Marching Sands

by Harold Lamb

  Once safely in their room, Delabar threw himself on the bed, panting. Gray took up his rifle and laid it across his knees, placing his chair so that he could command both door and window.

  He did not want to sleep. And he feared to trust Delabar to watch. Throughout the remaining hours until daylight whitened the paper of the window, he sat in his chair. But nothing further happened. The festivities in the streets had ended and the inn itself was quiet, unusually so.

  * * * * *

  Daylight showed Delabar lying on the bed, smoking innumerable cigarettes. The scientist had maintained a moody silence since their arrival at the inn. The sound of excited voices floated in from the courtyard. Vehicles could be heard passing along the street. But the ordinary pandemonium of a Chinese hostelry at breakfast time was subdued.

  Gray tossed his rifle on the bed, yawned and stretched his powerful frame. He was hungry, and said so. He brushed the dirt from his shoes, changed to a clean shirt, looked in the pail for water. Finding none, he picked up the pail, strode to the door and flung it open.

  On the threshold, his back against the doorpost, was sitting a Buddhist priest. It was an aged man, his face wrinkled and eyes inflamed. His right shoulder and his breast were bared. In one hand he clasped a long knife. His eyes peered up at the white man vindictively.

  Gray recognized the ascetic of the temple. He could see the dark marks where his hands had squeezed the scrawny throat.

  He reached for his automatic with his free hand. The priest did not stir. The man was squatting on his heels, fairly over the threshold; the knife rested on one knee. How long he had been there, Gray did not know.

  Priest and white man stared at each other intently. Gray frowned. Plainly the man at the door did not mean well; but why did the fellow remain seated, holding the knife passively? He noted fleetingly that the main room of the inn was vacant.

  “Don’t move!” Delabar’s voice came to him, shrill with anxiety. “Don’t take a step. Shut the door and come back here.”

  “Why?” Gray asked curiously. “I want to go out for water, and I’m blessed if this chap is going to keep me in—”

  “It’s death to move!”

  “For me?”

  “No, the priest will die.” Delabar clutched his companion’s arm. “You don’t understand. The priest is here on a mission. If you step through the door, he will stab himself with the knife. And if he commits suicide at our door, we’ll have the whole of Liangchowfu down on us.”

  Gray pocketed the automatic with a laugh. “I don’t see why we are to blame if this yellow monkey sticks himself with his own knife.”

  Delabar crossed to the door and closed it on the watching Buddhist.

  “You know very little of China, my friend,” he said gloomily. “One of the favorite methods of revenge is to hire a priest to sit at a man’s door, like this. Then, if any one leaves the house, the priest commits suicide. That fixes—or the Chinese believe it fixes—a crime on the man in the house. It’s a habit of the Chinese to kill themselves in order to obtain vengeance on an enemy.”

  Gray whistled. “I’ve heard something of the kind. But, look here, I could grab that fellow before he can hurt himself.”

  “It would be useless. As soon as he was free, he’d commit suicide, and the blame would fall on us. By now, all the Chinese in the town know that this priest is here. If he should die, it would be a signal for a general attack on us.”

  Meditatively, Gray seated himself on the bucket and considered the situation.

  “You know the working of the yellow mind, Professor,” he observed. “Do you suppose this fellow has marked us out as the guilty parties who manhandled him in the temple and left him in the sacred door?”

  “It’s more likely that Wu Fang Chien guessed we were the intruders. We were probably watched more closely than you knew. Then, according to the temple law, this priest is guilty of sacrilege in crossing the emperor’s door. So Wu Fang Chien has ordered him to guard our door, to wipe out his own sin, and incriminate us at the same time.”

  Gray grinned cheerfully.

  “The working of the Mongol mind is a revelation, Delabar. I guess you’re right. This is Wu Fang Chien’s way of keeping us quiet in here while the boys with the bowl get their magic primed. Also, it will help to make the townspeople hostile to us.”

