by Rod Miller
Huri watched the Americans at work and was aware of her uncle below.
But most of her attention was on Balaban. She watched the giant steal into the haymarket and slip furtively (or so he thought; to Huri, a man of such size attempting to conceal his movements seemed silly) from stack to stack, sneaking glances down the alleyways between in search of something or someone. That someone, the girl realized, being them. She burrowed into the stack to avoid being seen, but not so deep she could not keep an eye on Balaban.
As she watched, the giant saw the Americans then retreated behind a pile of hay. He peered around the opposite side of the stack then drew back when he saw Hayri. Huri hissed and whistled and whispered to attract Hayri’s attention, but he was lost in concentration.
Balaban eased across the alley to the next row of haystacks, and Huri watched him appear and disappear in the gaps as he hurried down the row beyond. The behemoth crept across the alley and slithered along the end of the stack below her. She scrambled to the edge and watched him peek around the corner and size up her uncle, still crouched in the shade studying the list, with his back toward the hulking harm.
He crept around the angle and slowly stole up behind Hayri. Balaban froze at Huri’s sharp intake of breath and she covered her mouth with a trembling hand, fearing she had been discovered. The giant cocked his head from side to side and looked around. Seeing nothing and hearing nothing more, he shrugged and took another step toward Hayri. Huri could see the huge man’s muscles bulge as he readied himself to strike like a snake.
With a shriek and a scream, a yelp and a yell, she jumped off the haystack and landed on Balaban’s back and shoulders. Wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his chest—as far as they would reach—she squeezed and squealed and squawked and kicked.
Balaban did not know what had hit him. He did not know what manner of attacker was latched to his back. He raised to his full height and spun dumbly in a circle, snapping his head from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of his captor. Hayri sprang to his feet, watching the big man whirl like a dervish with Huri hanging tight and hollering to raise the dead.
The giant slowed and stopped and found himself staring into the bore of Rawhide Robinson’s six shooter.
“Huri, I think you can get down now,” he said.
She loosened her wrap on his neck and slid down Balaban’s back, thinking all the while what a long way down it was.
“Ensign Ian, take that catch rope of mine and tie this behemoth’s hands behind his back. Wrap it tight and twice and tie it double. I suspect that reata would part like sewing thread if he took a notion to test it.”
“Done,” the young ensign said.
Rawhide Robinson holstered his sidearm and turned to Hayri. “What now?”
The Turk thought for a moment. “We cannot take him to the authorities, as he has committed no crime here. Creeping about like a wharf rat is not illegal.”
“But, Uncle Hayri! He meant you harm! I know it!”
“I know it too, my child. Fortunately, you upset his plans before he could carry them out. I thank you for that.”
Hayri questioned the giant as the cowboy and ensign looked on, unaware of what was asked or answered. It was clear, however, the questions outnumbered the responses.
“He tells me nothing useful. He will only say his orders are to keep an eye on us and report our activities to Hassan Hussein.”
Ensign Scott said, “I believe he intended to put more than his eyes on you.”
“Of that there is no doubt. But what to do?” Hayri thought for a moment. “I think our best course of action is to return this man to his master. It may make no difference, but at least he will know we are on to him.”
Down the alley between rows of haystacks they marched, lined up like a mother duck leading her ducklings. Before the parade made it out of the hay market, Balaban spun around and charged, bowling over Ensign Scott and knocking Rawhide Robinson and Hayri and Huri aside and to the ground. He loped off down the alley, the rope singing as it burned through the recumbent sailor’s hands, searing flesh and muscle as it went.
The men scrambled to their feet to see the giant diminishing in the distance. Before they had time to dust themselves off they watched Huri set off in pursuit. Being fleet of foot, she overtook the lumbering Balaban in what seemed no time, despite the considerable distance covered. Without even thinking about it, she snatched up the tail of Rawhide Robinson’s reata, passed Balaban, crossed in front of him, and dropped behind. With the action, she wrapped the lariat around him and as it dropped to his ankles she dug her heels into the dirt and laid back on the rope.
