by Don Wilcox
“Heave, ho!” I yelled, and together we went to work. My trained monkeys clapped their hands as the sluggish bovine came kicking and splashing out of the mire.
That’s about all there was to it—a very trifling incident. I gathered up my rope, washed my hands at the pool, and prepared to go on. But something in the little old Hindu’s character—his deep, mystical religious ardor—fascinated me. With face to the ground, he mumbled his strange prayers.
“May his life transcend the fates!”
Those were his words, repeated over and over, as I interpreted them from the Hindu. He was praying for me.
“When his enemies cut him down, may he spring up from the earth to confuse them!”
The absurdity of it! How could an easy-going drifter like me ever have any enemies?
Wonder, my donkey, pricked up his ears as these weird Hindu incantations grew louder and more fervent.
“Get along, Wonder!” I slapped the beast on his dusty rump, the trained monkeys climbed aboard, and we ambled on. And I muttered aloud, “Enemies, huh! No enemies are going to cut Val Roman down. I go my own way and tend to my own business . . . Get along, Wonder!”
But I had forgotten that tragic run-in with the band of Afghan bandits coming down from Kabul several months before. The mountains toward the Kyber Pass and beyond are known to be thick with murderous native warriors. To get past them safely is a matter of knowing when and how to travel. Not to take refuge in a caravanserai at night is to invite robbery and murder. And yet, knowing these things, one may nevertheless be taken by surprise by some bold and highly organized band.
And if such bandits are far famed for their treacherous crimes, as were the “Scarlet Swordsmen” of the Kyber Pass region, they may be forced, for their own survival, to cut a clean swath of death every time they strike. I had miraculously escaped that swath of death.
Yes, I had been the one lucky person among a party of twenty-five wayfarers a few months before. The blood of my two dozen companions had been sprayed over the rocks along the side of the road, where the Scarlet Swordsmen had succeeded in trapping them. And I, pursued by a trio of those fierce, black-whiskered Afghans on their swift horses, had barely dodged out of reach of their slicing swords. When they leaped down to follow me on foot, I was gone. I had ducked into a narrow crevice among the rocks, and there X waited, pistol in hand.
But they never found me. They passed so close that I could hear their hard breathing. And once I recognized a face—a face that I would never forget—the face of a stern, black-bearded Afghan whom I already knew as Alashee. I knew him because, not many hours before, he had pretended to make friends with me while I was purchasing my supplies in Kabul. I had been suspicious of him at the time, though I had not guessed that he was the contact man for the Scarlet Swordsmen. He had spoken perfect English.
The bandits never found me, and I alone among the ill-fated twenty-five was spared.
In these succeeding months, as I had traveled from one village to another, putting on my shows with my trained monkeys, I had contented myself that the Scarlet Swordsman affair was over—that I would never see Alashee or any of his blood-thirsty tribe again.
But I should have known that the little old Hindu, bending to the ground in prayer, foresaw trouble for me. Trouble, indeed, was destined to come my way that very afternoon at the next village.
But I, in my carefree innocence, ambled down the road chuckling to myself, “Enemies, huh? I don’t have an enemy in all India. Not unless I count Faye Landreth’s parents. They shun me on account of my monkeys. They’re so darned afraid we’ll leave a couple of fleas on the doormat of the English Agency. But what do I care, as long as Faye likes me? Me and my monkeys. She says a few friendly fleas might cheer the agency up . . . I wonder if I’ll see her on this trip . . . If she’d dare make the hundred mile drive across to this route. . .
CHAPTER II
The Face of Alashee, the Afghan
It was a sultry afternoon in the village, but my trained monkeys didn’t mind. They loved the smells of the market-place when the temperature was around 120 degrees and the streets were jammed with human beings and livestock.
“Here’s a bite of banana, Squinty. You, too, Sober,” I said, after I had arranged the miniature stage on my donkey’s back and chained a monkey to each end of it. “Now take your places for the tambourine dance. Already? Here we go.”
