The Tremendous Event

by Maurice Leblanc

  CHAPTER VIII

  ON THE WAR-PATH

  At four o'clock in the morning, the streets were almost empty. A fewfruit and vegetable-carts were making their way between the demolishedhouses and the shattered pavements. But from a neighbouring avenuethere emerged a little cavalcade in which Simon immediatelyrecognized, at the head of the party, astride a monstrous big horse,Old Sandstone, wearing his rusty top-hat, with the skirts of his blackfrock-coat overflowing either side of a saddle with bulgingsaddle-bags.

  Next came Antonio, _alias_ Lynx-Eye, likewise mounted; then a thirdhorseman, perched like the others behind heavy saddle-bags; and lastlythree persons on foot, one of whom held the bridle of a fourth horse.The three pedestrians had brick-red faces and long hair and weredressed in the same style as Lynx-Eye, in soft leggings with leatherfringes, velveteen breeches, flannel girdles, wide-brimmed felt hats,with gaudy ribbons: in short, a heterogeneous, picturesque band, withmany-coloured accoutrements, in which the adornments dear to circuscow-boys were displayed side by side with those of one of FenimoreCooper's Redskins, or one of Gustave Aymard's scouts. They carriedrifles slung across their shoulders and revolvers and daggers in theirbelts.

  "What the deuce!" exclaimed Simon. "Why, this is a martial progress!Are we going among savages?"

  "We are going into a country," replied Antonio, gravely, "Where thereare no inhabitants, no inns, no victuals, but where there are alreadyvisitors as dangerous as beasts of prey, which is why we have to carrytwo days' provisions and two days' supply of oats and compressedfodder for our mounts. This, then, is our escort. These are thebrothers Mazzani, the elder and the younger. This is Forsetta. Here isMr. Sandstone. Here, on horseback, is one of my personal friends. Andhere, lastly, for you, is Orlando III. a half-breed by Gracious out ofChiquita."

  And, at a sign from the Indian, a noble animal was led forward, lean,sinewy and nervous, standing very high on its long legs.

  Simon mounted, much amused:

  "And you, my dear professor?" he said to Old Sandstone: "Are you oneof the party?"

  "I lost my train," said the old fellow, "and on returning to the hotelI met Lynx-Eye, who recruited me. I represent science and am entrustedwith the geological, geographical, crographical, stratigraphical,palaeontological and other observations. I shall have plenty to do."

  "Forward, then!" commanded Simon. And, taking the lead with Antonio,he at once said, "Now tell me about your companions. And you,Lynx-Eye, where do _you_ hail from? After all, if there are still afew specimens of Redskins left, they're not out for a good time on thehighways of Europe. Confess that you are, all of you, made up anddisguised."

  "They are no more made up than I am," said Antonio. "We come from theother side. For my part, I am the grandson of one of the lastremaining Indian chiefs, Long Carbine who ran away with the littledaughter of a Canadian trapper. My mother was a Mexican. You see that,though there's a mixture, our origins are beyond dispute."

  "But afterwards, Lynx-Eye? What has happened afterwards? I'm notaware that the British government provides for the descendants of theSioux or Mohicans?"

  "There are other concerns besides the British government," said theIndian.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean there are concerns which are interested in keeping us going."

  "Really? What are they?"

  "The cinema-firms."

  Simon struck his hand against his forehead:

  "What an idiot I am! Why didn't I think of that? Then you are. . . ."

  "Simply film actors from the Far West, the Prairies and the Mexicanfrontier."

  "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 thefair Dolores also, haven't I? But what are you doing in Europe?"

  "An English company sent for me and I engaged a few friends overthere, who, like myself, are the very mixed descendants of RedIndians, Mexicans and Spaniards. Now, M. Dubosc, one of these friendsof mine--the best, for I can't say much for the others, and I adviseyou, if the occasion should arise, to be very careful with Forsettaand the Mazzani brothers--the best, M. Dubosc, was murdered the daybefore yesterday by Rolleston. I loved Badiarinos as a son loves hisfather. I have sworn to avenge him. There you have it."

  "Lynx-Eye, grandson of Long Carbine," said Simon, "we will avenge yourfriend, but Rolleston is not guilty of his murder. . . ."

  For a man like Simon, to whom practical navigation, in the air or onthe sea, had given a keen sense of direction and who, moreover, kepton consulting his compass, it was child's play to reach a spot whoselatitude and longitude he was able to determine more or less exactly.He galloped due south, after making the calculation that, if nothingforced them to turn aside, they would have to cover a distance ofabout thirty miles.

