Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  But he tripped over Ortelli’s extended leg and fell sprawling, rolling on his back to slash up at the Italian with the curved knife he had snatched from his girdle. Ortelli jumped back, yowling, blood spurting from his leg, but as Dirdar once more bounced to his feet, the Russian, Krakovitch, struck him heavily from behind with a pistol barrel.

  As the Arab sagged to the floor, stunned, Hawkston kicked the knife out of his hand. The Englishman stooped, grabbed him by the collar of his abba, and grunted: “Help me lift him, Van Brock.”

  The burly Dutchman complied, and the half-senseless Arab was slammed down in the chair from which he had just escaped. They did not tie him, but Krakovitch stood behind him, one set of steely fingers digging into his shoulder, the other poising the long gun barrel.

  Hawkston poured out a glass of brandy and thrust it to his lips. Dirdar gulped mechanically, and the glassiness faded out of his eyes.

  “He’s coming around,” grunted Hawkston. “You hit him hard, Krakovitch. Shut up, Ortelli! Tie a rag about your bally leg and quit groaning about it! Well, Dirdar, are you ready to talk?”

  The Arab looked about like a trapped animal, his lean chest heaving under the torn gumbaz. He saw no mercy in the flinty faces about him.

  “Let’s burn his cursed feet,” snarled Ortelli, busy with an improvised bandage. “Let me put the hot irons to the swine—”

  Dirdar shuddered and his gaze sought the face of the Englishman with burning intensity. He knew that Hawkston was leader of these lawless men by virtue of sharp wits and a sledgelike fist.

  The Arab licked his lips.

  “As Allah is my witness, I do not know where Al Wazir is!”

  “You lie!” snapped the Englishman. “We know that you were one of the party that took him into the desert — and he never came back. We know you know where he was left. Now, are you going to tell?”

  “El Borak will kill me!” muttered Dirdar.

  “Who’s El Borak?” rumbled Van Brock.

  “American,” snapped Hawkston. “Adventurer. Real name’s Gordon. He led the caravan that took Al Wazir into the desert. Dirdar, you needn’t fear El Borak. We’ll protect you from him.”

  A new gleam entered the Arab’s shifty eyes; avarice mingled with the fear already there. Those beady eyes grew cunning and cruel.

  “There is only one reason why you wish to find Al Wazir,” he said. “You hope to learn the secret of a treasure richer than the secret hoard of Shahrazar the Forbidden! Well, suppose I tell you? Suppose I even guide you to the spot where Al Wazir is to be found — will you protect me from El Borak — will you give me a share of the Blood of the Gods?”

  Hawkston frowned, and Ortelli ripped out an oath.

  “Promise the dog nothing! Burn the soles off his feet! Here! I’ll heat the irons!”

  “Let that alone!” said Hawkston with an oath. “One of you had better go to the door and watch. I saw that old devil Salim sneaking around through the alleys just before sundown.”

  No one obeyed. They did not trust their leader. He did not repeat the command. He turned to Dirdar, in whose eyes greed was much stronger now than fear.

  “How do I know you’d guide us right? Every man in that caravan swore an oath he’d never betray Al Wazir’s hiding place.”

  “Oaths were made to be broken,” answered Dirdar cynically. “For a share in the Blood of the Gods I would forswear Mohammed. But even when you have found Al Wazir, you may not be able to learn the secret of the treasure.”

  “We have ways of making men talk,” Hawkston assured him grimly. “Will you put our skill to the test, or will you guide us to Al Wazir? We will give you a share of the treasure.” Hawkston had no intention of keeping his word as he spoke.

  “Mashallah!” said the Arab. “He dwells alone in an all but inaccessible place. When I name it, you, at least, Hawkston effendi, will know how to reach it. But I can guide you by a shorter way which will save two days. And a day on the desert is often the difference between life and death.

  “Al Wazir dwells in the Caves of El Khour — arrrgh!” His voice broke in a scream, and he threw up his hands, a sudden image of frantic terror, eyes glaring, teeth bared. Simultaneously the deafening report of a shot filled the hut, and Dirdar toppled from his chair, clutching at his breast. Hawkston whirled, caught a glimpse through the window of a smoking, black pistol barrel and a grim-bearded face. He fired at that face even as, with his left hand, he swept the candle from the table and plunged the hut into darkness.