  Slowly, Wu Fang Chien’s plan was maturing. Gray saw the snare of the Mongol mandarin closing around them. It was a queer, fantastic snare. In the United States, the situation would have been laughable. Here, it was deadly.

  Wu Fang Chien had made his preparations carefully. The temple festival had stirred up the Buddhists; the arrival of the bronze bowl, borne by the priests, would implicate the two white men; the discovery of the maps of the forbidden district of the Gobi would do the rest.

  Gray could destroy the maps. But then he would have no guide to the course to be followed if they should escape from Liangchowfu. He was not yet willing to destroy all prospect of success.

  He sought out the maps, in one of their packs, and pocketed them.

  “Does this hocus-pocus of the bowl in the temple always take twenty-four hours?” he asked Delabar.

  “Always.”

  “Well, Wu Fang won’t want to break the rules of the game—not when he has the cards so well in hand. Professor, we have fourteen hours to think up a line of action. We have food enough here to make a square meal or two. Also wine—as a present to the city mandarins—that will keep us from becoming too thirsty.”

  Delabar shrugged his bent shoulders. He looked ill. His hand was trembling, and it was clear to Gray that the man was on the verge of a breakdown.

  “What can we do?” the Syrian asked plaintively. “Except to destroy the maps, which would incriminate us.”

  “We won’t do that.”

  There comes a time when fatigue undermines weak vitality. Delabar complained, begged, cursed. But Gray refused to burn the papers that meant the success or failure of their expedition.

  “You’re sick, Delabar,” he said firmly. “You seem to forget we’re here on a mission. Now, pay attention a minute. I’ve been getting ready, after a fashion, for a move on Wu Fang’s part. I’ve paid our coolies four times what was owing them, and promised ’em double that if they stick by us. I think they may do it. If so, we stand a good chance of getting clear with our necessary stores emergency rations, medicines, a few cooking utensils and blankets. But we can’t start anything until it’s dark. Sleep if you can. If you can’t—don’t worry.”

  He cast a curious glance at the scientist—a glance of mixed good-natured contempt and anxiety.

  “This guardian of the gate trick works both ways,” he concluded. “If we can’t get out, no one will want to get in.”

  He took a few, sparing swallows of the strong wine, a mouthful of bread and rice, and tilted his chair back against the wall. The room was hot and close, and he soon dropped off into a nap. Delabar did not sleep.

  Gray, from habit, dozed lightly. He was conscious of the sounds that went on in the street. Several times he wakened, only to drop off again, seeing that all was as it should be. Once or twice he heard Delabar go to the door and peer out to see if the priest was still at his post. Evidently he was, for the Syrian maintained his brooding quiet.

  As time wore on, Gray thought he heard Delabar laughing. He assured himself that he must have been mistaken. Yet the echo of the laugh persisted, harsh, and bitter. Delabar must have been laughing.

  The officer wondered drowsily what had been the cause of the other’s mirth—and sat up with a jerk. He caught at the hand that was stealing under his coat, and found himself looking into Delabar’s flushed face, not a foot from his own. The scientist drew back, with a chuckle. There was no mistaking the chuckle this time.

  Gray felt at his coat pocket and assured himself the maps were still there.

  “So you lost your nerve, eh, Professor?” he said, not unkindly—and broke off with a stare. “What the devil?”
>
  Delabar staggered away from him and fell on the bed, rocking with mirth. He caught his head in his hands and burst into the laugh that Gray had heard before. Then he lay back full length, waving his hands idiotically.

  Gray swore softly. He noticed the wine bottles on the table, and caught them up. He assured himself grimly that one was empty and another nearly so. He himself had taken only a swallow of the liquor.

  Delabar had drunk up approximately two quarts of strong wine. And Gray knew that the man was not accustomed to it.

  The scientist was drunk; blindly, hopelessly drunk.

  The room was dark. A candle, probably lighted by Delabar on some whim, guttered on the floor. Outside the room, the inn was very still.

  Gray regretted that his sleep had enabled Delabar to drink up the liquor. But the harm was done. His companion was helpless as a child. He looked at his watch. It was after eight. As nearly as he could remember, the proceedings at the temple had started about ten o’clock. Not quite two hours of quiet remained to them.