  Almost immediately, the little troop, leaving on their left the lineof ridges which Simon had followed a few days before, struck offacross a series of rather lower sand-hills, which nevertheless werehigh enough to overlook immense beds of yellow mud, covered with anetwork of small, winding streams. This was the slime deposited by therivers of the coast and carried out to sea by the tides and currents.

  "Grand alluvial soil," said Old Sandstone. "The water will formchannels for itself. The sandy parts will be absorbed."

  "In five years," said Simon, "we shall see herds of cattle grazing onthe very bed of the sea; and five years later there will berailway-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 disorderis complete. Social and economic life has been suddenly paralyzed. Nomore public services. Letters and telegrams may or may not bedelivered. Nothing definite is known; and people are saying the mostextraordinary things. The cases of insanity and suicide, it seems, arenumberless. And the crimes! Isolated crimes, crimes committed by gangsof criminals, riots, shops and churches pillaged wholesale. It's anabsolute chaos; we are back in the dark ages."

  The stratum of mud, formerly swept by the ground-wash, was not verythick; and they were able, time after time, to venture upon it withoutthe least danger. For that matter, it was already indented withfootprints, which also marked the still moist sand of the hills. Theypassed the hulk of a steamboat round which some people had establisheda sort of camp. Some were poking about the hull. Others were enteringby the battered funnel, or demolishing the woodwork with hammers, orbreaking open cases of more or less intact provisions. Women of thepeople, women in rags and tatters, wearing the look of hunted animals,sat on pieces of timber, waiting. Children ran about, playing; andalready, marking a first attempt at communal life, a pedlar was movingthrough 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, menprowling about, solitary individuals, who, like themselves, werereconnoitring.

  "Capital!" cried Simon. "The prairie lies stretched before us, withall its mysteries and all its lurking dangers. Here we are on thewar-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 wasrepresented by undulating plains, in which sand and mud alternated inequal proportions and in which hesitating streams of no great depthwere seeking a favourable bed. Over it hung a low, thick, stationaryfog, apparently as solid as a ceiling.

  "What a miracle, my dear Old Sandstone!" cried Simon, while they werefollowing a long ribbon of fine gravel which stretched before them,like a sunken path winding through the greensward of a park. "What amiracle, an adventure of this sort! A horrible adventure, certainly; adisaster causing superhuman suffering, death and mourning; butextraordinary adventure, the finest that a man of my age could dreamof. It's all so prodigious!"

  "Prodigious, indeed!" said Old Sandstone, who, faithful to hismission, was pursuing his scientif
ic investigations. "Prodigious!Thus, the presence of this gravel in this place constitutes one of theunprecedented events of which you are speaking. And then look at thatbank of great golden fish lying over there, with their upturnedbellies. . . ."

  "Yes, yes, professor," replied Simon. "It's impossible that such anupheaval should not usher in a new age! If I look at the future aspeople sometimes look at a landscape, with my eyes half-closed, I cansee . . . heavens, what don't I see! . . . What don't I imagine! . . .What a tragedy of folly, passion, hatred, love, violence, and nobleefforts! We are entering upon one of those periods in which men arefull to overflowing of energy, in which the will goes to the head likea generous wine!"

  The young man's enthusiasm ended by annoying Old Sandstone, who movedaway 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 feverand, after the hours which he had experienced two days before, wasquivering with impatience to return, so to speak, to the world ofabnormal actions.

  In point of fact, Isabel's image was before him in all his thoughtsand in all his dreams. He paid hardly any attention to the precise aimof his expedition or to the campaign which they were undertaking torecover a certain object. The precious miniature was hidden in the rugwhere he was sure to find it. Rolleston? His gang of ruffians? Menstabbed in the back? A pack of inventions and nightmares! The onlyreality was Isabel. The only aim before him was to distinguish himselfas a knight fighting for the love of his lady.

  Meanwhile there were no longer any camps around wrecks, nor parties ofpeople searching for valuables, but only individual prowlers and veryfew of these, as though most of the people were afraid to go too farfrom the coast. The surface was becoming more broken, consisting, nodoubt, as Old Sandstone explained, of former sand banks which theseismic disturbances had shaken down and mixed with the underlyingsedimentary strata. They had to go out of their way to avoid notshattered rocks indeed, nor compact cliffs, but raised tracts ofground that had not yet assumed those definite forms in which weperceive the action of time, of time which separates, classifies anddiscriminates, which organizes chaos and gives it a durable aspect.

  They crossed a sheet of perfectly clear water, contained within acircle of low hills. The bottom was carpeted with little whitepebbles. Then they descended, between two very high banks of mud, anarrow gully through which the water trickled in slender cascades. Asthey emerged from this gully, the Indian's horse shied. A man waskneeling on the ground, groaning and writhing in pain, his facecovered with blood. Another man lay near him, his white face turned tothe sky.

