“Fear?” Spence laughed, and put out his hand. “Luck be with you, and my aid!”
“Good. You and the astrologer must leave here tonight and ride ahead. We follow in the morning—you must warn Dr. Shaw to be ready. Come and give your orders.”
He led the way to the courtyard, summoned two of the Spahis, and ordered them to do as Spence commanded. The American issued curt orders, which the Moor affirmed with a nod.
If the Spahis were surprised, they made no comment, their obedience to Mulai Ali was implicit. Spence fancied that they, too, looked forward to high commands in El Magrib when Mulai Ali won his venture.
“If you’ll instruct that black eunuch what to do,” said Spence to the Moor, “you may then leave all to me and dismiss the affair as settled. I know no Arabic, and I fancy the eunuch has no Spanish.”
Mulai Ali nodded his assent, and departed.
Spence returned to his quarters and waited until Dr. Shaw returned. Then he informed the divine as to their divided journey. He said nothing about Mistress Betty; not that he doubted the hearty cooperation of his friend, but Shaw rather fancied his character of envoy, and would be spared by ignorance a good deal of worry.
“You can leave early in the morning, doctor?” he concluded.
“Certainly. I have carefully copied the inscription on the hypogeum, and there is little else to tempt me. Why are you thus going ahead, Patrick? I like it not.”
Spence chuckled. “Private affairs,” he said cheerfully. “Hassan is giving a feast tonight; kindly make no remark upon my disappearance, but get off early in the morning with Mulai Ali. Ride swiftly to Tlemcen. We’ll meet there. Believe me, it is better that you know nothing of my errand just yet.”
“Very well, very well,” assented Shaw, not without a sigh. “But, Patrick, if there is anything forward that smacks of fighting, I pray you not to let my cloth prevent me from having some share! I am an excellent hand with the rapier, as you know—”
Spence clapped him on the shoulder.
“Cheer up, Shaw! I promise that you’ll have fighting in plenty before you ever see Algiers again! And now give me a spare flint or two for my pistols, and I’ll ask no more.”
CHAPTER IV
“Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows.”
That night Hassan Bey, in honor of his guests, held high revel. There was no lack of wine, since the Turks paid small heed to Islamic prohibition. Further, there were entertainments by companies of dancing women, both of the town and desert, and by magicians of the Aissoua tribe. An hour before midnight the scene waxed riotous, for Hassan Bey and his captains were roaring drunk.
It was then that Patrick Spence quietly departed.
At his quarters he secured his few belongings, cloaked himself in a dark burnoose, and left the kasbah. He entered the gardens, found the guards in drunken slumber, and encountered no one until he came near the square tower of the astrologer. Then a dark shape arose before him, the starlight glittered on a naked blade, and he recognized the distorted shape of Yimnah, the eunuch.
Spence threw back the cowl of his burnoose, and the eunuch gestured toward the tower. A voice reached him.
“Captain Spence? Thank Heaven! I was afraid you could not get away—”
“Let us go at once, Mistress Betty! May I have your hand?”
He bowed over her hand, guided her to the waiting eunuch, and led the way from the gardens. Near the entrance he spoke again to the girl, quietly.
“We must ride to Tlemcen at once, and there meet Mulai Ali and our party. Do you speak any Arabic?”
“Enough to get along with,” said the girl quietly.
Outside the kasbah, in the shadow of its high turreted walls, the starlight shone on the waiting Spahis and horses. From the girl came a deep sigh of relaxation.
“It seems a dream,” she murmured. “To leave thus, unhindered, unquestioned.”
“Let us assign the honor to Providence, and make the most of it,” said Spence. “Now, mount quickly! We must be far from here when the muezzin mounts again to the minaret!”
The Spahis brought up the horses. Spence aided the girl into the high saddle, lashed behind her the small bundle she had fetched, adjusted her burnoose, and sprang to his own beast. Yimnah was already mounted.
All five walked their horses from the shadow of the citadel, put the beasts at a canter, and swept away from the unwalled city to the southwest. No common steeds were these, but blooded barbs, the finest in Hassan’s stables, calmly appropriated by the Spahis.
