“That’s it! That’s it!” cried Simon. “I have seen you on the screen, haven’t I? And I’ve seen . . . hold on. I remember now, I’ve seen the fair Dolores also, haven’t I? But what are you doing in Europe?”
“An English company sent for me and I engaged a few friends over there, who, like myself, are the very mixed descendants of Red Indians, Mexicans and Spaniards. Now, M. Dubosc, one of these friends of mine — the best, for I can’t say much for the others, and I advise you, if the occasion should arise, to be very careful with Forsetta and the Mazzani brothers — the best, M. Dubosc, was murdered the day before yesterday by Rolleston. I loved Badiarinos as a son loves his father. I have sworn to avenge him. There you have it.”
“Lynx-Eye, grandson of Long Carbine,” said Simon, “we will avenge your friend, but Rolleston is not guilty of his murder. . . .”
For a man like Simon, to whom practical navigation, in the air or on the sea, had given a keen sense of direction and who, moreover, kept on consulting his compass, it was child’s play to reach a spot whose latitude and longitude he was able to determine more or less exactly. He galloped due south, after making the calculation that, if nothing forced them to turn aside, they would have to cover a distance of about thirty miles.
Almost immediately, the little troop, leaving on their left the line of ridges which Simon had followed a few days before, struck off across a series of rather lower sand-hills, which nevertheless were high enough to overlook immense beds of yellow mud, covered with a network of small, winding streams. This was the slime deposited by the rivers of the coast and carried out to sea by the tides and currents.
“Grand alluvial soil,” said Old Sandstone. “The water will form channels for itself. The sandy parts will be absorbed.”
“In five years,” said Simon, “we shall see herds of cattle grazing on the very bed of the sea; and five years later there will be railway-lines across it and palatial hotels standing in the middle.”
“Perhaps; but, for the moment the situation is not promising,” observed the old professor. “Look here, look at this newspaper, published yesterday evening. In both France and England the disorder is complete. Social and economic life has been suddenly paralyzed. No more public services. Letters and telegrams may or may not be delivered. Nothing definite is known; and people are saying the most extraordinary things. The cases of insanity and suicide, it seems, are numberless. And the crimes! Isolated crimes, crimes committed by gangs of criminals, riots, shops and churches pillaged wholesale. It’s an absolute chaos; we are back in the dark ages.”
The stratum of mud, formerly swept by the ground-wash, was not very thick; and they were able, time after time, to venture upon it without the least danger. For that matter, it was already indented with footprints, which also marked the still moist sand of the hills. They passed the hulk of a steamboat round which some people had established a sort of camp. Some were poking about the hull. Others were entering by the battered funnel, or demolishing the woodwork with hammers, or breaking open cases of more or less intact provisions. Women of the people, women in rags and tatters, wearing the look of hunted animals, sat on pieces of timber, waiting. Children ran about, playing; and already, marking a first attempt at communal life, a pedlar was moving through the crowd with a keg of beer on his back, while two girls, installed behind a tottering bar, were selling tea and whisky.
Farther on, they saw a second camp and, in all directions, men prowling about, solitary individuals, who, like themselves, were reconnoitring.
“Capital!” cried Simon. “The prairie lies stretched before us, with all its mysteries and all its lurking dangers. Here we are on the war-path; and the man who leads us is a Red Indian chief.”
After they had trotted for two hours at a brisk pace, the prairie was represented by undulating plains, in which sand and mud alternated in equal proportions and in which hesitating streams of no great depth were seeking a favourable bed. Over it hung a low, thick, stationary fog, apparently as solid as a ceiling.
“What a miracle, my dear Old Sandstone!” cried Simon, while they were following a long ribbon of fine gravel which stretched before them, like a sunken path winding through the greensward of a park. “What a miracle, an adventure of this sort! A horrible adventure, certainly; a disaster causing superhuman suffering, death and mourning; but extraordinary adventure, the finest that a man of my age could dream of. It’s all so prodigious!”
