Marching Sands

by Harold Lamb

  By his sheepskin coat, bandaged legs and soiled yak-skin boots, Gray identified the elder of the two as a Kirghiz mountaineer. Both men were squatting on their haunches, the Kirghiz smoking a pipe.

  “What is happening?” Gray asked a bystander, pointing to the two in the cleared space.

  Readily, the accents of the border dialect came to his tongue. The other understood.

  “It will happen soon,” he explained. “That is Mirai Khan, the hunter, who is smoking the pipe. When he is finished the Manchu soldier will cut off his head.”

  Gray whistled softly. The crowd was staring at him now, intent on a new sight. Even Mirai Khan was watching him idly, apparently unconcerned about his coming demise.

  “Why is he smoking the pipe?” Gray asked.

  “Because he wants to. The soldier is letting him do it because Mirai Khan has promised to tell him where his long musket is, before he dies.”

  “Why must he die?”

  The man beside him coughed and spat apathetically. “I do not know. It was ordered. Perhaps he stole the value of ten taels.”

  Gray knew enough of the peculiar law of China to understand that a theft of something valued at more than a certain sum was punishable by death. The sight of the tranquil Kirghiz stirred his interest.

  “Ask the soldier what is the offense,” he persisted, exhibiting a coin at which the Chinaman stared eagerly.

  Mirai Khan, Gray was informed, had been convicted of stealing a horse worth thirteen taels. The Kirghiz had claimed that the horse was his own, taken from him by the Liangchowfu officials who happened to be in need of beasts of burden. The case had been referred to the authorities at Honanfu, and no less a personage than Wu Fang Chien had ruled that since the hunter had denied the charge, he had given the lie to the court. Wherefore, he must certainly be beheaded.

  Gray sympathized with Mirai Khan. He had seen enough of Wu Fang Chien to guess that the Kirghiz’ case had not received much consideration. Something in the mountaineer’s shrewd face attracted Gray. He pushed into the cleared space.

  “Tell the Manchu,” he said sharply to the Chinaman whom he had drawn with him, “that I know Wu Fang Chien. Tell him that I will pay the amount of the theft if he will release the prisoner.”

  “It may not be,” objected the other indifferently.

  “Do as I say,” commanded Gray sharply.

  The soldier, apparently tired of waiting, had risen and drawn his weapon. He bent over the Kirghiz, who remained kneeling. The sight quickened Gray’s pulse—in spite of the danger he knew he ran from interfering with the Chinese authorities.

  “Quick,” he added. His companion whispered to the soldier, who glanced at the American in surprise and hesitated.

  Gray counted out thirteen taels—about ten dollars—and added five more. “I have talked with Wu Fang Chien,” he explained, “and I will buy this man’s life. If the value of the horse is paid, the crime will be no more.”

  The blue-coated Manchu said something, evidently an objection.

  “He says,” interpreted the Chinaman, who was eyeing the money greedily, “that thirteen taels will not wipe out the insult to the judge.”

  “Five more will,” Gray responded. “He can keep them if he likes. And here’s a tael for you.”

  The volunteer interpreter clasped the coin in a claw-like hand. Gray thrust the rest of the money upon the hesitating executioner, and seized Mirai Khan by the arm.

  Nodding to the Kirghiz, he led him through the crowd, which was muttering uneasily. He turned down an alley.

  “Can you get out of Liangchowfu without being seen?” the American asked his new purchase. He was more confident now of the tribal speech.

  Mirai Khan understood. Later, Gray came to know that the man was very keen witted. Also, he had a polyglot tongue.

  “Aye, Excellency.” Mirai Khan fell on his knees and pressed his forehead to his rescuer’s shoes. “There is a hole in the western wall behind the temple where the caravan men water their oxen and camels.”

  “Go, then, and quickly.”

  “I will get me a horse,” promised Mirai Khan, “and the Chinese pigs will not see me go.”

  Gray thought to himself that Mirai Khan might be more of a horse thief than he professed to be.