Hour after hour through the night they rode, past the long sandy salt pits and. the lake of Sibka, through silent and dark villages, along lonely wastes. Spence talked with the girl as they rode, telling his own story and touching upon their errand.
“It is a mad errand,” he concluded, “yet Mulai Ali is a kingly man and may succeed.”
“His horoscope truly reads him into a throne,” said Mistress Betty. “Do not laugh at me! This business is not all charlatanry, although I have shamed the astronomer’s art with my wiles. I knew of your presence in Algiers, through gossip, and set out to effect my rescue. Was that selfish? Perhaps. And yet—”
“No, not selfish; it was wholly admirable!” exclaimed Spence. “We ride south; you are free; Mulai Ali goes to friends and a throne; Shaw goes to pull down Ripperda—and all by a woman’s wit! I am humble before you.”
So they rode until the stars were paling into the false dawn. Then one of the Spahis called softly in his own tongue. Mistress Betty heard the words, and translated.
“He says that some one is riding hard on the road behind us!”
Spence drew rein.
“Forward! No protest, dear lady—forward, all of you!”
The party swept on, disappeared along the dim road. Spence waited. Presently he caught the hard beat of hoofs and sighted a vague figure. With a hail he sent his beast out into the center of the road. The onsweeping rider uttered a sharp, harsh cry, then a musket roared out and Spence heard the bullet as it whined past his head.
His ready pistol made instant reply. The other horse plunged; the rider fell headlong and lay motionless. Spence dismounted and fell to searching the man.
He was rewarded by a folded paper in the knotted pouch-end of the worsted girdle. Finding nothing more. Spence bound the Moor and left him.
He struck into a gallop after his own party, and within twenty minutes had come up with them. Then, not pausing, he pushed them on at all speed, for time was precious in the extreme.
When the true dawn glimmered into daylight, they halted beside a rivulet to water and refresh the horses. Here Spence inspected the paper he had captured. It was a note written in Arabic, and neither the girl nor Yimnah could read it, so he called in the Spahis. From their reading, Mistress Betty translated the note. It was unsigned, and was addressed simply to Gholam Mahmoud. It read:
The hawk is at Arzew and rides south. Catch him this side Udjde or his talons will be plunged into El Magrib. Slay him. Lay the snare at the Cisterns, with Allah’s help!
“Ah!” exclaimed Mistress Betty eagerly. “By ‘the hawk’ is meant Mulai Ali—this must be from a spy! They know he is coming! The Cisterns is a place west of Tlemcen on the highway.”
“And Gholam Mahmoud, he of the twisted face, is ahead,” said Spence. “Well, forewarned is forearmed! How far have we come?”
“Nearly halfway.” She pointed ahead. “There is the Maila River; beyond, the Sharf el Graab, or Raven Crag—that high pinnacle of rock. At the river I shall show you a famous place.”
Thankful that she seemed cheerful, even gay, Spence called to horse. They rode on.
Within ten minutes they halted at the river ford. Here the high banks were gullied to a depth of fifteen feet; a dense growth of trees concealed the river and opposite bank. The girl turned to Spence with a glow in her eyes, pointing to the sandy beach and ford.
“I used to read in an old French book,” she said, �
�how, when the Spaniards were catching the great pirate Barbarossa, they pursued him to a river, where he scattered all his treasure, hoping in that way to delay them.
“I even remember the words: ‘Il laissoit couler de tems en tems de l’or et de l’argent par le chemin.’ This is the very place, where we are standing! It was here that he strewed his gold and silver—”
The words died suddenly on her lips. The Spahis also had been speaking of Barbarossa, for this place was famous in legend; they were now silent, staring. Spence looked up swiftly.
A rough, boisterous voice had risen ahead—a voice that sang in reckless gayety; a Spanish voice, twanging out the vowels with peasant whine. Some one was approaching from the other side of the ford. Spence looked at the Spahis, made a swift gesture. They wheeled their horses and vanished among the trees.
The voice of the singer came closer. The eunuch, Yimnah, baring his scimitar, slipped from the saddle and glided forward to the masking trees. Then he was back, his thick lips chattering words of fear, his limbs trembling.