A smart pair of monkeys like Squinty and Sober know they’ve got to put on an extra lively show on such hot, noisy days when the crowds are easily distracted. If some pink-turbaned mogul rides through in an ornamented palaquin, borne on the shoulders of two brawny servants, the crowds of the lower castes tend to turn and stare. Men of higher castes will bow and palaver. And a two-monkey circus like mine may go begging.
At first I tried to ignore this palanquin with its important gentleman passenger—a keen-eyed man of India, light brown of skin, trim of mustache and beard, commanding in appearance. His two bearers stopped in the shade within twenty yards of the central stream of human traffic where I was giving my show.
“That is the new merchant prince,” I heard someone say. “His name is Ben Addis. He deals in jewels.”
Ben Addis remained in his easy chair. The two muscular blacks who held him apparently did not feel the weight of the poles on their shoulders. His other two servants were of a light brown hue. One of them began fanning him; the other, his personal lieutenant, wearing a bright green turban and green pantaloons, served him a drink.
That was all I noticed, at first. The monkeys and I were working hard to keep the show going against all the competition.
I thumped my favorite rhythms on the musical drums, the monkeys danced alternately and took turns passing their tambourines for coins.
“Dance, Squinty!” I whispered. “It’s a jewel merchant named Ben Addis. Maybe he’ll take a fancy to you . . . Dance, Sober-sides. Rattle your slats. He’s looking this way, boys, and so are his servants. Right over the heads of all the—”
My hands suddenly stopped with one double clunk on the musical drums. That lieutenant—the big rough looking fellow in green—I had seen him before!
“Who—where—?”
I stood as if paralyzed, staring. The show almost went dead on my hands. Sober jumped to the nearest drum and began beating wildly, and Squinty went on dancing. But my blood froze from some deep-rooted hatred. Where had I seen that face before?
“Alashee!” I gasped. “The Scarlet Swordsman!”
Although he was twenty yards away and a sea of turbaned heads separated us, he turned at that instant and caught my searching look. His eyes widened a trifle, his lips tightened.
At once he turned his face away.
It was the fierce vigorous face of an Afghan bandit, bushy black brows, a thick bristling beard, desert-bronzed skin. Now as he turned his back to me I had the rash impulse to run for an officer.
“Not so fast, Val Roman,” I said to myself. “This little set-up isn’t so simple. Think twice before you leap.”
True, one well placed word from me might send this dangerous man to his doom. The government would be only too happy to jail him, try him, and hang him, along with some thirty-nine other Scarlet Swordsmen. But what was he doing here, three hundred miles from his bandit haunts? That question would be worth answering. At the moment I had him. Yet one false move on my part might cost me my advantage.
In this quick whirl of thoughts I had already foreseen the glory that Faye Landreth’s parents would heap on me—if they could forget, for once, that I was a monkey trainer. If I could turn hero overnight.
But I was overlooking the most serious if. If I could get into action before that damned Afghan named Alashee stuck a knife in my back.
Now he was talking to Ben Addis. Did this merchant prince realize his hireling was a desperate criminal?
I went on with my show, beating out drum notes so energetically that Wonder (who possessed an excellent sense of rhythm for a donkey) turn
ed to give me the curious eye. Coins were dribbling in, and Sober was playing his usual trick of hiding a few in his red overall pockets, then shaking his head at me to deny it.
Soon I saw that Alashee was threading his way through the crowd. Would he dare face me, knowing that I knew there was a price on his head?
My right hand slid to my pocket that held an automatic pistol. My left hand beat the drums erratically.
As Squinty did a handspring, and took a deep bow, Alashee crowded forward and flipped a coin into the tambourine.
“Haven’t I seen this monkey show before?” he said. He gave me no sign of recognition—only a cool deadpan gaze.
“I’ve only been on the road a few months,” I said.
“I was speaking of the monkeys,” said Alashee. “I don’t remember you.”
“I didn’t have the monkeys at Kabul,” I said.
“Kabul? I’ve never been to Kabul,” he lied icily.