“Prodigious, indeed!” said Old Sandstone, who, faithful to his mission, was pursuing his scientific investigations. “Prodigious! Thus, the presence of this gravel in this place constitutes one of the unprecedented events of which you are speaking. And then look at that bank of great golden fish lying over there, with their upturned bellies. . . .”
“Yes, yes, professor,” replied Simon. “It’s impossible that such an upheaval should not usher in a new age! If I look at the future as people sometimes look at a landscape, with my eyes half-closed, I can see . . . heavens, what don’t I see! . . . What don’t I imagine! . . . What a tragedy of folly, passion, hatred, love, violence, and noble efforts! We are entering upon one of those periods in which men are full to overflowing of energy, in which the will goes to the head like a generous wine!”
The young man’s enthusiasm ended by annoying Old Sandstone, who moved away from his expansive companion, grumbling:
“Simon, the memory of Fenimore Cooper is making you lose your head. You’re getting too talkative, my son.”
Simon was not losing his head, but he was possessed by a burning fever and, after the hours which he had experienced two days before, was quivering with impatience to return, so to speak, to the world of abnormal actions.
In point of fact, Isabel’s image was before him in all his thoughts and in all his dreams. He paid hardly any attention to the precise aim of his expedition or to the campaign which they were undertaking to recover a certain object. The precious miniature was hidden in the rug where he was sure to find it. Rolleston? His gang of ruffians? Men stabbed in the back? A pack of inventions and nightmares! The only reality was Isabel. The only aim before him was to distinguish himself as a knight fighting for the love of his lady.
Meanwhile there were no longer any camps around wrecks, nor parties of people searching for valuables, but only individual prowlers and very few of these, as though most of the people were afraid to go too far from the coast. The surface was becoming more broken, consisting, no doubt, as Old Sandstone explained, of former sand banks which the seismic disturbances had shaken down and mixed with the underlying sedimentary strata. They had to go out of their way to avoid not shattered rocks indeed, nor compact cliffs, but raised tracts of ground that had not yet assumed those definite forms in which we perceive the action of time, of time which separates, classifies and discriminates, which organizes chaos and gives it a durable aspect.
They crossed a sheet of perfectly clear water, contained within a circle of low hills. The bottom was carpeted with little white pebbles. Then they descended, between two very high banks of mud, a narrow gully through which the water trickled in slender cascades. As they emerged from this gully, the Indian’s horse shied. A man was kneeling on the ground, groaning and writhing in pain, his face covered with blood. Another man lay near him, his white face turned to the sky.
Antonio and Simon at once sprang from their horses. When the wounded man raised his head, Simon cried:
“Why, I know him . . . it’s Williams, Lord Bakefield’s secretary. And I know the other too: it’s Charles, the valet. They have been attacked. What is it, Williams? You know me, Simon Dubosc.”
The man could hardly speak. He spluttered:
“Bakefield . . . Lord Bakefield. . . .”
“Come, Williams, tell me what happened?”
“Yesterday . . . yesterday. . . .” replied the secretary.
“Yes, yesterday you were attacked. By whom?”
“Rolleston. . . .”
Simon started:
“Rolleston! Did he kill Charles?”
“Yes. . . . I. . . . I was wounded. . . . I have been calling out all night. And, just now, another man. . . .”
Antonio put a question:
“You were attacked again, were you not, by some thief who wanted to rob you. . . . And, when he heard us coming, he too stabbed you and took to his heels? Then he is not far away?”
“There . . . there,” stammered Williams, trying to stretch out his arm.
The Indian pointed to footsteps which led to the left, up the slope of the hills:
“There’s the trail,” he said.
“I’ll follow it up,” said Simon, leaping into the saddle.
The Indian protested:
“What’s the use?”
“Use? The scoundrel must be punished!”
Simon went off at a gallop, followed by one of the Indian’s companions, the one who rode the fourth horse and whose name he did not know. Almost immediately, at five hundred yards ahead, on the ridge of the hills, a man rose from the cover of some blocks of stone and made away at the top of his speed.