  “The Excellency saved my life,” muttered the Kirghiz, glancing around craftily. “It was written that I should die this day, and he kept me from the sight of the angel of death. But thirteen taels is a great deal of wealth. It would be well if I found my gun, and slew the soldier. Then the Excellency would have his thirteen taels again. Where is he to be found?”

  “At the inn by the western wall. But never mind the Manchu. Save your own skin.”

  Gray strode off down the alley, for men were coming after them. In the rear of an unsavory hut, the Kirghiz plucked his sleeve.

  “Aye, it shall so be, Excellency,” he whispered. “Has the honorable master any tobacco?”

  Impatiently Gray sifted some tobacco from his pouch into the hunter’s scarred hand. Mirai Khan then asked for matches.

  “I will not forget,” he said importantly. “You will see Mirai Khan again. I swear it. And I will tell you something. Wu Fang Chien is in Liangchowfu.”

  With that the man shambled off down an alley, looking for all the world like a shaggy dog with unusually long legs. Gray stared after him with smile. Then he turned back toward the inn.

  * * * * *

  That night there was a feast in Liangchowfu. The sound of the temple drums reached to the inn. Lanterns appeared on the house fronts across the street. Throngs of priests passed by in ceremonial procession, bearing lights. In the inn courtyard a group of musicians took their stand, producing a hideous mockery of a tune on cymbals and one-stringed fiddles. But the main room of the inn, where the eating tables were set with bowls and chop-sticks, was deserted except for a wandering rooster.

  “I’m going out to see the show,” asserted Gray, who was weary of inaction.

  “What!” The Syrian stared at him, fingering his beard restlessly. “With Wu Fang Chien in the town!”

  “Certainly. There’s nothing to be done here. I may be able to pick up information which will be useful—if we are in danger.”

  Delabar tossed his cigarette away and shrugged his shoulders.

  “We are marked men, my young friend. I saw this afternoon that a guard has been posted at the town gates. Those musicians yonder are spies. The master of the inn is in the stable, with our men.”

  “Then we’ll shake our escort for a while.”

  Gray’s smile faded. “Look here, Professor. I’m alive to the pickle we’re in. We’ve got to get out of this place. And I want to have a look at that hole in the wall Mirai Khan told me about. For one thing—to see if horses can get through it.”

  Delabar accompanied him out of the courtyard, into the street. Gray noted grimly that the musicians ceased playing with their departure. He beckoned Delabar to follow and turned down the alley he had visited that afternoon. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a dark form slip into the entrance of the alley.

  “Double time, Professor,” whispered Gray. Grasping the other by the arm, he trotted through the piles of refuse that littered the rear of the houses, turning sharply several times until he was satisfied they were no longer followed. As a landmark, he had the dark bulk of the pagoda that formed the roof of the temple.

  Toward this he made his way, dodging back into the shadows when he sighted a group of Chinese. He was now following the course of the wall, which took him into a garden, evidently a part of the temple grounds.

  He saw nothing of the opening Mirai Khan had mentioned. But a murmur of voices from the shuttered windows of the edifice stirred his interest.

  “It is a meeting of the Buddhists,” whispered Delabar. “I heard the temple messengers crying the summons in the street this afternoon.”

  Gray made his way close to the building. It was a lofty structure of carved wood. The windows were small an
d high overhead. Gray scanned them speculatively.

  “We weren’t invited to the reunion, Professor,” he meditated, “but I’d give something for a look inside. Judging by what you’ve told me, these Buddhist fellows are our particular enemies. And it’s rather a coincidence they held a lodge meeting tonight.”

  He felt along the wall for a space. They were sheltered from view from the street by the garden trees.

  “Hullo,” he whispered, “here’s luck. A door. Looks like a stage entrance, with some kind of carving over it.”

  Delabar pushed forward and peered at the inscription. The reflected light of the illumination in the street enabled him to see fairly well.

  “This is the gate of ceremony of the temple,” he observed. “It is one of the doors built for a special occasion—only to be used by a scholar of the town who has won the highest honors of the Hanlin academy, or by the emperor himself—when there was one.”

