by Harold Lamb
“Really? Perhaps the official,” and she glanced fleetingly at Mirai Khan, “thinks you do not keep good company. Will you show me your passport? You don’t have to, you know.”
No, he did not have to. But in his present plight he felt that a refusal would be a mistake. He moved to reach the papers in his breast pocket, and was checked by the handcuffs. He glanced at Ram Singh angrily. The native looked at him complacently. It was an awkward moment.
“Ram Singh!” The girl spoke sharply. “Have you bound the white man’s hands?”
The Sikh grunted non-committally. She pointed at Gray.
“Undo his hands. Is a white man to be tied like a horse-stealing Kirghiz?”
Reluctantly, Ram Singh obeyed, and stood near vigilantly. Gray felt in his pocket with stiffened fingers and produced his passport. This the girl scanned curiously.
“I want to apologize,” ventured Gray, “for Mirai Khan’s attempt on your horses. He was acting contrary to orders. But I take the blame for what he did.”
He spoke formally, even stiffly. The woman in the chair glanced at him swiftly, studying him from under level brows. He felt a great wish that he should be absolved from the stigma of guilt before her. And, man-like, he pinned his trust in formal explanation.
She seemed not to heed his words. She returned his papers, biting her lip thoughtfully. He would have given much to know what she was thinking about, but the girl’s bright face was unreadable.
“Ram Singh,” she ordered absently, “the sahib’s rifle must be filled with sand. See that it is cleaned. Take him to the store tent, where he can wash the sand from his eyes. Will you come back here, Captain Gray? I would like ever so much to talk to you.”
While Gray washed gratefully, and while the natives brushed his coat and shoes, his mind was on the girl of the yurt. He told himself savagely that he did not desire to be sympathized with. Like a woman, he thought, she had taken pity on his discomfort. Of course, she had to treat him decently before the natives.
In this, he was more right than wrong.
CHAPTER XI
Sir Lionel
When Gray returned to the yurt, he found the table set with silver and china containing a substantial amount of curried rice, mutton and tea. This reminded him that he was ravenous, since he had not eaten for twenty-four hours. He did not notice that the girl’s hair appeared adjusted more to a nicety, or that she had exchanged the shawl for the jacket of her dress.
“You like your tea strong?” she asked politely.
In spite of his hunger, Gray felt awkward as he ate sparingly of the food under her cool gaze. She was non-committally attentive to his wants. He wished that she would say something more or that Ram Singh would cease glaring at the back of his neck like a hawk ready to pounce on its prey.
The food, however, refreshed him. His curiosity concerning his hostess grew. He had seen no other white man in the camp. It was hardly possible that the Englishwoman had come alone to the Gobi. Whither was she bound? And why did she reside in a Kirghiz yurt when the caravan was outfitted with European luxuries?
When the natives had removed the plates, he took out his pipe from force of habit, and felt for matches. Then he reflected that he should not smoke in the woman’s tent.
He would have liked to thank her for her hospitality, to assure her of his regret for the tactics of Mirai Khan, to ask her some of the questions that were in his mind. Especially if she were really alone in the desert. But while he fumbled for words, she spoke quickly.
“I’ve never taken a prisoner before, Captain Gray. A white man, that is. I believe the correct thing to do is to question you. That fits in most nicely, because I am unusually curious by nature.”
He had pulled out a match that he struck absently, then extinguished it. She noted the action silently.
“You are an army officer?”
“In the reserve. Acting independently now, of course.”
“Acting?” She smiled lightly and held out something to him. “So you are a big game hunter? I did not know this was good country for that sort of thing.”
“It isn’t,” he acknowledged bluntly. “That is—not in the ordinary sense. But I have already some trophies bagged. Mirai Khan is my guide—”
“Please do smoke,” she said, and he saw that what she offered him was a box of matches. One of the servants struck a light.
“I am quite used to it. My uncle, Sir Lionel, smokes much worse tobacco than yours.”
Gray considered her over his pipe.
