Marching Sands

by Harold Lamb

  The shout grew in volume as Gela, still vigorous, advanced on Gray with outstretched arms. The white man stepped back. Again he avoided the clutch of the Wusun, who was grinning in triumph. As he did so, he summed his remaining strength with grim determination, watching Gela.

  Again the Wusun advanced. This time Gray did not draw back. He launched forward bodily, eyes fixed on his foe’s face. His fist caught Gela full on the cheek-bone, under the eye.

  Watching, and fighting off the stupor of weakness, Gray saw Gela’s head jerk back. The Wusun slipped to the floor, and lay there.

  It was all that Gray could do to keep his feet. His head was on his chest, and his dull sight perceived that Gela was trying to crawl toward him.

  The muscles of the Wusun moved feebly, pulling his body over the floor. His splendid shoulders heaved. The blow that he received would have knocked out an ordinary man.

  Gray, his shirt torn from his back, and blood dripping from his mouth, watched. Gela edged nearer. There was silence in the hall.

  Then the Wusun’s head dropped to the floor and his shoulders fell limp. He ceased moving forward. Gray’s blow had ended the struggle. Both men were exhausted; but the white man was able to keep his feet.

  As his sight cleared, he looked up at Mary. The girl’s gaze burned into his. Gray moved toward her, fumbling at his left arm.

  He mounted the steps of the dais. He took the bronze armlet weakly in his hand. Barely, he was able to raise it and place it around the girl’s throat. She did not draw back.

  Then he put his hand on her shoulder and turned to face Bassalor Danek. As he did so, there was a commotion in the crowd at the hall entrance. A Wusun stepped forward. He held a strung bow in one hand.

  “I bring news, O Gur-Khan,” the newcomer cried. “Wu Fang Chien is within the gate of Sungan.”

  At this, confusion arose among the Wusun. Women screamed and the tumani shouted angrily.

  ‘‘The Chinese soldiers have driven back the sentries on the wall,” repeated the messenger. “Wu Fang Chien sends word to you. He has come for the two white people. They must be given up to him. Or he will search the whole of Sungan.”

  The uproar died down at this. All eyes were turned to Bassalor Danek. The Gur-Khan sat quietly in his chair, but the hand that stroked his beard trembled.

  “Will Wu Fang Chien break the covenant of our people?” he demanded sternly.

  “Aye; he has mustered his soldiers with guns.”

  Gray felt the girl draw closer to him. She did not know what was going on, yet guessed at trouble in the air. He put his arm over her shoulders, thrilled that she did not protest.

  Instead, her hand reached up and pressed his softly. Her hair touched his cheek. He had married Mary Hastings, by the law of the Wusun. It was not marriage as their customs ordained; but he felt the exultation that had come when he bound the circlet of bronze about her slim throat. She was his! He had won her from Gela. And—miraculously—she was content to have his arm about her. Of course he could not urge the claim of this barbaric ritual on her—if they ever won free from Sungan. For the moment, however, he joyed in the thought that he had fought for and won the woman he loved. The new menace, voiced by the messenger, slipped from his mind. He saw only the girl.

  Then he realized that she was blushing hotly.

  “Please,” she whispered, “I—I must get my clothes. This dress is not—I don’t want to wear it.”

  “It’s mighty becoming,” he said, laughingly.

  He spoke haphazard, his triumph still strong upon him.

  “Oh!” She smiled back. “Now that you are my—master, they’ll let me change to my own things, won’t they? I’ll run back to Bassalor Danek’s house.”

  He saw that she was disturbed by the multitude. But the lines about his mouth hardened. His arm tightened about her.

  “You won’t leave me—now,” he whispered. Then he saw sudden alarm in her eyes. “We’re in trouble, as usual. I’ll send a woman for your clothes.” He spoke lightly, trying to reassure her. “Here’s Timur—”

  At his request, the lame chieftain curtly dispatched an attendant for Mary’s garments. Timur was watching Bassalor Danek. The Gur-Khan was staring blankly before him. He was called upon to make a decision that meant much to his people.

  Gray also was watching the ruler of the Wusun, wondering whether the latter’s pride would lead him to resist Wu Fang Chien.