  Gray pushed at the door. It was not fastened, but being in disuse, gave in slowly, with a creak of iron hinges. Delabar checked him.

  “You know nothing of Chinese customs,” he hissed warningly. “It is forbidden for any one to enter. The penalty—”

  “Beheading, I suppose,” broke in Gray impatiently. “Come along, Delabar. This is a special occasion, and, by Jove—you’re a distinguished scholar.”

  He drew the other inside with him. They stood in a black passage filled with an odor of combined must and incense. Gray took his pocket flashlight from his coat and flickered its beam in front of them. He could feel Delabar shivering. Wondering at the state of the scientist’s nerves, he made out an opening before them in which steps appeared.

  They seemed to be in a deserted part of the temple. Gray wanted very much to see what was going on—and what was at the head of the stairs. He ascended as quietly as possible, followed by the Syrian, who was muttering to himself.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Door is Guarded

  A subdued glow appeared above Gray’s head, as the narrow stairs twisted. The glow grew stronger, and he caught the buzz of voices. Cautiously he climbed to the head of the steps and peered into the chamber from which came the light.

  He saw a peculiar room. It was empty of all furniture except a teakwood chair. The light came through a large aperture in the floor. An ebony railing, gilded and inlaid, ran around this square of light. The voices grew louder.

  It was clear to Gray that they were in some kind of gallery above the room where the assembly was—for the voices seemed to be rising through the floor.

  He walked to the chair—and stopped abruptly.

  The opening in the floor was directly above the temple proper. Gray and Delabar could see the shrine, with the usual bronze figure of the almond-eyed god, the burning tapers and the incense bowls.

  On the floor by the shrine the gathering of priests squatted. They were facing, not the image of Buddha, but a chair that stood on a dais at one side. On this chair an imposing mandarin was seated with the red button and silk robe of officialdom.

  “Wu Fang Chien!” whispered Delabar.

  Gray nodded. It was their friend of Honanfu, with his thin beard, placid face and spectacles.

  “What are they doing?” asked Gray softly.

  The murmur of voices persisted. For some time Delabar listened. Then he pointed out a man in beggar’s dress kneeling beside the mandarin’s chair.

  “It is some kind of trial,” he said doubtfully. “The priest by Wu Fang Chien is an ascetic—what they call a fakir in India. But he is not the criminal.”

  They moved nearer the opening, being secure from observation from below. Gray wrinkled his nose at the mingled scent of incense and Mongolian sweat that floated up through the opening.

  “Wu Fang Chien is saying that he has come to Liangchowfu to sit in judgment on the evildoers who are enemies of the god,” interpreted Delabar. “He has called the priests to witness the proceedings.”

  Gray looked at Delabar curiously. He had caught a word or two of the talk.

  “Does he name the offenders?” he asked.

  “No. He says the priesthood has been informed that two men plan to desecrate a holy place. He has come to catch them red-handed.”

  Wu Fang Chien, Gray reflected, could not know they were in the gallery of the temple, by the seat reserved for a distinguished student, or the emperor. The mandarin must have discovered their mission, as Delabar feared. He peered over the rail.

  Directly underneath three priests were stripped to the waist. They held a bronze bowl of considerable size.

  As Gray watched, a silence fell on the room below.

  “They are going to try divination,” whispered Delabar, and Gray saw that his face was strained. “The divination of the ivory sticks and the bowl. That is a custom of the sorcerers of the interior. The priests believe in it implicitly. I have seen some wonderful things “

  He broke off as the ascetic prostrated himself before Wu Fang Chien, holding out a sandalwood box. Gray saw the mandarin lean forward and draw what looked like a short white stick from the box.

  “That is to determine the distance the criminals are from the temple,” explained Delabar. “It is a very short stick—representing perhaps a li or one-third of a mile.”

  “That would include the inn,” was Gray’s comment. “Hello, the bowl boys are coming into action.”

  The three priests were turning slowly on their feet, supporting the bronze bowl above their heads. They moved in a kind of dance, and as they revolved, came nearer to the shrine—then retreated. Delabar watched intently.