“I bought these pets after I lost my meager savings in the Kyber Pass.” I drove these words home. But he dodged them.
“Your misfortunes do not interest me. My master, Ben Addis, has instructed me to make you an offer for your pets.”
“They are not for sale,” I said caustically. “They would never be at home among green turbans.”
“I have other turbans, if they are temperamental.”
“Much less do they like scarlet,” I added.
For a split second Alashee’s eyes flashed fire. Scarlet turbans were a badge of the Scarlet Swordsmen. My words were an accusation flung in his teeth. But Alashee was a brazen fellow.
“I do not know what you are talking about. Ben Addis would give the monkeys good care. He is able to pay you well.”
“Tell him,” I said, “that I might consider an exchange—one of my monkeys for one of his servants—my choice, of course.”
The Afgan paled and I thought he would unleash his anger, but he bowed slightly and said he would convey my message to Ben Addis. He returned to the palanquin, then, for an earnest consultation. But I doubted whether it concerned my monkeys. So far as I could tell, Ben Addis took no notice of me.
The party soon moved along with the crowd, and within a few minutes it was out of my sight. Then the danger of my situation began to oppress me.
Did you ever have the midnight creeps in the middle of a hot afternoon? Have haunted-house terrors ever descended on you when you were in the midst of a thousand people in broad daylight? My monkeys must have thought I was a poor trouper during the uncertain half hour that followed. Every flash of metal I saw, I took for a knife or a gun.
I wanted an officer. That was all I needed—one competent officer of the law, to put the kibosh on Alashee before he could sneak around and deal me a surprise kayo. But among the flowing crowds no officer appeared.
Finally, in desperation, I called an honest looking stranger out of the crowd and gave him some money to watch my animals while I went off on an errand. Then I chased through the pedestrian traffic jams looking for someone with a uniform. Someone directed me to the headquarters of the village marshal. The place was a shaded one-story stone hovel at the last turn of the street. And what should I see in front of it but the familiar palanquin. Ben Addis and Alashee were idling in the shade and the uniformed marshal was drinking with them. I beat a quick retreat to the marketplace and put on another show with my monkeys.
I was puzzled. Was it possible that Alashee didn’t remember me after all? Or if he remembered me at Kabul, was it possible that he didn’t know I was the one escapee from that orgy of murder? Apparently I would be safe in taking my sweet time in setting the authorities on him.
By sunset, for reasons of good business, my monkeys and I were on our way toward the next village, seven miles beyond Ruklah. Two miles along the dusty highway I saw something that made my heart leap. An automobile was approaching—a red sport coupe.
Sure enough, it was Faye Landreth driving out to meet me.
CHAPTER III
Faye Witnesses a Tragedy
Faye parked her car at the side of the road and came running out to give us all a vivacious greeting. That is, she hugged each of the monkeys and she hugged Wonder. As for me, well, she was somewhat more reserved. She shook my hands, which left me a trifle jealous of my dumb beasts. But I’ll swear the glow in her eyes ran a close second to the sunset.
“What a cozy little caravan, Val. A one-mule circus all loaded up on Winder’s back. But shouldn’t you have a calliope?”
“I’ll buy one the day you join us,” I said.
Faye laughed. “I’d love it!” She sang a few calliope notes. “But what would my parents say after all these years they’ve given me piano lessons—and I turn to the calliope?”
In all India there was no one quite like Faye Landreth. Any of the poetic allusions you’ve read about flowers blooming in the desert would be too tame to apply to her. She was a blonde bombshell. On this particular evening, dressed in a crisp white palm beach sport suit, wearing a rose that matched her fingernails and her smiling lips, she was lovely in a way that made your head swim.
She talked at a pace that made my jabbering monkeys fall silent with awe. And right away she had me talking double time too, telling her all about my adventure of recent weeks. I guess one of the secrets of her lively conversation was that she was always interested enough in you to ask you some lively questions.
We climbed in the car and cruised along at snail pace, so that Wonder, cooperative beast that he was, could amble alongside with his two passengers.