Her nose plowed a furrow in the dust when Balaban’s bulk hit the end of the rope and upended her. But the giant, too, lost his feet and hit the ground with a whump that shook the earth.
Before he could catch his breath and regain his feet, the men were on him. This time, they looped the lariat from his bound hands around the giant’s neck, and Rawhide Robinson hog-tied and hobbled his feet with his piggin’ string. When jerked to his feet, Balaban could still walk with small, shuffling steps. And he was given to understand that it only took a tug on the rope around his neck to cut off his wind.
Again, they set off for town, trooping along in line with Balaban in the lead on his leash. “That is one remarkable young lady,” Ensign Ian said, an assessment with which the cowboy agreed.
Said Hayri, “Huri! Hurry to the quay and see if Hasan Hussein happens to be at hand.”
Without a word, the girl disappeared. Before you could say Rawhide Robinson, she was back. “Uncle Hayri, Hassan is not at the quay. However, he holds court at the café.”
“Thank you. We will deliver this package to him there, then.”
“Hold up a minute, you-all,” Rawhide Robinson said.
Ensign Ian tugged the tail of the reata and Balaban stopped.
“Hayri, do you mean to tell me that this girl, who ain’t been gone no longer than it takes to milk a cow, has been down to that wharf and through that bazaar and past that coffee café and is back here already?”
Hayri looked at Huri, who looked at the cowboy and nodded in the affirmative.
“Land sakes, girl, you get around quicker than spit in a hot skillet. ’Stead of Huri, from now on I’m-a-goin’ to call you Hurry.”
“Hurry?” she said. “What means that?”
“Oh, you know. ‘Hurry’ means pronto. Make tracks. Rattle yer hocks. Go on a high lope.”
The girl’s still-perplexed look was reflected in Hayri’s face.
Likewise confused at their lack of cognizance of his clarification, the cowboy looked to the ensign to toss him a life preserver. “Ensign Ian, bail me out here. How would you explain ‘hurry’?”
“Hmmm,” the young officer hummed through pursed lips below furrowed forehead. “Hurry. I believe Mister Webster would explain it as ‘to go with haste,’ or perhaps, ‘to impel to greater speed.’ Then again, you might say to ‘hurry’ is ‘to go as rapidly as possible,’ to ‘expedite.’ ”
“I see,” said Hayri. “It seems to make sense.”
“The way I see it,” the cowboy said, “since Huri gets around in such an all-fired hurry, we ought to call her Hurry. Besides, the word fits my Texas tongue better. What do you say, girl? ‘Hurry’ suit you?”
Unaccustomed as she was to being consulted about anything, the girl grinned and nodded enthusiastically. “Hurry!” she said. “If that is what I do in your language, then that is who I shall be.”
Rawhide Robinson smiled. “Long as we’re cowboyifying things around here,” he said to Hayri, “how’s about I call you Harry? It ain’t much different, and it don’t tangle up my tongue none.”
Hayri hesitated only a moment before agreeing.
“What do you think Ensign Ian? Harry and Hurry?”
“I think we had better get back to business. Let’s get rid of this colossus Hurry captured and back aboard ship so I can ascertain whether or not
we have adequate space for forage storage.”
Hasan sat sipping coffee at the café when the procession paraded into the plaza. Rawhide Robinson held Balaban at gunpoint while Hurry unleashed the hobbles and Ensign Scott loosed the lariat from around his neck and wrists. Once he was unbound, Hayri—or Harry, if you please—gave the giant a firm shove in the back to propel him toward Hasan’s table. Unfortunately, it did not so much as budge Balaban, significantly diminishing the intended intimidation of the gesture.
Harry launched a tirade at Hasan.
Hasan responded in kind.
Back and forth, to and fro, from pillar to post they parried.
Rawhide Robinson and Ensign Ian Scott looked on, heads ticking and tocking back and forth from one side of the confrontation to the other. They knew the discussion was angry. They sensed the tension. They felt the heat. They recognized the ire. Unfortunately, the combatants battled in their native tongue so neither observer knew what was said.