  Delabar sat up and regarded him with owl-like wisdom.

  “Drink, my friend,” he mumbled, “you are a strong man, and it will be hard for you to die if you are not drunk. You were a fool to come here. You are a child before the ancient wisdom of China. The secrets of the Mongols have been before your God had eyes to see the earth. Why did you pry into them?”

  A laugh followed this, and Delabar made a futile grab at one of the bottles.

  “You think I am afraid of Wu Fang Chien?” the mumble went on. “No, I am not afraid of him. He is only a servant of the slave of Buddha, who is Fate. We can not go where Fate forbids—forbids us.”

  Gray surveyed him, frowning.

  “Look outside the door,” chuckled Delabar. “Look—I stepped outside the door, my friend. And I saw—”

  Waiting for no more, Gray crossed to the door and opened it. At his feet lay the priest. The slant eyes stared up at him. The knife was fixed in the man’s throat, and a dark circle had gathered on the floor behind his head.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Delabar Leaves

  Gray stooped and felt the dead man’s face. It was still quite warm. The priest could not have killed himself more than a few minutes ago. Probably Delabar, in his drunken wandering, had put his foot across the threshold.

  With a tightening of the lips, Gray straightened and surveyed the inn. It was empty and dark except for a lantern with a crimson shade that hung over the door. Either the people of the place had seen the dead Buddhist and fled to spread the news, or they had given the room a wide berth since that afternoon.

  He could not know which was actually the case. Gray, however, could afford to waste no time in speculation. He went back into their chamber, fastened his rifle over his shoulder by its sling, and jerked Delabar to his feet.

  “It’s time we got out of here, Professor,” he said, “if you haven’t settled our hash for good.”

  The man was muttering and stumbling—hardly able to keep his feet. He could give no assistance to Gray.

  They crossed the main room of the inn without hindrance, and left the building by the rear. The stable yard was dark, and apparently empty. Gray’s flashlight disclosed only a mild-looking donkey, nibbling at the leaves of a plane tree.

  “Guess the place isn’t exactly popular just now,” thought Gray.

  Beside the stable, concealed by the manure piles, he found his wagons and mules, hitched up as he had ordered. A glance and a flicker of his light showed him that the surplus supplies were loaded. He pushed Delabar into the stable and whistled softly.

  A coolie crept from a pile of dirty straw under the wall against which several mules were standing patiently.

  “Where are the others?” demanded Gray sharply.

  The other men, said the coolie, had gone.

  “Why are not the fresh mules loaded, as I commanded?”

  The man kow-towed. “I was afraid. This is an evil place. The priests are saying that the black mark of ill-omen has descended from Heaven—”

  “Five taels,” broke in the white man crisply, “if you help me to load the mules. The priests will kill you if they find you here. If you come with me, you will live. Choose.”

  From some quarter of the city came the dull thrum of temple gongs. The coolie whined in fear, and hastened to the mules.

  It is no easy task to strap the packs on four mules in the dark. Gray let Delabar, who had subsided into slumber at contact with the cool outer air, slump on the dirt floor of the stable. He adjusted his flashlight in the straw so its beam would help them to see what they were about.

  He found, as he expected, that the other coolies had made away with many of the stores. They had taken, however, the things most valuable to them, which were least necessary to Gray—such as clothing, cooking utensils, and the heavy boxes of Chinese money.

  These last were a grave loss, but Gray had a good deal of gold in his money belt, and he knew that Delabar had the same amount.

  The two men loaded the remaining boxes on the animals—the provisions that Delabar had purchased in San Francisco, with medicines and several blankets that had been overlooked by the thieves.

  This done, Gray left the stable for a survey of the field. The inn yard was still quiet. Even the street on the further side was tranquil. Turning back, he helped the coolie place Delabar astride a mule, and tied the scientist’s feet firmly together under the animal’s belly. Throwing a blanket over him, Gray gave the word to start.