“Would you mind telling me,” he asked gravely, “Miss Niece of Sir Lionel, what you are going to do with me? I’m fairly your prisoner. Your patrol under Ram Singh captured me within your lines.”
The girl nodded thoughtfully. Gray wondered if he had caught a glint of laughter in the demure eyes. He decided he was mistaken.
“You are an officer, Captain Gray. You know all prisoners are questioned closely. I still have two more questions before I decide your case. Are you really alone? And where are you bound?”
“I am,” stated Gray methodically. “Ansichow.”
“Really? I am going there. I should introduce you, as my prisoner, to Sir Lionel, but he is tired out and asleep, leaving me with Ram Singh.”
“Who is an excellent guardian, Miss Niece—”
“Mary Hastings,” said the girl quickly. “I have no reason to conceal my name.” Gray thought she emphasized the I. “My uncle, Sir Lionel Hastings, is head of the British Asiatic Society in India. He is bound for the Gobi.”
Gray stared at her. The British Asiatic Society! Then this must be the expedition in search of the Wusun. Van Schaick had said that it was starting from India.
“I begged Sir Lionel to take me,” continued Mary Hastings calmly, “and he finds me very useful. I record his observations, you know, keep the journal of the expedition, and draw the maps. That gives him time for more important work.”
“But the desert—” Gray broke off.
“The desert is no place for a woman. I suppose that is what you meant. But I am not an ordinary woman, I warn you, Captain Gray. Sir Lionel is my only relative, and we have traveled together for years. He did say that he anticipated some opposition from the Chinese authorities. But I refused to be left behind.” The rounded chin lifted stubbornly. “This is the most important work my uncle has undertaken, and he is always visited with fever about this time of year.”
Gray was secretly envious of Sir Lionel. What an ally this girl would make! Yet, in their present positions, she was apt to be his most ardent foe. He glanced up, measuring her, and met her look. For a long moment the slate-green eyes of the man searched hers. They reminded him of the surface of water, sometimes quiet to an infinite depth and then tumultuous.
For a discerning man, Gray was at a sad loss to fathom Mary Hastings.
“To avoid attention from the Chinese,” she continued, looking down, “we came up from Burma, along the Tibetan border. Rather a boring trip. But by going around the main towns at the Yang-tze headwaters, and by using these serviceable native huts—which can be taken down and put up quickly—we escape questioning.”
So that was the explanation of the clumsy yurts.
“You were not quite so fortunate, Captain Gray? Curious, that, isn’t it—when you are only a big game hunter?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to make a clean breast of it, and say that he, also, was seeking Sungan. But it seemed absurd to confess to her that the sole member of the American expedition had been found among the camels of the Hastings caravan. Perhaps he was unconsciously influenced by his desire to be on friendly terms—even such as at present with Mary Hastings.
Every moment of their talk was a keen pleasure to him—more so than he was aware. He reflected how lucky it was that he had run into the other expedition. It was not altogether strange, since they had both started at the same time, and Ansichow was the mutual hopping-off place into the Gobi.
“Will you tell me,” he evade
d, “how you came to call me Captain Gray before you saw my papers?”
Mary Hastings smiled pleasantly.
“It was an excellent guess, wasn’t it? But now I’m quite through my questions.” She paused, her brow wrinkled in portentous thought. “I think I shall not burden myself with a prisoner. You are quite free, Captain Gray. You and Mirai Khan. Doubtless you wish to return to your caravan.”
Gray thought of the two waiting mules and the rain-soaked blanket that constituted his outfit, and laughingly mentioned it to her.
“You are very kind,” he said, rising.
“Captain Gray,” she said impulsively, “it’s raining again. If you would care to spend the night with us, I am sure Ram Singh can spare you a cot and blanket. Mirai Khan can fetch your outfit in the morning, and you can go on with us to Ansichow. It’s only a day’s trek.”
Gray hesitated; then accepted her offer thankfully.