Two minutes later, Simon reached these blocks and exclaimed:
“I see him! He’s going around the lake which we crossed. Let’s make straight for him.”
He descended the farther slope and forced his horse into the water, which, at this point, covered a layer of mud so deep that the two riders had some difficulty in getting clear of it. When they reached the opposite shore, the fugitive, seeing that there were only two of them, turned round, threw up his rifle and covered them:
“Halt,” he commanded, “or I fire!”
Simon was going too fast and could not pull up.
At the moment when the shot rang, he was at most twenty yards from the murderer. But another rider had leapt between them and was holding his horse, reared on its hind legs, like a rampart in front of Simon. The animal was hit in the belly and fell.
“Thanks, old chap, you’ve saved my life!” cried Simon, abandoning the pursuit and dismounting to succour the other, who was in an awkward position, jammed under his horse and in danger of being kicked by the dying brute.
Nevertheless, when Simon endeavoured to extricate him, the fallen rider did nothing to assist his efforts; and, after releasing him with some difficulty, he perceived that the man had fainted.
“That’s odd!” thought Simon. “Those fellows don’t usually faint over a fall from a horse!”
He knelt down beside the other and, seeing that his breathing was embarrassed, undid the first few buttons of his shirt and uncovered the upper part of his chest. He was stupefied and for the first time looked at his companion, who hitherto, in the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat, had seemed to him like the other Indians of the escort. The hat had fallen off. Quickly, Simon lifted an orange silk kerchief bound round the head and neck of the supposed Red Indian, whose hair escaped from it in thick black curls.
“The girl!” he muttered. “Dolores!”
Once more he had before his eyes the vision of radiant beauty to which his mind had recurred several times during the past two days, though no emotion mingled with his admiration. He was so far from any thought of concealing this admiration that the young woman, on recovering consciousness, surprised it in his gaze. She smiled:
“I’m all right now!” she said. “I was only stunned.”
“You’re not in pain?”
“No. I am used to accidents. I’ve often had to fall from my horse for the films. . . . This one’s dead, isn’t he? Poor creature!”
“You’ve saved my life,” said Simon.
“We’re quits,” she replied.
Her expression was grave and harmonized with her slightly austere features. Her’s was one of those beautiful faces which are peculiarly disconcerting by reason of the contrasts which they present, being at once passionate and chaste, noble and sensuous, pensive and enticing.
Simon asked her, point blank:
“Was it you who came to my room yesterday, first in broad daylight and afterwards at night?”
She blushed, but admitted:
“Yes, it was I.”
And, at a movement of Simon’s, she added:
“I felt uneasy. People were being killed, in town and in the hotel. I had to watch over you, who had saved my life.”
“I thank you,” he said once more.
“Don’t thank me. I have been doing things in spite of myself . . . these last two days. You seem to me so different from other men! . . . But I ought not to speak to you like this. Don’t be vexed with me!”
Simon held out his hand to her, when suddenly she assumed a listening attitude and then, after a moment’s attention, straightened her clothes, hid her hair beneath her kerchief and put on her hat.
“It’s Antonio,” she said, in a different tone. “He must have heard the firing. Don’t let him know that you recognized me, will you?”
“Why?” asked Simon, in surprise.
She replied, in some embarrassment:
“It’s better. . . . Antonio is very masterful. He forbade me to come. It was only when he was naming the three Indians of the escort that he recognized me; I had taken the fourth Indian’s horse. . . . So, you see. . . .”
She did not complete her sentence. A horseman had made his appearance on the ridge. When he came up to them, Dolores had unfastened her saddle-bags and was strapping them to the saddle of Simon’s horse. Antonio asked no questions. There was no exchange of explanations. With a glance he reconstructed the scene, examined the dead animal and, addressing the young woman by her name, perhaps to show that he was not taken in, said:
“Have my horse, Dolores.”
