by Talbot Mundy
He paused, for Samson’s eyes were again a signal of excitement.
He had it! He knew as much as the priest himself did in that instant!
There was one particular individual in Sialpore who fitted that bill.
“Nonsense!” he answered. “Gungadhura would be answerable to me for any outrages.”
The priest showed a slight trace of dejection, but went forward bravely to defeat.
“There is danger,” he said. “If Gungadhura should lay hands on all that money, there would be no peace in Rajputana. I should not bargain away what belongs to the priesthood, but discretion is permitted me; if you will agree with me tonight, I will accept a little less than half of it.”
Samson wanted time to think, and he was through with the priest — finished with the interview, — not even anxious to appear polite.
“If you bring me definite information,” he said slowly, “and on the strength of that my government should come in possession of the Sialpore treasure, I will promise you in writing five per cent. of it for the funds of the priesthood of Jinendra, the money to be held in trust and administered subject to accounting.”
Jinendra’s high priest hove his bulk out of the leather chair and went through the form of taking leave, contenting himself, too, with the veriest shell of courtesy — scorn for such an offer scowling from his fat face. Samson showed him to the door and closed it after him, leaving Babu Sita Ram to do the honors outside in the passage.
“I kiss feet!” said the babu. “You must bless me, father. I kiss feet!”
The priest blessed him perfunctorily.
“Is there anything I can do, holy one? Anything a babu such as I can do to earn merit?”
Rolling on his ponderous way toward the waiting bull-cart, the priest paused a moment — eyed Sita Ram as a python eyes a meal — and answered him.
“Tell that woman from me that if she has a plan at all she must unfold it swiftly. Tell her that this Samson sahib is after the treasure for himself; that he invited me to help him and to share it with him. Let her have word with me swiftly.”
“What treasure?” asked Sita Ram ingenuously. Having had his ear to the knot-hole throughout the interview, it suited him to establish innocence. The priest could have struck himself for the mistake, and Sita Ram, too, for the impudence.
“Never mind!” he answered. “Tell her what I say. Those who obey and ask no unwise questions oftentimes receive rewards.”
Inside the office Samson sat elated, wiping his forehead and setting blotter over writing-paper lest sweat from his wrists make the ink run. It was a bender of a night, but he saw his way to a brilliant stroke of statecraft that would land him on the heights of official approval forever. Heat did not matter. The man at the punkah had fallen asleep, but he did not bother to waken him. Back at the knot-hole, babu Sita Ram watched him scribble half a dozen letters, tearing each up in turn until the last one pleased him. Finally he sealed a letter, and directed it by simply writing two small letters — r. s. — in the bottom left-hand corner.
“Sita Ram!” he shouted then.
The babu let him call three times, for evidence of how hard it was to hear through that thick door. When he came it was round by the other way in a hurry.
“You called, sir?”
“You need not copy any more of those documents tonight, Sita Ram. I shall send a telegram in the morning and keep my report in hand for a day or two. But there’s one more little favor I would like to ask of you.”
“Anything, sahib! Anything! Am only desirous to please your excellency.”
“Do you know a man named Tripe — Tom Tripe — drill-instructor to the
Maharajah’s Guard?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Could you find him, do you think?”
“Tonight, sahib?”
“Yes, tonight.”
“Sahib, he is usually drunk at night, and very rough! Nevertheless, I could find him.”
“Please do. And give him this letter. Say it is from me. He will know what to do with it. Oh, and Sita Ram—”
“Yes, sahib.”
“You will receive two days’ extra pay from me, over and above your salary, for tonight’s extra work.”
“Thank you, sahib. You are most kind — always most generous.”
“And — ah — Sita Ram—”
“Sahib?”
“Say nothing, will you? By nothing I mean nothing! Hold your tongue, eh?”
“Certainly, sahib. Aware of the honor of my confidential position, I am always most discreet!”
“What are you doing with that waste-basket?”
“Taking it outside, sahib.”
“The sweeper will do that in the morning.”