  His companions were cursing, yelling, falling over each other, but Hawkston acted with unerring decision. He plunged to the door of the hut, knocking aside somebody who stumbled into his path, and threw the door open. He saw a figure running across the road, into the shadows on the other side. He threw up his revolver, fired, and saw the figure sway and fall headlong, to be swallowed up by the darkness under the trees. He crouched for an instant in the doorway, gun lifted, left arm barring the blundering rush of the other men.

  “Keep back, curse you! That was old Salim. There may be more, under the trees across the road.”

  But no menacing figure appeared, no sound mingled with the rustling of the palm leaves in the wind, except a noise that might have been a man flopping in his death throes — or dragging himself painfully away on hands and knees. This noise quickly ceased and Hawkston stepped cautiously out into the starlight.

  No shot greeted his appearance, and instantly he became a dynamo of energy. He leaped back into the hut, snarling: “Van Brock, take Ortelli and look for Salim. I know I hit him. You’ll probably find him lying dead over there under the trees. If he’s still breathing, finish him! He was Al Wazir’s steward. We don’t want him taking tales to Gordon.”

  Followed by Krakovitch, the Englishman groped his way into the darkened hut, struck a light and held it over the prostrate figure on the floor; it etched a gray face, staring, glassy eyes, and a naked breast in which showed a round blue hole from which the blood had already ceased to ooze.

  “Shot through the heart!” swore Hawkston, clenching his fist. “Old Salim must have seen him with us and trailed him, guessing what we were after. The old devil shot him to keep him from guiding us to Al Wazir — but no matter. I don’t need any guide to get me to the Caves of El Khour — well?” The Dutchman and the Italian had entered.

  Van Brock spoke: “We didn’t find the old dog. Smears of blood all over the grass, though. He must have been hard hit.”

  “Let him go,” snarled Hawkston. “He’s crawled away to die somewhere. It’s a mile to the nearest occupied house. He won’t live to get that far. Come on! The camels and the men are ready. They’re behind that palm grove, south of this hut. Everything’s ready for the jump, just as I planned it. Let’s go!”

  Soon thereafter there sounded the soft pad of camel’s hoofs and the jingle of accouterments, as a line of mounted figures, ghostly in the night, moved westward into the desert. Behind them the flat roofs of el-Azem slept in the starlight, shadowed by the palm leaves which stirred in the breeze that blew from the Persian Gulf.

  II

  Gordon’s thumb was hooked easily in his belt, keeping his hand near the butt of his heavy pistol, as he rode leisurely through the starlight. His gaze swept the palms which lined each side of the road, their broad fronds rattling in the faint breeze. He did not expect an ambush or the appearance of an enemy. He had no blood feud with any man in el-Azem. And yonder, a hundred yards ahead of him, stood the flat-roofed, wall-encircled house of his friend, Achmet ibn Mitkhal, where the American was living as an honored guest.

  For years El Borak had carried his life in his hands, and if there were hundreds of men in Arabia proud to call him friend, there were hundreds of others who would have given the teeth out of their heads for a clean sight of him, etched against the stars, over the barrel of a rifle.

  Gordon reached the gate and was about to call to the gatekeeper when it swung open, and the portly figure of his host emerged.

  �
��Allah be with thee, El Borak! I was beginning to fear some enemy had laid an ambush for you. Is it wise to ride alone, by night, when within a three days’ ride dwell men who bear blood feud with you?”

  Gordon swung down and handed his reins to a groom who had followed his master out of the compound. The American was not a large man, but he was square-shouldered and deep-chested, with corded sinews and steely nerves which had been tempered and honed by the tooth-and-nail struggle for survival in the wild outlands of the world. His black eyes gleamed in the starlight like those of some untamed son of the wilderness.

  “I think my enemies have decided to let me die of old age or inertia,” he replied. “There has not been—”

  “What’s that?” Achmet ibn Mitkhal had his own enemies. In an instant the curious dragging, choking sounds he had heard beyond the nearest angle of the wall had transformed him into a tense image of suspicion and menace.