“He says it is the ghost of Barbarossa,” said Mistress Betty.
Spence chuckled.
“Wait here, then.”
His musket ready, he urged the horse forward into the gully. Here he waited, motionless, looking at the man splashing and singing as he made his way across the shallows.
A big and burly man he was. The ruffianly face bore a spade beard and two enormous mustaches, all of flaming red, matching his long hair. Not until the horse plunged at the bank did the man see Spence sitting there above him. He clapped hand to sword—a long blade at his hip. Spence threw back his cowl, and the man cried out in surprise:
“Ha! A Christian!”
“No blustering, señor,” said Spence sternly. “Your name and errand.”
The glittering eyes drove to right and left as the bushes crackled. He saw that he was ambushed, and a sudden laugh burst from his lips. No Moor, this, but a Spaniard.
“Well met, caballero!” he cried jovially. “My name is Lazaro de Polan, though in some parts I am known as Barbarroja. I am a soldier by trade; can teach you tricks with saber or espadon, scimitar or brackmard, Italian blade or rapier of Toledo—near which holy city is Polan, my birthplace. My errand is to seek employment wherever it may be found.”
“You are a renegade?” queried Spence.
The glittering eyes flamed at him, then laughed.
“Ha! I was captured by the Moors, caballero, saved my head by a less essential sacrifice, became an officer in their army, and made enough money to purchase my freedom. I am now seeking service as a guard or guide, for I know all the roads. Hire me, caballero! All the army knows me, and I can be of much service to you.”
Spence regarded the man. There were many renegades, and this Barbarroja was more than a mere braggart, or he would not be traveling alone in Christian garb. The fellow could be useful in a dozen capacities, particularly if he were well known among the Moors.
“Done. I am Captain Spence, with safe conduct from the Dey of Algiers. Journey with us to Tlemcen. If you are no liar, I shall talk wages with you there. Is that agreeable?”
“Perfectly, señor Capitan!” Barbarroja gestured grandly in assent.
“And I do not care to answer questions.”
“Nor I to ask, caballero!”
With a shrug, the renegade turned his horse to the ford again.
Spence called up his party. On the farther bank Barbarroja waited, his glittering eyes scrutinizing them, then he waved his wide hat and set out in the van. Spence sent the two Spahis to bear the fellow company, and rode beside Mistress Betty, telling her how he had engaged the man. To his surprise, the girl frowned thoughtfully.
“There are evil men on the roads.” she said. “I misdoubt me that this renegade—”
“You fear him!” said Spence. “Then I shall dismiss the fellow at once.”
“No, no!” she said hastily. “It would be silly, for there was no reason behind my words. Doubtless he is as honest as another, and may be useful, for he seems a stout fellow.”
So Patrick Spence, thinking more of the girl beside him than of the red-bearded ruffian ahead, rode on to the south and felt well pleased with fate.
CHAPTER V
“Wert thou the devil, and wor’st it on thy horn, it should be challenged!”
After nightfall the party rode into Tlemcen, a great circuit of ruins inclosing a small walled space, perched disconsolately amid remnants of forgotten kingdoms. Barbarroja undertook to lead them to a quiet tavern, where they would meet no unpleasant questioning.
A cunning rogue was this, and evidently known to the city guards, whom he passed with a friendly hail. He led them through filthy, narrow streets, and near the ruinous mosque of El Haloui, knocked at a small doorway. A cautious wicket opened, and presently the door was swung ajar by a greasy fellow whom Spence took for a Levantine renegade.
The place proved decent enough. For Mistress Betty was secured in an upstairs chamber; a room opening from this, with a balcony overlooking the street, served Spence and Yimnah. A third room sufficed Barbarroja and the Spahis. Returning from his inspection, Spence joined the party below.
Leaving the three men to unsaddle he led the girl and Yimnah up the narrow stairs that ascended from the courtyard. The host waited at the head of the stairs to light them.
As they came to the upper gallery encircling the courtyard Mistress Betty stumbled. She caught the arm of Spence to save herself, but the cowl of her burnoose was jerked away, revealing in the lantern-light her features. And, in the shadows behind their host, Spence caught sight of another face turned upon them—a ghastly face, twisted awry, with a purple birthmark like a patch over the right eye.