  Antonio and Simon at once sprang from their horses. When the woundedman raised his head, Simon cried:

  "Why, I know him . . . it's Williams, Lord Bakefield's secretary. AndI know the other too: it's Charles, the valet. They have beenattacked. 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 allnight. And, just now, another man. . . ."

  Antonio put a question:

  "You were attacked again, were you not, by some thief who wanted torob you. . . . And, when he heard us coming, he too stabbed you andtook to his heels? Then he is not far away?"

  "There . . . there," stammered Williams, trying to stretch out hisarm.

  The Indian pointed to footsteps which led to the left, up the slope ofthe 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'scompanions, the one who rode the fourth horse and whose name he didnot know. Almost immediately, at five hundred yards ahead, on theridge of the hills, a man rose from the cover of some blocks of stoneand 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 makestraight 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 tworiders had some difficulty in getting clear of it. When they reachedthe opposite shore, the fugitive, seeing that there were only two ofthem, 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 themurderer. But another rider had leapt between them and was holding hishorse, reared on its hind legs, like a rampart in front of Simon. Theanimal was hit in the belly and fell.

  "Thanks, old chap, you've saved my life!" cried Simon, abandoning thepursuit and dismounting to succour the other, who was in an awkwardposition, jammed under his horse and in danger of being kicked by thedying brute.

  Nevertheless, when Simon endeavoured to extricate him, the fallenrider did nothing to assist his efforts; and, after releasing him withsome difficulty, he perceived that the man had fainted.

  "That's odd!" thought Simon. "Those fellows don't usually faint over afall from a horse!"

  He knelt down beside the other and, seeing that his breathing wasembarrassed, undid the first few buttons of his shirt and uncoveredthe upper part of his chest. He was stupefied and for the first timelooked at his companion, who hitherto, in the shadow of hisbroad-brimmed hat, had seemed to him like the other Indians of theescort. The hat had fallen off. Quickly, Simon lifted an orange silkkerchief 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 whichhis mind had recurred several times during the past two days, thoughno emotion mingled with his admiration. He was so far from any thoughtof concealing this admiration that the young woman, on recoveringconsciousness, 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 forthe 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 austerefeatures. Her's was one of those beautiful faces which are peculiarlydisconcerting by reason of the contrasts which they present, being atonce 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 andafterwards 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. Ihad 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 listeningattitude and then, after a moment's attention, straightened herclothes, hid her hair beneath her kerchief and put on her hat.

  "It's Antonio," she said, in a differe
nt tone. "He must have heard thefiring. 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 herecognized me; I had taken the fourth Indian's horse. . . . So, yousee. . . ."

  She did not complete her sentence. A horseman had made his appearanceon the ridge. When he came up to them, Dolores had unfastened hersaddle-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 animaland, addressing the young woman by her name, perhaps to show that hewas 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 hispretentions to a woman? His tone was not imperious, but Simonsurprised the glance that flashed anger on the one side and defianceon the other. However, he paid little attention, being much lessanxious to discover the private motives which actuated Dolores andAntonio than to elucidate the problem arising from his meeting withLord 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 _QueenMary_ by Lord Bakefield and his daughter and were they to find me andhelp me in my search? Or did they go on their own account?"

  They soon joined the three pedestrians of the escort, to whom OldSandstone, with a cluster of shells in his hand, was giving ageological lesson. The three pedestrians were asleep.

  "I'm going ahead," said Antonio to Simon. "Our horses need a rest. Inan hour's time, set out along the track of the white pebbles which Ishall drop as I go. You can ride at a trot. My three comrades are goodrunners."

  He had already gone some paces, when he returned and, drawing Simonaside, looked him straight in the eyes and said:

  "Be on your guard with Dolores, M. Dubosc. She is one of these womenof whom it is wise to beware. I have seen many a man lose his headover 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 thathe thought of Dolores.

  Simon ate, stretched himself out on the ground and smoked somecigarettes. Sitting on the sand, Dolores unpicked a few seams of thewide trousers which she was wearing and arranged them in such afashion that they might have been taken for a skirt.

  An hour later, as Simon was making ready to start, his attention wasattracted by a sound of voices. At some little distance, Dolores andone of the three Indians were standing face to face and disputing in alanguage which Simon did not understand, while the brothers Mazzaniwere watching them and grinning.

  Dolores' arms were folded across her breast; she stood motionless andscornful. The man, on the contrary, was gesticulating, with a snarlingface 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; theIndian had at once recoiled, pricked at the throat by a dagger whichDolores held before her, the handle pressed against her bosom, thepoint threatening her adversary.