Was it the mere familiarity of a comrade, or that of a man who wishes, in the presence of another man, to assert his rights or his pretentions to a woman? His tone was not imperious, but Simon surprised the glance that flashed anger on the one side and defiance on the other. However, he paid little attention, being much less anxious to discover the private motives which actuated Dolores and Antonio than to elucidate the problem arising from his meeting with Lord Bakefield’s secretary.
“Did Williams say anything?” he asked Antonio, who was beside him.
“No, he died without speaking.”
“Oh! He’s dead! . . . And you discovered nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what do you think? Were Williams and Charles sent to the Queen Mary by Lord Bakefield and his daughter and were they to find me and help me in my search? Or did they go on their own account?”
They soon joined the three pedestrians of the escort, to whom Old Sandstone, with a cluster of shells in his hand, was giving a geological lesson. The three pedestrians were asleep.
“I’m going ahead,” said Antonio to Simon. “Our horses need a rest. In an hour’s time, set out along the track of the white pebbles which I shall drop as I go. You can ride at a trot. My three comrades are good runners.”
He had already gone some paces, when he returned and, drawing Simon aside, looked him straight in the eyes and said:
“Be on your guard with Dolores, M. Dubosc. She is one of these women of whom it is wise to beware. I have seen many a man lose his head over her.”
Simon smiled and could not refrain from saying:
“Perhaps Lynx-Eye is one of them?”
The Indian repeated:
“Be on your guard, M. Dubosc!”
And with these words he went his way. They seemed to sum up all that he thought of Dolores.
Simon ate, stretched himself out on the ground and smoked some cigarettes. Sitting on the sand, Dolores unpicked a few seams of the wide trousers which she was wearing and arranged them in such a fashion that they might have been taken for a skirt.
An hour later, as Simon was making ready to start, his attention was attracted by a sound of voices. At some little distance, Dolores and one of the three Indians were standing face to face and disputing in a language which Simon did not understand, while the brot
hers Mazzani were watching them and grinning.
Dolores’ arms were folded across her breast; she stood motionless and scornful. The man, on the contrary, was gesticulating, with a snarling face and glittering eyes. Suddenly he took both Dolores’ arms and, drawing her close to him, sought her lips.
Simon leapt to his feet. But there was no need of intervention; the Indian had at once recoiled, pricked at the throat by a dagger which Dolores held before her, the handle pressed against her bosom, the point threatening her adversary.
The incident was not followed by any sort of explanation. The Indian made off, grumbling. Old Sandstone, who had seen nothing, tackled Simon on the subject of his geological fault; and Simon merely said to himself, as Dolores tightened her saddle-girth:
“What the deuce are all these people up to?”
He did not waste time in seeking for an answer to the question.
The little band did not overtake Antonio until three hours later, when he was stooping over the ground, examining some footprints.
“There you are,” he said to Simon, straightening his back. “I have made out thirteen distinct tracks, left by people who certainly were not travelling together. In addition to these thirteen highwaymen — for a man has to be a pretty tough lot to risk the journey — there are two parties ahead of us: first, a party of four horsemen and then, walking behind them — how many hours later I couldn’t say — a party of seven on foot, forming Rolleston’s gang. Look, here’s the print of the patterned rubber soles.”
“Yes, yes,” said Simon, recognizing the footprint which he had seen two days before. “And what do you conclude?”
“I conclude that Rolleston, as we knew, is in it and that all these gentry, separate prowlers and parties, are making for the Queen Mary, the last large Channel boat sunk and the nearest to this part of the coast. Think, what a scoop for marauders!”
“Let’s push on!” cried the young man, who was now uneasy at the thought that he might fail in the mission which Isabel had allotted to him.
One by one, five other tracks coming from the north — from Eastbourne, the Indian thought — joined the first. In the end they made such an intricate tangle that Antonio had to give up counting them. However, the footprints of the rubber soles and those of the four horses continued to appear in places.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 373
