burst out crying.
The dreary morning in camp passed uneventfully enough. Ali understood at once that Miss Driscott was in temporary command, and assured her that he would relieve her of all worry – and he did. At noon a comfortless meal was prepared as usual, and eaten in unusual si
lence. The men were brooding dangerously over their boils and their wrongs, real and imaginary. Marjorie boldly walked among them, Vartan's revolver dangling suggestively on her hip. Although she hated to confess it even to herself, she was as weak as a sparrow, and had difficulty in making her legs behave. To have accompanied Vartan on his reconnaissance would have been a sheer impossibility.
Convinced that Ali had the men in hand so far as open disobedience was concerned, she sought out the coldish comfort of her sleeping bag after lunch, and tried not to doze. Nature got the better of her, as her blood warmed, and she dropped off to sleep in the comparative heat of the afternoon sun. She awoke at sunset, vaguely conscious that a terrific debate had been going on for hours.
It had. Ali was cursing as he had never cursed in all his long, reprobate life. Porters were exhibiting their boils for his inspection in the most shameless fashion – primitives have neither respect nor disrespect for the decent white woman's taboos – and Marjorie suddenly realized that she was in the midst of a waking nightmare. The sun set just as she scrambled out of her sleeping bag. Before she reached the yelling knot of men, the icy cold of night had already gripped the precipices and their narrow, utterly desolate valley.
She spoke none of the languages of the porters. Ali was her one medium for the exchange of ideas.
"Tell them," she said, "that Vartan sahib has ordered me to shoot the first man who tries to leave this camp."
Ali translated. In the fast dying light she caught a hard impression of the fanatical fear etched on the brute faces of the porters. Their deepest superstitions had been roused, and she was dealing not with animals, but with brainless machines. One man started blundering off toward the ponies.
"Halt!" she cried.
Ali translated, adding embellishments of his own. The man, drunk with fear, persisted.
"Halt," she said steadily, almost persuasively. "Halt or I fire."
The man either did not comprehend Ali's translation of the order, or he despised a woman's command. At any rate he paid not the slightest attention.
Marjorie waited until he was about to mount one of the ponies. There was still sufficient light to see and be seen.
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