  Gordon had heard the sounds as quickly as his Arab host, and he turned with the smooth speed of a cat, the big pistol appearing in his right hand as if by magic. He took a single quick stride toward the angle of the wall — then around that angle came a strange figure, with torn, trailing garments. A man, crawling slowly and painfully along on his hands and knees. As he crawled he gasped and panted with a grisly whistling and gagging in his breathing. As they stared at him, he slumped down almost at their feet, turning a blood-streaked visage to the starlight.

  “Salim!” ejaculated Gordon softly, and with one stride he was at the angle, staring around it, pistol poised. No living thing met his eye; only an expanse of bare ground, barred by the shadows of the palms. He turned back to the prostrate man, over whom Achmet was already bending.

  “Effendi!” panted the old man. “El Borak!”

  Gordon dropped to his knee beside him, and Salim’s bony fingers clenched desperately on his arm.

  “A hakim, quick, Achmet!” snapped Gordon.

  “Nay,” gasped Salim. “I am dying and—”

  “Who shot you, Salim?” asked Gordon, for he had already ascertained the nature of the wound which dyed the old man’s tattered abba with crimson.

  “Hawkston — the Englishman.” The words came with an effort. “I saw him — the three rogues who follow him — beguiling that fool Dirdar to the deserted hut near Mekmet’s Pool. I followed for I knew — they meant no good. Dirdar was a dog. He drank liquor — like an infidel. El Borak! He betrayed Al Wazir! In spite of his oath. I shot him — through the window — but not in time. He will never guide them — but he told Hawkston — of the Caves of El Khour. I saw their caravan — camels — seven Arab servants. El Borak! They have departed — for the Caves — the Caves of El Khour!”

  “Don’t worry about them, Salim,” replied Gordon, responding to the urgent appeal in the glazing eyes. “They’ll never lay hand on Al Wazir. I promise you.”

  “Al Hamdu Lillah,” whispered the old Arab, and with a spasm that brought frothy blood to his bearded lips, his grim old face set in iron lines, and he was dead before Gordon could ease his head to the ground.

  The American stood up and looked down at the silent figure. Achmet came close to him and tugged his sleeve.

  “Al Wazir!” murmured Achmet. “Wallah! I thought men had forgotten all about that man. It is more than a year now since he disappeared.”

  “White men don’t forget — not when there’s loot in the offing,” answered Gordon sardonically. “All up and down the coast men are still looking for the Blood of the Gods. Those marvelous matched rubies were Al Wazir’s especial pride, and disappeared when he forsook the world and went into the desert to live as a hermit, seeking the way to truth through meditation and self-denial.”

  Achmet shivered and glanced westward where, beyond the belt of palms, the shadowy desert stretched vast and mysterious to mingle its immensity with the dimness of the starlit night.

  “A hard way to seek truth,” said Achmet, who was a lover of the soft things and the rich things of life.

  “Al Wazir was a strange man,” answered Gordon. “But his servants loved him. Old Salim there, for instance. Good Heavens, Mekmet’s Pool is more than a mile from here. Salim crawled — crawled all that way, shot through and through. He knew Hawkston would torture Al Wazir — maybe kill him. Achmet, have my racing camel saddled—”

  “I’ll go with you!” exclaimed Achmet. “How many men will we need? You heard Salim — Hawkston will have at least eleven men with him—”

  “We couldn’t catch him now,” answered Gordon. “He’s got too much of a start on us. His camels are hejin — racing camels — too. I’m going to the Caves of El Khour, alone.”

  “But—”

  “They’ll go by the caravan road that leads to Riyadh; I’m going to the Well of Amir Khan.”

  Achmet blanched.

  “Amir Khan lies within the country of Shalan ibn Mansour, who hates you as an imam hates Shaitan the Damned!”

  “Perhaps none of his tribe will be at the well,” answered Gordon. “I’m the only Feringi who knows of that route. If Dirdar told Hawkston about it, the Englishman couldn’t find it without a guide. I can get to the caves two days ahead of Hawkston. I’m going alone, because we couldn’t take enough men to whip the Ruweila if they’re on the warpath. One man has a better chance of slipping through than a score. I’m not going to fight Hawkston — not now. I’m going to warn Al Wazir. We’ll hide until Hawkston gives up and comes back to el-Azem. Then, when he’s gone, I’ll return by the caravan road.”

  Achmet shouted an order to the men who were gathering just within the gate, and they scampered to do his bidding.