“You will find your rifle on your cot. Ram Singh cleaned it himself. It needed it. He said it was a 30-30 model, but then you are probably using it for big game because you are accustomed to it.” She held out her hand with a quizzical smile. Gray took it in his firm clasp, awkwardly, and released her fingers quickly, lest he should hold them too long. She nodded.
“Good night, Captain Gray.”
Not until he was without the tent did he reflect that he had admitted that he was bound for Ansichow. And Ansichow meant the Gobi.
For a space after his departure Mary Hastings remained in her tent. She had dismissed the native servant. She was thinking, and it seemed to please her. But thought, with the girl, required companionship and conversation.
Abruptly she left her chair and stepped through the door of the tent. It was still drizzling without; still, there was a break in the heavy clouds to the west. Mary noted this, and skipped to the entrance of the yurt nearest her.
“It’s me, Uncle Singh,” she called, not quite grammatically. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” a kindly voice answered at once. “Anything wrong?”
A man sat up on the cot, snapping on an electric torch by the head of the bed and glancing at a small clock. He was a tall, spare individual, with the frame of an athlete, polo shoulders, and the high brow of a scholar.
He was well past middle age, yellow-brown as to face, deep hollows under the cheek bones, his scanty hair matching his face, except where it was streaked with white.
The girl installed herself snugly on the foot of the bed, sitting cross-legged.
“You’ve been sleeping heavily, Sher Singh,” she observed reproachfully, giving the man his native surname, “and that means you aren’t well. I have news.” She paused triumphantly, then bubbled spontaneously into speech.
“Such news. Aie. Captain Robert Gray is here, in Ram Singh’s tent. He is alone, with a servant. He is a big man, not ill-looking, but awkward—very. He stands so much on his dignity. Really, it was quite ridiculous”—she laughed agreeably—“and I was very nicely entertained. He was brought in by the Sikhs, after trying to steal our ponies—”
“Lifting our horses!” Sir Lionel sat bolt upright and flushed. “Why, the scoundrel—”
“I mean his servant was. Captain Gray was innocent, but I was not inclined to let him off easily—”
Mary’s conception of important news did not satisfy the explorer’s desire for facts. A peculiarly jealous expression crept into the man’s open face.
“Has he a well-equipped caravan?”
“Two mules, a gun and a blanket.”
“How extraordinary!” Sir Lionel stared at his niece. “No camels?”
“Not one.” Mary yawned, and, with a glance at the clock, began to unbind her heavy hair. It was very late. Her fingers worked dexterously, while Sir Lionel weighed her words. Unlike his niece, he was an individual of slow mental process, perhaps too much schooled by routine.
“Mary! How did you—ah—behave to Captain Gray?”
“I took him prisoner.” The girl smiled mischievously. “He was so humiliated, Uncle Singh.”
“I hope,” observed Sir Lionel severely, “you warned him of our identity.”
“Rather. But he implied he was after big game.”
Sir Lionel reached to the light stand and secured a cigarette, which he lit. His eyes hardened purposefully.
“I’ll trek for Ansichow, at once. I must buy up all the available camels. If you will retire to your tent, and send my syce—”
“Indeed, no.” She frowned worriedly. “You haven’t had your sleep yet.”
Sir Lionel caught her hand in his.
“No, Mary. You must be aware what this expedition means to me. I must be first in Ansichow, and into the Gobi. Failure is not to be thought of. Dear girl, I have thrown my reputation into the dice bowl—”
“I know.” She patted his hand lightly, and her eyes were serious. “Only I wish you would let me help a little more.” She shook free the coils of her bronze hair and placed a small hand firmly over his lips. “I know what you want to say—that you are being ever so kind and indulging to let me come at all. As if I could be left at Simla when you went on your biggest hunt, Uncle Singh. Well,” she sighed, “if you must go buy camels, you will. But”—she brightened—“please leave the wandering American to me. I saw him first.”
Sir Lionel removed the hand that restricted his speech, and frowned portentously. Mary beamed, twining her hair into twin plaits.
“Mary!” he said gravely, “please do not annoy Captain—ah—Gray. We must be perfectly fair with him, you know.”