  “They will keep up the dance for twenty-four hours,” he said, “without stopping. Meanwhile the other priests will watch, without taking food or drink. It induces a kind of hypnotism. They believe that at the end of the twenty-four hours, the god will enter the bowl.”

  Gray nodded. Wu Fang Chien had sat back and was eyeing the dance complacently.

  “When this happens,” Delabar went on, “the priests will leave the temple, holding the bowl in front of them. They will be followed by the townspeople, who do not doubt that the god will conduct them to the criminals.”

  “I guess we’re nominated for the guilty parties.”

  Gray surveyed the scene curiously, the revolving trio of brown bodies, the silent mandarin and the watching priests. He followed idly the smoke fumes that eddied up from the shrine of the bronze god. Wu Fang Chien, he mused, had decided that it was time to strike. And the mandarin was going about it with the patience of the Mongol, sure of his victim, and his own power.

  Wu Fang Chien had warned them. They had not heeded the warning. The attack in Honanfu had been a prelude—possibly to get Gray’s weapons away from him. It had failed, but Wu Fang Chien had formed another plan. Why else had he come to Liangchowfu?

  Watching the whirling priests, Gray guessed at the plan. In twenty-four hours the sorcery of the bowl would come to a head. The three priests would bear it to the inn—in a state of semi-hypnotism themselves, and followed by a fanatical crowd. They would confront Gray and Delabar. They would search the belongings of the white men, and find the maps of Sungan—the maps that had been seen by the intruder at the Honanfu inn. After that—

  Delabar gripped his companion’s arm. “Someone is coming,” he whispered.

  Gray listened, and heard a faint sound of footsteps. It came from the stairs—the soft pad-pad of slippered feet ascending the steps. Gray shot a quick glance into the temple below. The scene had not changed, except that the priest in the tattered robe was no longer at Wu Fang Chien’s side.

  “We are caught,” muttered the scientist. “There is no other door.”

  Gray was aware of this. The only openings in the chamber where they stood were the door and the aperture in the floor. The pad-pad came nearer, but more slowly. He was reasonably sure that they had not been seen. It was abominably bad luck that some one should visit the gallery just then.

  “We left the temple door open,” Delabar wh
ispered, staring at the dark stairs behind them. “One of the priests observed it and came—”

  “Steady,” Gray cautioned him. He drew the trembling Syrian back into the shadows at one side of the door. Here they were in semi-obscurity. Stepping quietly to arm’s reach of the head of the stairs, Gray waited.

  He heard the steps approach, then become silent as if the intruder was looking into the room.

  A moment passed while Gray silently cursed the heavy breathing of Delabar, who seemed possessed by uncontrollable excitement. Then a shaven head appeared in the doorway, followed by a naked shoulder. A pair of slant, evil eyes flickered around the gallery, failing to notice the two white men in the shadow.

  Gray’s hand went out and closed on the throat of the priest. His grip tightened, choking off a smothered gasp. The man fell heavily to his knees.

  The floor echoed dully at the impact. Gray realized that it must have been heard by those in the temple below. Snatching up the frail priest by throat and leg, he lifted him easily and started down the stairs headlong.

  “This way, Professor,” he called. “Better hurry.”

  Concealment being useless now, they plunged down the steps. By the time the lower floor was reached, Gray’s grip had stilled the struggles of the man—whom he recognized as the ascetic.

  The sound of running feet came to him as he waited for Delabar to come up. The professor shot through the temple door like a frightened rabbit.

  Gray tossed the unconscious priest on the doorsill and pushed the heavy portal nearly shut, wedging the man’s body in the opening. Then he trotted after Delabar through the garden.

  “Let’s hope you’re right about the penalty for opening the door there,” he laughed. “That priest will have his hands full explaining how he happens to be lying on the emperor’s threshold—when he comes to. Probably he’ll say that devils picked him up.”

  Looking back at the edge of the temple garden, Gray saw a crowd with lanterns standing inside the door, over the form of the priest. They were some distance away by now. Following the circuit of the city wall, Gray succeeded in gaining the alleys back of the inn without being observed.