  The Chinaman went ahead by the first animal, for Gray did not want to trust him out of sight. He followed beside the mule that carried Delabar, giving directions as to their course.

  “The loaded wagon at the inn will be a fair puzzle to the searching party from the temple,” he thought. “We could never get free of Liangchowfu with the carts. Here’s hoping my friend Mirai Khan was right when he said there was a hole in the city wall behind the temple.”

  It was a slender chance—to work their way through the alleys in the darkness. But, as Gray reasoned, it was the only thing to do. And two things were in their favor. The inn was undoubtedly watched, front and back. The priests’ spies would see the mules leaving, and probably decide the coolies were making off with them—especially as the wagons were still in the stable yard.

  Also, the attention of the Liangchowfu population—or the most dangerous part of it—would be centered on the temple and the divination in progress there.

  Gray had reasoned correctly. By following the odorous and muddy by-ways that he and Delabar had investigated previously, he was able to gain the wall without attracting attention.

  Here the lights were fewer, and the trees sheltered them. The coolie, who was badly frightened, could give Gray no information as to the location of the break in the city wall. It was useless, of course, to try a dash for the city gates that would be guarded.

  Gray pushed ahead steadily at a slow trot, scanning the bulk of the wall for signs of an aperture. They were well behind the temple by now, at the further side of the garden they had entered the night before. So far they had been very lucky, but Gray’s heart sank as he sighted buildings ahead—a huddle of thatched huts, evidently in the poorer section of the town. Still no break in the stone barrier was visible.

  “Keep on,” he whispered to the coolie, “and don’t forget if we are discovered you’ll be caught in the act of aiding me to escape.”

  The man broke into a faster trot, with a scared glance over his shoulder. The sound of the temple gongs was louder, swelling angrily in the wind. Voices came from the huts ahead, and Gray fancied that he heard shouts in the street they had left.

  He swore softly. If only they could find the exit he was seeking! Once out on the plain beyond Liangchowfu, their chances of escape would be good. If only Delabar had kept sober—

  He swung around alertly at the sound of horses’ hoofs. In the faint light a mounted man appeared beside him.

  “That was very well done, Excellency,�
� a voice whispered in hoarse Chinese. “I know, for I watched from the dung heaps by the inn stable. One of the men who fled I caught and took the money he carried.”

  “Mirai Khan,” whispered Gray.

  “Aye,” admitted the Kirghiz complacently. “I swore that you would see me again, and it has come to pass. I have heard talk in the town. I knew that the priests—may they swallow their own fire—seek you. So I waited, for I had the thought you would not easily be snared. Lo, it has happened so. Verily my thought was a true thought. Follow where I lead.”

  He urged his pony ahead of the mules, motioning Gray to the side of the small caravan, away from the huts. Dim faces peered from window openings at them. But the white man was in the shadow of the wall, and Mirai Khan appeared too familiar a figure in this quarter of Liangchowfu to excite comment. Probably the mules bore out the character of the horse-thief, retiring to the plain with a load of ill-gotten spoil.

  They passed through the huts in silence, the coolie too frightened to speak. Delabar was muttering to himself under the blanket, but the swaggering figure of the Kirghiz, with his rifle over his arm, seemed to insure them against investigation. Still, Gray breathed a thankful oath as they dipped into a gully through which flowed a brook.

  Mirai Khan rode forward, apparently into the very wall. But here the crumbling stone divided—an opening wide enough to permit of the passage of a pack animal with its burden, walking in the bed of the stream.

  Once clear of the wall, the sound of the temple gong dwindled and ceased entirely. They pressed ahead at a quick trot, until, glancing behind, Gray saw that the lights of Liangchowfu had disappeared. As nearly as he could tell by the stars, he guessed that Mirai Khan was leading them northwest.

  When the sky paled behind them and the dawn wind struck their faces, Gray made out that they were in a nest of hillocks. No house was visible. It was waste land, with only an occasional stunted cedar clinging to the side of a clay bank. They had put more than a dozen miles between them and Liangchowfu.