  Then a figure pushed through the tumani at the foot of the dais. It was Gela, staggering with weariness, the blood still flowing from the cuts in his face. In spite of this he carried himself proudly, and there was a savage light in the eyes that peered at Bassalor Danek and the two white people.

  He pointed at Gray and growled something that the American did not understand.

  “He says,” interpreted Timur, “that you are a brave man. That the word of Gela will not be broken. He will guard the Kha Rakcha from the Buddhists. And he will protect you, who are the husband of the woman.”

  A murmur of approval came from the ranks of the tumani at the words of their leader. Bassalor Danek looked troubled.

  “It is well said,” cried Gray. He stepped forward, holding out his hand. Gela drew himself up defiantly. It may have been that he did not understand the gesture of the white man.

  “Gela says,” explained Timur, “that he will do this for the Kha Rakcha. Not for you.”

  But Gray had seen his chance, and turned to Bassalor Danek.

  “Harken, Gur-Khan of the Wusun,” he said dearly. “You must answer Wu Fang Chien. You have heard the word of Gela, who is a generous foe. Have you forgotten that your fathers and mine were once the same? Or the talisman in the shrine? By this thing, I ask a favor. It will be the last.”

  “Speak,” responded the chieftain quietly. “I have not forgotten.”

  “The Kha Rakcha and I have come across the desert to Sungan to seek the Wusun, who are of our blood. Many died that we should come here. And”—he recalled the words Mirai Khan had once used— “we have eaten your meat and bread. What we came for has been accomplished. Why should we stay here? Would it not be better to bring word of what we have seen to those of your blood who are across the desert?”

  Bassalor Danek meditated, stroking his beard.

  “Once I said to Wu Fang Chien and the priests, O Man-from-the-Outside, that you are my guest. So it shall be. I will not give you up.”

  “The time of the Kha Rakcha in Sungan is ended,” returned Gray boldly. “Like the crescent moon, she has come and will go. She must carry the word of the talisman in the shrine back with her. It was for this that the Kha Rakcha was sent. She will return to a king who is greater than the Manchu emperor once was.”

  The Gur-Khan shook his head shrewdly.

  “What power is greater than the Dragon Empire? What other people are there than the Mongols, the Kirghiz and the Buddhists priests?”

  “Beyond the desert is a sea, and beyond the sea are those whose blood was once yours. We will take our message to them and they will know of the Wusun.”

  Timur limped forward to the Gur-Khan’s side.

  “A thought has come to me, O Khan of the Wusun,” he said slowly. “It is a high thought and an omen. It is that this man and woman will return whence they have come, with speech of what they saw in Sungan. It is written in the book of fate that this shall be. Why else did the white man overcome Gela?”

  He turned to Gray, with a moody smile on his lined face.

  “Your people, O Man-from-the-Outside, will not find the Wusun, if they send again. That is my thought. The sun passes from the heavens and it is night; the camel leaves his bones to dry in the sands. So will the Wusun pass from Mongolia. The priests of Buddha are powerful. Soon the sands will climb over the walls of Sungan.”

  A murmur from a hundred throats, a muttered lament, greeted this.

  “We will deliver our message,” said Gray.

  Timur was silent, standing beside the troubled Gur-Khan. A quick emot
ion of friendship for these resigned captives of Sungan swept over Gray. He turned to Gela.

  “Will you do this for the Kha Rakcha?” he asked. “Will you escort us through the ranks of the Buddhist priests and the soldiers? It will not be an easy task. There will be bloodshed. But it would save the life of the Kha Rakcha.”

  Timur interpreted his request. The Kha Khan lifted his head proudly. He spoke rapidly, harshly, pointing to the watching warriors.

  “He will do what you say,” assented Timur. “The tumani will take you through the guards of Sungan. It has not been done before—”

  “Wu Fang Chien first broke the covenant,” reminded the American.

  “Aie! It will be a hard struggle. The soldiers have guns—”

  Gela broke in sternly. Already the light of conflict showed in his keen eyes. He issued a series of guttural commands to the tumani. The women began to press from the hall, uttering wailing laments. The young men clustered around the Kha Khan.