When Harry turned and stomped off toward the waterfront they followed, certain Harry would fill them in in time.
Hurry hurled a hateful look at Balaban.
He returned the favor, then took a threatening step in her direction.
Hurry hurried away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
* * *
Back aboard the USS Cordwood over the next day or two Ensign Ian Scott wandered the decks and holds with Rawhide Robinson, stretching the cowboy’s lariat into every nook and knothole, cranny and crevice, corner and alcove between hatch and hold to see how much hay they could store where. In a ship designed for crates and kegs and barrels and boxes, finding dry places to pile hay took some doing. Spaces for stacks of sacks of oats were easier to come by.
Confident the ship could comfortably carry the required provender the camels would consume, the men retired to the main deck for some sunshine and fresh air.
They found Major Wayne and Captain Clemmons there, the latter fouling the air with his pipe smoke. From the stink of it, Rawhide Robinson assumed the captain had been shopping at the bazaar and been hornswoggled into purchasing a packet of pipe tobacco of a particularly odiferous Oriental blend. Ensign Scott finished reporting his plans for haystack stowage to the officers as he watched Whitman Fitzgerald and Hayri—Harry—come aboard. The diplomat trod across the deck like a man with a mission.
“What is it Whit Fitz?” Rawhide Robinson said as the man and his companion halted at the assemblage of officers.
“You look troubled,” Clemmons said around an exhalation of malodorous smoke.
“Bad news, I’m afraid.”
When Fitzgerald did not continue, Major Wayne said, “Well, come on man! What is it?”
“Hasan. Hasan Hussein.”
“What about him?” Major Wayne, Captain Clemmons, Ensign Scott, and the cowboy asked in chorus.
“He threatened to upset our operation and I fear he may have succeeded.”
“How?” the major said.
“What?” the captain said.
Ensign Scott remained silent, but his crimson complexion implied similar questions.
Rawhide Robinson looked on with interest. “C’mon, Whit Fitz,” he said. “Spill it. If you don’t, these folks are likely to explode like a bloated cow on a hot August afternoon in West Texas.”
Fitzgerald cleared his throat. “As you know, Hasan wields considerable influence in Smyrna. Although he deals under the table and is not altogether on the up and up, he has a hand in much of the business transacted here. And, I am sorry to say, merchants, traders, brokers, agents, importers, exporters, buyers, sellers—even officials of the empire—hesitate to cross him.”
Captain Clemmons spat out a mouthful of pipe smoke. “Land sakes man, that is no concern of ours!”
“I am afraid it is, gentlemen. You see, Hasan’s influence extends to the camel trade. And he has let it be known that you are to acquire no further camels in Smyrna.”
“That so?” Wayne asked Hayri.
“I am afraid it is so. For the past two days, since the affair in the haymarket, I have sought camels to purchase. No one—at least no one with camels of any quality—will even talk to me.”
“Surely this Hasan doesn’t control everyone!” Wayne said.
“ ‘Control’ might be too strong a word,” Fitzgerald said. “But through intimidation and outright threats, his influence affects even the most seemingly insignificant transactions.”
“What can we do?”
Rawhide Robinson said, “I say we turn that girl Hurry loose on him. She sure enough made short work of his man Balaban. Whaddya say, Harry?”
The Turk almost smiled. The other men almost laughed.
“Well?” Major Wayne said.
“I am afraid there is nothing more I can do for you here,” Fitzgerald said. “But Hayri has a suggestion.”
Hayri took a deep breath. “I have cousins. Not exactly cousins as you Americans would say, but close friends and distant relatives, in other places who may help us.”
Clemmons said, “Exactly where are these ‘cousins’ of yours?”
“Many places—most ports of call in the Levant. May I suggest Alexandria, where we will find my cousin Mehmet. He should be able to assist us in acquiring camels there, beyond the influence of Hasan Hussein.”
“Remind me how many camels you’ve got,” Wayne said.
“There were twenty-four, but one seller backed out of the bargain for his three camels. So I have twenty-one for you. All good quality.”