  The incident was not followed by any sort of explanation. The Indianmade off, grumbling. Old Sandstone, who had seen nothing, tackledSimon on the subject of his geological fault; and Simon merely said tohimself, 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, whenhe was stooping over the ground, examining some footprints.

  "There you are," he said to Simon, straightening his back. "I havemade out thirteen distinct tracks, left by people who certainly werenot travelling together. In addition to these thirteen highwaymen--fora man has to be a pretty tough lot to risk the journey--there are twoparties ahead of us: first, a party of four horsemen and then, walkingbehind them--how many hours later I couldn't say--a party of seven onfoot, forming Rolleston's gang. Look, here's the print of thepatterned rubber soles."

  "Yes, yes," said Simon, recognizing the footprint which he had seentwo days before. "And what do you conclude?"

  "I conclude that Rolleston, as we knew, is in it and that all thesegentry, separate prowlers and parties, are making for the _QueenMary_, the last large Channel boat sunk and the nearest to this partof the coast. Think, what a scoop for marauders!"

  "Let's push on!" cried the young man, who was now uneasy at thethought that he might fail in the mission which Isabel had allottedto 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 anintricate tangle that Antonio had to give up counting them. However,the footprints of the rubber soles and those of the four horsescontinued to appear in places.

  They marched on for some time. The landscape showed little variety,revealing sandy plains and hills, stretches of mud, rivers and pools,of water left by the sea and filled with fish which had taken refugethere. It was all monotonous, without beauty or majesty, but strange,as anything that has never been seen before or anything that isshapeless must needs be strange.

  "We are getting near," said Simon.

  "Yes," said the Indian, "the tracks are coming in from all directions;and here even are marauders returning northwards, laden with theirswag."

  It was now four in the afternoon. Not a rift was visible in theceiling of motionless clouds. Rain fell in great, heavy drops. Forthe first time they heard the overhead roar of an aeroplane flyingabove the insuperable obstacle. . . . They followed a depression inthe ground, succeeded by hills. And suddenly a bulky object rosebefore them. It was the _Queen Mary_. She was bent in two, almost likea broken toy. And nothing was more lamentable, nothing gave a moredismal impression of ruin and destruction than those two lifelesshalves of a once so powerful thing.

  There was no one near the wreck.

  Simon experienced an extreme emotion on standing before what was leftof the big boat which he had seen wrecked so terribly. He could notapproach it without that sort of pious horror which one would feel onentering a mighty tomb haunted by the shades of those whom we onceknew. He thought of the three clergymen and the French family and thecaptain; and he shuddered at remembering the moment when, with all thestrength of his will and all the imperious power of his love, he haddragged Isabel towards the abyss.

  A halt was called. Simon left his horse with the Indians and wentforward, accompanied by Antonio. He ran down the steep slope which thestern of the vessel had hollowed in the sand, gripped with both handsa rope which hung beside the rudder and in a few seconds, with theassistance of his feet and knees, reached the stern rail.

  Although the deck had listed violently to starboard and a sticky mudwas oozing through the planking, he ran to the spot where Isabel andhe had sat. The bench had been torn away, but the iron supports werestill standing and the rug which she had slung to one of them wasthere, shrunk, heavy with the water dripping from it and packed, asbefore the shipwreck, in its straps, which were untouched.

  Simon thrust his hand between the wet folds of the rug, as he had seenIsabel do. Not feeling anything, he tried to unfasten the straps, butthe leather had swollen and the ends were jammed in the buckles. Thenhe took his knife, cut the straps and unrolled the rug. The miniaturein its pearl setting was gone.

  In its place, fixed with a safety-pin, was a sheet of paper.

  He unfolded it. On it were these hastily-w
ritten words, which Isabelevidently intended for him:

  "I was hoping to see you. Haven't you received my letter? We have spent the night here--in an absolute hell on earth! and we are just leaving. I am uneasy. I feel that some one is prowling around us. Why are not you here?"

  "Oh!" Simon stammered, "it's incredible!"

  He showed the note to Antonio, who had joined him, and at once added:

  "Miss Bakefield! . . . She spent the night here . . . with her father. . . and they have gone! But where? How are we to save them from somany lurking dangers?"

  The Indian read the letter and said, slowly:

  "They have not gone back north. I should have seen their tracks."

  "Then. . . . ?"

  "Then. . . . I don't know."

  "But this is awful! See, Antonio, think of all that is threateningthem . . . of Rolleston pursuing them! Think of this wild country,swarming with highwaymen and foot-pads! . . . It's horrible,horrible!"

  PART THE SECOND