Before I knew it I was telling all about the exciting events of this day—the sacred cow, the Hindu’s prayers, the forecast of enemies, and then the ominous meeting with Alashee.
Her pretty face clouded with worry.
“Then you haven’t succeeded in reporting him to any officer?” she asked.
“No. Maybe I can find someone in the next village who isn’t so friendly with Alashee’s master.”
“We’ll wire father as soon as we get to the village,” said Faye. “He’ll be able to set the right men on Alashee’s trail, and your headache will be over. That Afghan must be a bold one, coming out into the open this way. You’re sure it’s the same man?”
“Dead certain. You don’t mistake a face like that.” I proceeded to describe him in every possible detail—dress, manners, crisp English speech, bristling whiskers, cold cruel eyes. Then I sketched a rough picture of his face on the edge of a road map.
“But sooner or later hell lead the way to the whole bandit gang,” I said confidently. “And when that happens—”
“You’ll be a hero,” said Faye, patting me playfully on the shoulder, “and all the little schoolboys that read about you will want to buy pet monkeys and travel around India with a donkey—and capture bandits.”
Then we faced each other, and our optimistic words were forgotten. She was shaking her head slowly.
“You’re in trouble,” she said. “Deep trouble. I’m like that old Hindu. I could feel it coming. That’s why I coaxed father to let me drive over to this route to meet you. He really didn’t approve, but he finally consented.”
We stopped to give Wonder a chance to get ahead. Our silence was a bit oppressive. The peril gathering over me was beginning to weigh.
I tried to ignore it.
“The sun is down,” I said. “Your father would hardly approve of your driving along the route at this time of evening.”
“At least I have a car. How safe do you think you’d be, Val, walking this road—especially tonight? Still, it wouldn’t have been wise to stay in Ruklah.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” I said. “I pushed on for business reasons,” I explained. “Someone advised me that they’re holding a fair in this next village, and the spending is good.”
“I didn’t see any fair when I came through.” The worry was deep in Faye’s eyes. “Who told you there was a fair?”
“Some stranger—a quiet little brownskinned man, with a twisted
face. He wanted to be friendly.”
Faye gave me one of those looks as if to say, “You’ve been taken in, my friend.”
I wondered. Could that tip have been a ruse?
We were cruising slowly. Until now I had taken little notice of the traffic, an occasional lone traveler on a camel, or a few horsemen coming in from the branch roads. The village was half a mile ahead, its low buildings black against the twilight sky. We were passing a few old deserted sheds that flanked the highway, open structures that had probably served as storehouses during the war. Wonder-with his two passengers was having trouble keeping up, and we stopped to wait.
Then Faye, looking back, exclaimed, “Where’s the other monkey?”
Squinty was gone—no, he was going! Somehow he had come loose from his chain and he was skipping gingerly away from the road toward one of the buildings.
“Squinty, come back!” This was highly irregular. Squinty gave one backward glance, hesitated for a moment, then deliberately disobeyed. He kept on going.
I bounded out of the car like an agitated mother in pursuit of a runaway child.
“Come back, Squinty.”
I was only half aware that Faye was echoing the same call to me. “Come back, Val!” But I had to recover Squinty, who, for some strange reason, was unhesitatingly bound for the open door of the nearest low-roofed vacant building.
I almost overtook my runaway in the shadows of the doorway. But there someone tripped me and I fell forward. As I fell I heard Faye’s scream of terror.
Also as I fell I caught the dim glint of a jewelled scabbard against a pair of dark green pantaloons. Then I struck the floor, face down, and a blade plunged into my back. It plunged deep. My arm twitched. I gave a choking cry. I tried to turn over, but a world of final blackness swept in on me.
CHAPTER IV
Wandering Murderer
It was a strange feeling that no words can describe. The sort of paralysis you’ve experienced in nightmares, trying to walk or run on legs that simply will not obey you—that’s the merest suggestion of the stunned, helpless feeling that held over me as I emerged into consciousness.