“Of course,” she assured him virtuously. “Haven’t I been? He may not think so when he learns how you’ve gone camel buying when I offered him sleeping quarters. He’ll forever fear the Greeks bearing gifts.”
“Oolu ka butcha!” (Child of an owl!)
“But he shouldn’t try to deceive me, should he, Uncle? I fancy he’ll have a rather wretched time of it. He seems somewhat out of his environment here.”
She nodded decisively.
“It’s his own fault altogether for coming where he has no business to be and wanting to deprive my Sher Singh of what you worked a lifetime for.”
“Merely his duty, Mary.”
“But he shall not hinder you in yours.”
She fell silent, no longer smiling. There was a great tenderness in the glance she cast at the gaunt Englishman. Sir Lionel was her hero, and, lacking father and mother, all the warmth of the girl’s affection had been bestowed on the explorer.
She said good-night softly and slipped from the tent. That night she slept lightly, and was afoot with the first streak of crimson in the east.
CHAPTER XII
A Message From the Centuries
In his snug quarters, Gray slept well for the first time in many nights, feeling the reaction from the constant watchfulness he and Mirai Khan had been forced to exercise. When he turned out in the morning the sun was well up, and the men were breaking camp under the direction of Ram Singh, who greeted him coldly.
When he inquired for Miss Hastings, he found that she had gone on to join her uncle, on a camel with a single attendant. He was forced to ride with the caravan, after sending Mirai Khan back for the animals. Ram Singh proved an uncommunicative companion and Gray was glad when the flat roofs of the town showed over the sand ridges in the late afternoon.
The caravan halted at the edge of the town, where the Englishman had prepared his encampment. The place was a lonely settlement, populated by stolid Dungans and a few Chinese who ministered to the wants of merchants passing from Liangchowfu to Kashgar and the cities of Turkestan. Gray failed to see either the girl or her uncle and learned that they had gone to pay a visit of ceremony to the amban—the governor—of Ansichow.
He went to seek out Mirai Khan. The meeting with the Hastings had put him in a delicate situation. In spite of his own plight, he determined to confess his mission to the Englishman, having decided that was the only fair thing to do. He could not accept
aid from the people who were bound to be his rivals in the quest for the Wusun.
He reflected ruefully that Van Schaick had urged him to reach the spot in the Gobi before the expedition from India. Van Schaick and Balch were counting on him to do that—not knowing that Delabar had been working against him.
As it stood, both parties had gained the town on the Gobi edge at the same time. But the Hastings possessed an ample outfit, well chosen for the purpose and ready to go ahead on the instant. Gray had only Mirai Khan and two mules. He would need to hire camels, and bearers, to stock up with what provisions were available, and to obtain a guide.
This would take time, and much of his small store of money. Moreover, if he made clear his purpose to Sir Lionel, it was probable the Englishman would start at once, thus gaining four or five days on him. Gray knew by experience the uselessness of trying to hurry Chinese through a transaction.
And he was not sure if Mirai Khan would go into the desert.
The Kirghiz had served him faithfully, to the best of his ability so far. But Mirai Khan had said that the tribesmen shunned this part of the desert. Then there was the amban. It was more than possible that Wu Fang Chien had sent word to Ansichow to head off Gray.
It was a difficult situation, and Gray was pondering it moodily when he came upon Mirai Khan in the bazaar street of the town. The Kirghiz, who seemed to be excited over something, beckoned him into one of the stalls, after glancing up and down the street cautiously.
“Hearken, Excellency,” he whispered. “Here I have found a man who knows what will interest you. He has been much into the desert and has dug up writings and valuable things that he will sell—at a good price. His name is Muhammed Bai.”
Gray glanced into the stall, and saw a bent figure kneeling on the rugs. It was an old Turkoman, wearing spectacles and a stained turban. Muhammed Bai salaamed and motioned his visitor to be seated. Gray scanned him with some interest. It was quite possible the man had some valuable information. Mirai Khan had a way of finding out things readily.