  “You will go disguised, at least?” he urged.

  “No. It wouldn’t do any good. Until I get into Ruweila country I won’t be in any danger, and after that a disguise would be useless. The Ruweila kill and plunder every stranger they catch, whether Christian or Mohammedan.”

  He strode into the compound to oversee the saddling of the white racing camel.

  “I’m riding as light as possible,” he said. “Speed means everything. The camel won’t need any water until we reach the well. After that it’s not a long jump to the caves. Load on just enough food and water to last me to the well, with economy.”

  His economy was that of a true son of the desert. Neither water skin nor food bag was overheavy when the two were slung on the high rear pommel. With a brief word of farewell, Gordon swung into the saddle, and at the tap of his bamboo stick the beast lurched to its feet. “Yah!” Another tap and it swung into motion. Men pulled the compound gate open and stood aside, their eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

  “Bismillahi er rahmani er rahhim!” quoth Achmet resignedly, lifting his hands in a gesture of benediction, as the camel and its rider faded into the night.

  “He rides to death,” muttered a bearded Arab.

  “Were it another man I should agree,” said Achmet. “But it is El Borak who rides. Yet Shalan ibn Mansour would give many horses for his head.”

  The sun was swinging low over the desert, a tawny stretch of rocky soil and sand as far as Gordon could see in every direction. The solitary rider was the only visible sign of life, but Gordon’s vigilance was keen. Days and nights of hard riding lay behind him; he was coming into the Ruweila country now, and every step he took increased his danger. The Ruweila, whom he believed to be kin to the powerful Roualla of El Hamad, were true sons of Ishmael — hawks of the desert, whose hands were against every man not of their clan. To avoid their country, the regular caravan road to the west swung wide to the south. This was an easy route, with wells a day’s march apart. And it passed within a day’s ride of the Caves of El Khour, the catacombs which pit a low range of hills rising sheer out of the wastelands.

  Few white men know of their existence, but evidently Hawkston knew of the ancient trail that turned northward from the Well of Khosru on the caravan road. Hawkston was perforce approaching El Khour circuitously. Gordon was heading straight westward, across waterless wa
stes, cut by a trace so faint only an Arab or El Borak could have followed it. On that route there was but one watering place, between the fringe of oases along the coast and the caves — the half-mythical Well of Amir Khan, the existence of which was a secret, jealously guarded by the Bedouins.

  There was no fixed habitation at the oasis, which was but a clump of palms, watered by a small spring, but frequently bands of Ruweila camped there. That was a chance he must take. He hoped they were driving their camel herds somewhere far to the north, in the heart of their country; but, like true hawks, they ranged far afield, striking at the caravans and the outlying villages.

  The trail he was following was so slight that few would have recognized it as such. It stretched dimly away before him over a level expanse of stone-littered ground, broken on one hand by sand dunes, on the other by a succession of low ridges. He glanced at the sun, and tapped the water skin that swung from the saddle. There was little left, though he had practiced the grim economy of a Bedouin or a wolf. But within a few hours he would be at the Well of Amir Khan, where he would replenish his supply — though his nerves tightened at the thought of what might be waiting for him there.

  Even as the thought passed through his mind, the sun struck a glint from something on the crest of the nearer sand dunes, and simultaneously there rang out the crack of a rifle and he heard the thud of the bullet into flesh. The camel leaped convulsively and came down in a headlong sprawl, shot through the heart. Gordon leaped free as it fell, and in an instant was crouching behind the carcass, watching the crest of the dune over the barrel of his rifle. A strident yell greeted the fall of the camel, and another shot set the echoes barking. The bullet ploughed into the ground beside Gordon’s stiffening breastwork, and the American replied. Dust spurted into the air, so near the muzzle that gleamed on the crest that it evoked a volley of lurid oaths in a choked voice.

  The black glittering ring was withdrawn, and presently there rose the rapid drum of hoofs. Gordon saw a white kafieh bobbing among the dunes, and understood the Bedouin’s plan. Apparently there was only one man. That man intended to circle Gordon’s position, cross the trail a few hundred yards west of him and get on the rising ground behind the American, where his vantage-point position would allow him to shoot over the bulk of the camel — for, of course, he knew Gordon would keep the dead beast between them.