“Am always discreet, sahib. Discretion is better part of secrecy! Better to burn all torn-up paper before daylight always!”
“Very good. You’re quite right. Thank you, Sita Ram. Yes, burn the torn paper, please.”
So Sita Ram, piecing together little bits of paper got a very good idea of what was in the letter that he carried. The bonfire in the road looked beautiful and gladdened his esthetic soul, but the secret information thrilled him, which was better. He crossed the river, and very late that night he found Tom Tripe, as sober as a judge, what with riding back and forth to the Blaines’ house and searching in a cellar and what-not. He gave him the letter, and received a rupee because Tom’s dog frightened him nearly out of his wits. Tom swore at the letter fervently, but that was Tom’s affair, who could not guess the contents.
Almost exactly at dawn Sita Ram, as sleepy as a homing owl, reached his own small quarters in the densest part of town. He had his hand on the door when another hand restrained him from behind.
“You know me?” said a voice he did not know. A moment later his terrified eyes informed him.
“Mukhum Dass? I owe you nothing!”
“Liar! You have my title-deed! Hand it over before I bring the constabeel!”
“I? Your title-deed? I know nothing of it. What title-deed?”
Mukhum Dass cut expostulation short, and denied himself the pleasure of further threatening.
“See. Here is a letter. Read it, and then hand me over my title-deed!”
“Ah! That is different?” said Sita Ram, pocketing Yasmini’s letter, for precaution’s sake. “Wait here while I bring it!”
Two minutes later he returned with a parchment in a tin tube.
“Do I receive no recompense?” he asked. “Did I not find the title-deed and keep it safe? Where is the reward?”
“Recompense?” growled Mukhum Dass. “To be out of jail is recompense! The next time you find property of mine, bring it to me, or the constabeel shall have work to do!”
“Dog!” snarled the babu after him. “Dog of a usurer! Wait and see!”
Chapter Eleven
To cover a trail is less than half the work, for any dog with a nose can smell it out. You should make a false trail afterward to deceive the clever folk. -Eastern Proverb
“Say: that little girl you’re wanting to run off with is my wife!”
The other side to the intrigue developed furiously up at the Baines’ house on the hillside. Yasmini gave directions from Tess’s bedroom, where Tess hid her from prying servants, she electing to change clothes once more — this time into her hostess’ riding breeches, boots and helmet. But she insisted on Tess retaining the Rajput costume, only allowing a hand-bag to be packed with woman’s things, skirt, blouse and so on.
“If I am seen there must be no mistake about me. They must swear that I am you! It doesn’t matter who they believe that you are. Above all, Chamu the butler must not see me. When he is dismissed in the morning he will tell tales for very spite, and take his chance of my accusing him of theft; so be sure that he sees Tom Tripe search the cellar. Then he will confirm to the maharajah afterward that Tripe did search — and did see something — and that Blaine sahib did lock the cellar door afterward in anger, and put weights on it
. That is the important thing. Blaine sahib must drive the carriage again to the house of Mukhum Dass; and be sure that I am not kept waiting there — we must start before the dawn breaks! Now give me paper and a pen to write the chit (letter) for Mukhum Dass.”
There was no ink in the bedroom; Dick took her into the place he called his study, and locked the door, glad of the excuse. He was minded to know more of the intrigue before letting his wife go off again that night on any wild adventure, second thoughts having stirred his caution. He began by offering to lend her money, suspecting that a fugitive princess would need that more than anything. But she replied by drawing out from her bosom a packet containing thousands of rupees in Bank of India notes, and gave him money instead — not much, but she forced it on him.
“For the three beggars. Ten rupees each. Pay it them in silver in the morning. They have been very useful often, and may be so again.”
He watched her write the letter and seal the envelope. Then:
“Say,” he said, “don’t you think you’d be doing right by telling me more of this? I’ll say nothing to a soul, but that little girl you’re wanting to run off with is my wife, and I’ll admit I’m kind o’ concerned on her account.”
Yasmini met his iron-gray eyes, judged him and found him good.