A startled oath broke from Spence. He dashed the greasy host aside and leaped forward; adroitly, the Levantine tripped him. As he fell he saw that face fade into the darkness.
Regaining his feet he hurled himself into the obscurity. From ahead he heard running feet, then the slam of a door. Realizing that his pursuit was folly, Spence returned to the Levantine, took the man by the throat, and shook him savagely.
“Lead me to that man, Gholam Mahmoud!” he cried, hoarse with anger. “Quickly!”
The Levantine blurted out that he knew nothing of such a man, there were many in the tavern, how should he know which was meant? He knew no such name. Mistress Betty, who had caught up the fallen lantern, interposed.
“We are in no position to seek trouble, Captain Spence. I pray you, let this matter drop, at least until our friends arrive!”
Spence released the host.
“You are right,” he said. “Yet that man was watching us, and saw your face when you stumbled. However, let it be!”
Disposing the girl in her quarters, Spence joined Yimnah in the outer chamber and wearily flung himself on his pallet.
He could swear that he had seen the face of Gholam Mahmoud, the confidential agent of Ripperda, the man against whom Mulai Ali had warned him. Spence knew he had not erred. As he thought of how those distorted, coldly lustful features had peered at the face of Mistress Betty, those predatory and malignant features, the American gripped his nails into his palms with impotent rage. But finally he slept.
In the thin grayness of morning Spence wakened to lie drowsily, eyes half closed. The drone of Yimnah’s snores filled the room. Through this drone pierced a thin nasal cry from the minaret of the nearby mosque. “Come ye to prayer! Come ye to salvation! Devotion is better than sleep—”
“Here am I at thy call, oh, God!” muttered the eunuch, and stirred to his prayers.
Spence rose, slipped on his shoes. He went to the balcony that overhung the street, opened the lattice, and stepped outside for a breath of the morning air, tipped with mountain frost.
As he stood thus, drinking deeply into his lungs the keen air, he heard the creak of the tavern door from below. He glanced idly downward, wondering who was astir at this hour of prayer. He sighted a figure—and start
ed suddenly. A black burnoose! As though drawn by the slight movement above, the figure looked upward. From Spence broke a savage cry.
“Ha, devil!”
He was only ten feet above the street level, and unhesitatingly bestrode the balcony. The rotten wood crashed away beneath him, yet he alighted on his feet and flung himself at Gholam Mahmoud. The latter, however, had already taken warning and was gone.
Darting back into the doorway the man slipped through and slammed the door in the face of Spence. The American burst it open ere it could be bolted, and dashed into the courtyard. He saw the renegade ahead of him, leaping for the staircase.
Sure of his prey, Spence gave no heed to the men around, but drove after Gholam Mahmoud. The latter reached the stairs slightly in the lead, took them two at a leap. Near the top he hurled a pistol under his arm; the heavy weapon struck Spence in the breast and threw him out of his stride for an instant.
Aided by this respite the renegade gained the gallery and took to his heels. Pursuer and pursued were silent, for death lay between them. Three strides in the lead, Gholam Mahmoud sprang into a doorway, slammed the door, shot the bolt home.
With a curse, Spence gathered momentum and hurled himself bodily at the wood. The door splintered visibly. Drawing back, he flung forward again. With a rending crash, the door was carried off its hinges, and Spence went staggering into the room beyond. He found it empty.
Ahead Spence descried another door, through which the renegade must have gone. He did not pause, but flung himself bodily at it, and struck the door with all his weight in the blow. Where he had expected resistance he found none.
The door drove open, lightly and freely. This unlooked-for give threw Spence off balance, sent him reeling into the room beyond. Something struck him a crashing blow behind the ear, and he fell in a limp heap—unaware even who had struck him.
“Neatly taken on the wing!” Barbarroja stepped forward, viewed the senseless figure complacently, and twirled his immense mustache. “There was a proper blow! Hold! Not so fast—”
He whirled suddenly, caught the arm of Gholam Mahmoud, stayed the dagger thrust meant for the unconscious Spence.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 22