  “Wu Fang Chien will scourge us for this,” muttered Timur.

  “Wu Fang Chien,” pointed out Gray grimly, “may not live to do it. Likewise, it is better, for the peace of the Wusun, that we should go from Sungan.”

  He thought, also, of Gela’s savage love for the girl. For the moment, the Wusun was their friend. But the future might alter that. He had seen his opportunity, and seized it. The tumani were drawing their weapons and chattering excitedly.

  Gray had reasoned that now the Buddhists were assembled at the gates of Sungan. If he and the girl could penetrate their ranks, they might obtain a good start over the desert, which was now free of the outer guards.

  “As you have said,” announced Bassalor Danek, rising, “it shall be done.”

  “What is happening?” Mary asked anxiously. Sensing the importance of what was passing, she had not spoken before.

  Gray laughed. He touched her shoulder shyly.

  “Come to me, as soon as you are ready, Mary. Gela is a generous foe. He will guide us beyond the wall.”

  She looked at the young Kha Khan gratefully. Well she knew what the danger would be, although Gray had not mentioned it. On a quick impulse the girl stooped and picked up Gela’s weapon from the floor. She placed it in the hand of the Wusun. The action caught the fancy of the tumani.

  “The Kha Rakcha is one at heart with the Wusun!” they cried, looking eagerly at the beautiful woman.

  “Aye, the Kha Rakcha!” shouted Gela, his moodiness vanished. “We will shed our blood for the white queen.”

  “Ho—the white queen!” echoed the tumani.

  CHAPTER XXV

  Rifle Against Arrow

  What happened now came swiftly and with little warning. Bassalor Danek, once the die was cast, ceded his authority to Gela. The traditional leadership of the Wusun was the Kha Khan’s in time of war. Now, for the first time in generations, they were to resist the authority of their gaolers.

  Gray remembers clearly that Bassalor Danek bade them a solemn farewell, standing in his white robe at the foot of the dais. Then the Gur-Khan, who was impressed with the importance of the occasion, raised his hand with dignity.

  “By the talisman at your throat, O Kha Rakcha,” he said, “do not forget the Wusun—if it is the decree of fate that you should pass from here in safety.”

  “She will not forget,” promised Gray. He watched the aged figure depart for the tower where Bassalor Danek intended to watch what was to happen through the Eyes-of-Long-Sight.

  Gela assumed command impetuously. Gray watched him muster the tumani. The young men were afire with anticipation of a struggle. The long pent up enmity against their captors was about to be released. From the dwellings of Sungan came the lament of the women. It shrilled in the night air—the world-old plaint of women before battle.

  Timur lingered with them. The three were surrounded by the hunters, who had strung their bows and unsheathed their heavy swords.

  There was only a half-light in the upper hall of the council-temple where they now stood. It reflected faintly upon the red sandstone of the walls, with the faded, painted figures of an older age looking down upon them.

  Gutturally, the warriors spoke under their breath to each other, laughing much, although not loudly. Some, however, leaned upon their bows silently, their eyes blank. This note of tensity was familiar to the American. Gray had watched men go forward under fire with the same forced merriment, the same semi-stupor.

  But the hunters were contented. Young men, for the most part, their lean faces hardened and lined by exposure to the sun, their bloodshot eyes narrow, their lips thin and cracked—they smiled more frequently than not. A savage pleasure lurked in their eyes. They were to lift their swords against the oppressors of the Wusun. Gray counted the swords. They were all too few.

  Wearied of confinement, they were, for a brief moment, to strike into the desert as free men. Perhaps. For they might never win beyond the wall.

  They shuffled their yak-skin boots, breathing heavily. The air in the gallery became close and hot with scent of soiled leather. Mary stood close to Gray, her shoulder against his. She had changed to her torn dress and crumpled jacket. Her glance was on him.

  “Robert!”

  “Yes—Mary.” He looked down, his face alight at hearing her speak his name.

  “You were frowning. Will it be so very bad?” Her slender body pressed against his so that he could feel the pulse of her heart. “Then you mustn’t leave me—this time.”