“I never trusted man yet, not even the husband I shall marry, with all
I shall tell you,” she answered. “Will you give me silence in return for it?”
“Mum as the grave,” he answered. And Dick Blaine kept his word, not even hinting to Tess on the long drive afterward that there had been as much as a question asked or confidence exchanged. And Tess respected the silence, not deceived for a minute by it. He and Yasmini had been longer in that room together than any one-page letter needed, and she was sure there was only one subject they discussed.
Dick brought Yasmini’s horse to the gate, not to the door, and she mounted outside in the road for additional precaution. Instantly, then, without a word of farewell she was off like the wind down-hill.
“It’ll be all over town tomorrow that I’m dead or dying, if anybody sees her!” Dick told his wife. “They’ll swear that was you, Tess, riding full pelt for the doctor!”
Soon after that Tom Tripe came, and made Chamu hold a light for him while he searched the cellar.
“Hold the candle and your tongue too, confound you!” he told the grumbling butler, indignant at being brought from bed.
Dick had already put the silver tube in place. Tom Tripe raised the stone and saw it — uttered a tremendous oath — and dropped the heavy stone back over the hole.
“What are you doing?” Dick demanded from the ladder-head, appearing with a lantern from behind the raised trap.
“Looking for rum!” Tom answered. Then he turned on Chamu. “Did you see what I saw? Speak a word of it, you devil, and I’ll tear your throat out! Silence, d’you understand?”
“Come out of there!” Dick ordered angrily. “I’ll have to lock this cellar door! I can’t have people prospecting down there! I’ve got reasons of my own for keeping that cellar undisturbed! I’m surprised at you, Tom Tripe, taking advantage of me when my back’s turned!”
The minute they were up he put a padlock on the trap, and nailed it down to the beams as well. Then, summoning Tom’s aid, he levered and shoved into place on top of it the heavy iron safe in which he kept his specimens and money.
“That’ll do for you, Chamu!” he said finally. “I don’t care to keep a butler who takes guests into the cellar at this hour of night! You may go. I’ll give you your time in the morning.”
Chamu showed his teeth, by no means for the first time. It was a favorite method of his for covering up bad service to fall back on his reference.
“Maharajah sahib who is recommending me will not be pleased at my dismissal!”
“You and your maharajah go to hell together!” Dick retorted. “Tell him from me that I won’t have inquisitive people in my cellar! Now go; there’s nothing more to talk about. Fire the cook, too, as soon as he wakes! Tell him I don’t like ground glass in my omelette! Not been any in it? Well, what do I care? I don’t want any in it — that’s enough! I’m taking no chances. Tell him he’s fired, and you two pull your freight together in the morning first thing!”
Ten minutes alone with Yasmini had worked wonders with Dick Blaine. Given to making up his mind and seeing resolution through to stern conclusions, he was her stout ally from the moment when he unlocked the study door again until the end — a good silent ally too busy, apparently, about his own affairs to be suspected. Certainly Samson never suspected his real share in the intrigue — Samson, the judge of circumstances, indiscretions, men and opportunity.
He sent Tom Tripe packing, with a flea in his ear for Chamu’s benefit, and a whispered word of friendship. Later he drove Tess down-hill in the dog-cart, first changing his own disguise for American clothes because the saises might be up and about when he returned at dawn, and for them to see him in the costume of a sais would only have added to the risk of putting Gungadhura’s men on the scent of Yasmini. Saises are almost the most prolific source of rumor, but he had a means of stilling their tongues.
There was little to say during the dark drive. They were affectionate, those two, without too many words when it came to leave-taking, each knowing the other’s undivided love. Tess had money — a revolver — cartridges — some food — sufficient change of clothing for a week — sun-spectacles; he reassured himself twice on all those points.
“If you’re camel-sick, fetch it up and carry, on,” he advised, “it’ll soon pass. Then a hot bath, if you can get it, before you stiffen. Failing that, oil.”