“That means we’ll need another ten, maybe a dozen.”
“Yes, sir. We should have no trouble acquiring that number in Alexandria. If we do not find enough quality animals there, we will easily find the remnant elsewhere. Tunis, perhaps, or Algiers.”
Wayne mulled it over. Then, “Captain Clemmons—can you sail this ship to those places?”
“Certainly. My orders are that this ship and crew are at your disposal. So long as we are pursuing fulfillment of your mission, we will sail to the ends of the earth.”
Conversation shifted to preparations for departure. Hasan would surely use his influence to deny the USS Cordwood a berth at the wharf and the loading facilities there. The contracted hay would have to be loaded onto a barge and floated out to the ship in the harbor. Despite Hasan’s interference, Hayri was confident a barge could be hired, as one of his many “cousins” operated one that would serve.
As with the ship, Hasan’s influence would deny the barge use of the facilities at the wharf, but Hayri assured them they could load hay onto small boats from a nearby beach, row out and transfer it to the barge, from which it would be offloaded to the Cordwood.
There was also the question of the camels thus far acquired. Fitzgerald said, “How do you intend to get the camels aboard, Major Wayne? I don’t believe swimming them out is an option. Small boats can’t carry them to the barge. And even if they could, how to get them from the boats to the barge?”
The question stymied the army officer. Nor did the naval captain, the ensign, or the cowboy have an answer. Hayri offered no help.
“*&@#%$!” said Major Wayne. He clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. “We’ll think of something.”
No one, however, had any idea what that might be, who might think of it, or when inspiration might strike. It was furrowed brows all around.
“Hayri!”
The voice was barely heard above the lapping of waves against the hull of the Cordwood.
“Hayri!”
Hayri and the others saw a small boat rowing across the harbor toward the ship. Hurry stood in the bow, waving her arms and shouting.
“Hayri!”
“What is it, child?!”
“The camels! The camels!”
Hurry scrambled up the rope ladder and onto the ship, running before her feet hit the deck.
“What about the camels?”
“Sick,” the girl said, gasping for breath. “They are sick! You must come at once!”
The boat carried Hurry, Harry, and Rawhide Robinson toward the quay as fast as the boatman could work the oars. Fitzgerald, Wayne, and Ensign Scott kept pace in the diplomat’s launch.
The men could not keep up as Hurry hurried to the camel pen. She ducked down alleys in the bazaar, ran through streets, hurried through neighborhoods. But Harry knew where she was going and the Americans had more success matching his pace.
“I declare,” Rawhide Robinson said between hard breaths, “Hurry is the name for that gal. I knew it.”
They stumbled to a stop, propping themselves on a fence. Beyond the fence rails, the twenty-one camels stood spraddle-legged with heads hung low, pawed at the dust, slinging heads back and forth, lay on their sides with thrashing legs, or slobbered and staggered like a sailor after too much rum. Only a few seemed unaffected.
“What is it, Harry?” Major Wayne asked.
“I do not know. I have never seen such a thing.”
Rawhide Robinson tipped his hat back and studied the sick animals. “Looks to me like they got into some locoweed.”
“What?” came a number of replies.
“Locoweed. Back home, horses sometimes eat it in the springtime and get to acting loco—that’s the Mexican word for crazy. I think that’s what happened to these camels.”
“But I have never heard of your locoweed. Besides, these camels have been only in this pen. As you see, there is no locoweed or plants of any kind. Only the dust.”
The cowboy considered that. “Could be someone fed them something. Maybe not locoweed, but something like it.”
Hurry leapt the fence and started pawing through the scattered hay. Harry and Rawhide Robinson followed.
“Here!” she soon said, holding up a sprig of dried plant. “And here!” she said, grabbing more in her other hand.
Once the cowboy and the Turk saw what they were looking for, they, too, started pulling out wads and pieces of the odd plant. Its brittle dryness and dark color said it did not belong with the hay. “I do not know what this is!” Harry said. “I do not know how it got here.”