  “No.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms, to call her his wife. But he checked the swift impulse sternly. He had no right. How was he to know that she was yearning for just this comfort?

  Gela waved his arm, and there was a shuffling of many feet moving forward.

  “Robert!”

  Her eyes, shining with faith in him, drew nearer and held his own. His arm drew her closer to him, savagely. Perhaps he hurt her. But she did not protest.

  Blindly, he pressed his mouth against the fragrance of her hair. Clumsily, with dry lips, he kissed her throat and cheek, marveling at the pulse that beat so strongly where he touched.

  Two swift, slender arms closed around his neck. The girl sighed, quivering, uttering a soft, happy murmur. Gray, unbelieving, tried to look into her face, but tender, moist lips touched his in a quick caress. Her eyes were half closed, and she was strangely pale.

  “Mary!” he whispered, and again: “Mary.”

  She was smiling now, the gray eyes glad.

  Gela cast an appraising eye over the assemblage and gave a command. The tumani pressed forward to the stairs that led to the entrances above ground.

  Gray felt Mary’s hand seek his. A cool breath of air brushed their hot faces. He saw the glitter of torches, lighted by the tumani. Then they passed out into the night.

  The sands of Sungan were vacant except for the group of warriors under Gela. A slight breeze stirred among the aloes and tamarisks, lifting tiny spirals of dust under their feet and causing the torches to flicker.

  Then the torches were dashed into the sand, and the warrior groups became shadowy forms, moving against the deeper shadow of the towers.

  Overhead the moon was cold and bright. Its radiance showed the dark figures of Chinese on the wall, and glittered on their guns. At the gate in the wall in front of them was a group of priests. Wu Fang Chien was not to be seen.

  Between the tumani and the wall was a level stretch of sand perhaps two hundred yards in length.

  “See!” chattered the old Timur, “the message of Bassalor Danek has been sent. They are waiting.”

  “It would not be well to rush the wall,” cautioned Gray quickly, sizing up the situation. “They have guns—”

  “If I had a bow!” Timur’s reluctance had vanished under the growing excitement. “Ho! The hunters will hunt new prey.”

  One of the priests cried out something that Gray did not understand. Gela answered defiantly, and the tumani rushed forward, carrying Gray and Mary with them.


  A shot sounded from the wall, greeted by a defiant shout from the Wusun. A scattering volley followed. The guards—Chinese irregulars, Dungans, bandits, followers of the priests, what-not—were poor marksmen. But the range was close. And the Wusun, ignorant of tactics against gunfire, were bunched close.

  Gray saw several stumble and fall in the sand. More shots. The torches wavered. Timur stooped and picked up a bow and arrow from one of the fallen.

  The priests had vanished from the gate. This had been closed. But not before Gray sighted groups of the lepers running about in confusion. Some seemed to be armed.

  The Wusun wavered under the fire, as undisciplined men are bound to do. Gray forced the girl to crouch in the sand with Timur while he ran forward to Gela. The Kha Khan was shouting angrily at his followers.

  “The passages!” Gray seized Gela’s arm. “Here you will be killed. Go down to the passages.”

  Gela, the hot light of battle in his scarred face, stared at him unheedingly. But Timur, who was not to be left behind, limped forward and echoed Gray’s words.

  Comprehension dawned on the Kha Khan, and his eyes narrowed shrewdly. He shouted to his men. The tumani began to run back, leaving dark bodies prone in the sand.

  Gray made his way to the temple with Mary. A shout of triumph sounded from the wall. The firing did not cease. The blood-lust had been aroused in the men on the wall, who had found the killing of the poorly armed Wusun an easy matter.

  But Gray, seeing the set faces around him, realized that the tumani were not going to give up the struggle. It was an age-old feud—the struggle of the oppressed Central Asians against their Mongol captors.

  He and the girl were swept along at Gela’s side like leaves in a swift current. Down into the temple the Wusun pressed, silent this time. They streamed into the underground corridors, led by men with torches. The shouting over-ground grew fainter.

  Once Gray stumbled over a body. It was a woman, bleeding from a death wound in the throat. The priests had been here, and warfare in the Gobi reckons not of sex.