The camels, with Yasmini and her women already mounted, were kneeling in the darkness outside the house of Mukhum Dass.
“Come!” called Yasmini. “Hurry!”
Dick kissed his wife — waved his hand to Yasmini — helped Tess on to the last camel in the kneeling line — and they were off, the camel-men not needing to shout to make those Bikaniri racers rise and start. They were gone like ghosts into the darkness, making absolutely no noise, before Dick could steady his nervous horse.
Then Ismail wanted to tie Yasmini’s abandoned horse to the tail of the dog-cart, but Dick sent him off to stable it somewhere at the other side of town to help throw trackers off the scent. He himself drove home by a very wide circuit indeed, threading his cautious way among the hills toward the gold-diggings, where he drove back and forward several times around the edges of the dump, in order that the saises might see the red dirt on the wheels afterward and believe, and tell where he had been.
There was some risk that a panther, or even a tiger might try for the horse in the dark, but that was not the kind of danger that disturbed Dick Blaine much. A pistol at point-blank range is as good as a rifle most nights of the week. He arrived home after daylight with a very weary horse, and ordered the saises to wash the wheels at once, in order that the color of the dirt might be impressed on them thoroughly. They were quite sure he had been at the mine all night. Then he paid off Chamu and the cook and sent them packing.
He was looking for the beggars, to pay them, when Tom Tripe’s dog arrived and began hunting high and low for Tess. Trotters had something in his mouth, wrapped in cloth and then again in leather. He refused to give it to Dick, defying threats and persuasion both. Dick offered him food, but the dog had apparently eaten — water, but he would not drink.
Then the three beggars came, and watched Dick’s efforts with the interest of spectators at a play.
“Messenge!” said Bimbu finally, nodding at the dog. That much was pretty obvious.
“Princess!” he added, seeing Dick was still puzzled. It flashed across Dick’s mind that on the dresser in the bedroom was Tess’s hat that Yasmini had worn. Doubtless to a dog’s keen nose it smelt of both of them. He ran to fetch it, the dog followed him, eager to get into the house. He offered the hat to the dog, who sniffed it and yelped eagerly.
> “Bang goes fifty dollars, then!” he laughed.
He took the hat to Bimbu.
“Can you ride a camel?” he demanded.
The man nodded. “Another would drive it.”
“Do you know where to get one?”
Bimbu nodded again.
“Take this hat, so that the dog will follow you, and ride by camel to the home of Utirupa Singh. Here is money for the camel. If you overtake the princess there will be a fabulous reward. If you get there soon after she does there will be a good reward. If you take too long on the way there will be nothing for you but a beating! Go — hurry — get a move on! And don’t you lose the dog!”
Chapter Twelve
There are they who yet remember, when the depot’s forty jaws
Through iron teeth that chatter to the tramping of a throng
Spew out the crushed commuter in obedience to laws
That all accord observance and that all agree are wrong;
When rush and din and hubbub stir the too responsive vein
Till head and heart are conquered by the hustle roaring by
And the sign looks good that glitters on the temple gate of Gain, -
“There are spaces just as luring where the leagues untrodden lie!”
There are they who yet remember ‘mid the fever of exchange,
When the hot excitement throttles and the millions make or break,
How a camel’s silent footfall on the ashen desert range
Swings cushioned into distances where thoughts unfettered wake,
And the memory unbidden plucks an unconverted heart
Till the glamour goes from houses and emotion from the street,
And the truth glares good and gainly in the face of ‘change and mart:
“There are deserts more intensive. There are silences as sweet!”
“Ready for anything! If I weaken, tie me on the camel!”
There are camels and camels — more kinds than there are of horses. The Bishareen of the Sudan is not a bad beast, but compared to the Bikaniri there are no other desert mounts worth a moment’s consideration. Fleet as the wind, silent as its own shadow, enduring as the long hot- season of its home, the trained Bikaniri swings into sandy distances with a gait that is a gallop really — the only saddle-beast of all that lifts his four feet from the ground at once, seeming to spurn the very laws of gravity.
