Complete Works of L. Frank Baum, page 748
Another day arrived before Dirrag was called upon to answer a single question. In the cool hour just before the sun arose, as they slowly rode up an incline, resting the horses for the long canter down hill, the prince asked:
“In what condition did you leave Burah Khan?”
“Your father, my prince, was near his end,” he replied, slowly. “His illness has been long and tedious, and the Persian physician who arrived from Kelat gave him barely seven days to live. This is the fourth day.”
“And when shall we reach Mekran?”
“On the morning of the sixth day — with the blessing of Allah.”
The younger man pondered the matter long. Then he said:
“Who recommended the Persian? Were there no physicians in Mekran?”
“Burah beheaded his own physician three weeks ago. He has executed, altogether, five men of medicine since this illness came upon him. The others have fled or are in hiding. As for the Persian, I am told Agahr the Vizier would have prevented his coming; but Melka of our tribe, who rules the khan’s harem, rode fast to Kelat, and the Persian came.”
“Agahr. Is he not our cousin?”
“Your uncle, lord, thrice removed. He is own cousin to Kasam the Pretender.”
Another period of silence, finally broken by questions as calmly and indifferently put.
“This Kasam the Pretender. Is he popular in Mekran?”
“They do not know him, any more than they know yourself. He has lived in a far country since boyhood, and is said to be still there.”
“But he has friends — partisans?”
Dirrag hitched uneasily in his seat.
“There are some, even yet, who deny the right of a son of Ugg to rule. Old Keedar did not strike softly, and the sword of Burah was ever long and sharp. You will have enemies, my master, when you are khan.”
“Open enemies?”
“And secret ones. The open enemies you need not fear.”
At noon they entered the Gedrusian Desert, the uplands being all behind them.
There is little danger in this tract of waste land to those familiar with it. Numerous pools and oases sustain the traveller of experience. Dirrag knew every inch of the desert, and as their present route was across but one corner of it he entered fearlessly.
Night had fallen and the moon and stars were out when they halted the weary horses beside a pool. Ahmed dismounted and had knelt beside the water to drink when Dirrag suddenly grasped his shoulder and threw him forcibly backward. He arose slowly, rearranged his burnous and cast an enquiring look at his companion.
“The pool is poisoned,” said Dirrag.
Bending over, he pointed to the bottom of the shallow water, where the moon shone on several slender twigs that were covered with a pale green bark.
“It is from the shushalla — the snake-tree,” he said, gruffly. “A drop of this water will bring instant death. This is very annoying. Our pools are never poisoned without a purpose, my master. Perhaps we are watched.”
“I saw a rider against the horizon, as we came up,” replied Ahmed.
He stretched his muscular arms, yawned with weariness and lay down upon the sand, instantly becoming motionless. It was a trick of relaxation he had learned at the Sunnite monastery.
Dirrag looked at him approvingly. The novitiate Hafiz had cast aside his yellow robes with his monastic name, and now wore the simple dress of a Baluch tribesman, without ornament or jewel of any sort. The fold of his turban, however, proclaimed him a member of the tribe of Ugg, and the cimeter at his side — the gift of the wily priest of Mehmet — was a weapon of rare quality, its hilt sparkling with clustered gems. Dirrag, when he first saw it, had made humble obeisance to the cimeter.
The former recluse also bore a short spear, with the accompanying shield of hammered bronze, and these completed his equipment.
Dirrag, wondering vaguely if his young master knew how to handle his weapons, unsheathed his own blade and, squatting at the edge of the pool, impaled the green twigs, one after another, upon its point and drew them from the water. When all had been thus removed he buried the deadly branches deep in the desert sands, and then reclined beside his master. The horses sniffed eagerly at the pool, but would not drink until they were given permission.
Silence fell upon the group. When three hours had passed Dirrag arose, crept to the pool and dipped his finger in the water, tasting a drop warily. Then he leaned over and drank, somewhat sparingly, and laid himself down again, commending his soul to Allah.
In another hour he sprang up, alert and brisk, and touched Ahmed’s shoulder.
“You may drink, master,” said he. “The pool is cleansed.”
Five minutes later, men and horses alike refreshed, they gallopped away through the moonlight.
The fifth day dawned — the fifth according to Dirrag’s calendar, which dated from the moment he had left Mekran. Ahmed had been in the saddle thirty-six hours, with brief periods of rest. Dirrag, man of iron though he was, began to show signs of fatigue. He was used to long riding, but now his eyelashes seemed lead and every stroke of his horse’s hoofs sounded in his ears like the beat of a drum.
Soon after the sun arose they discovered a group of horsemen far across the desert, who seemed to be riding in the same direction they were. The horsemen were mere specks upon the sands, at first, but as the hours passed they grew larger.
“Travellers to Mekran,” remarked Dirrag, calmly. “The sirdars have been assembled. Doubtless it is the party of some dignitary journeying to the death-bed of Burah Khan.”
“How far distant is Mekran?” asked Ahmed.
“We shall reach it, Allah willing, by an-other daybreak,” replied the warrior. “It will be the morning of the sixth day. The Persian gave me full six days. I shall save twelve hours, and twelve hours to a dying man is a long time.”
There was an accent of pride in his voice. Agahr had said the journey would require seven days with fast riding. But Agahr was a townsman; how should he know how fast the men of Ugg can ride?
The group of horsemen drew nearer. At noon Dirrag could see them almost plainly enough to determine what tribe they belonged to — almost, but not quite. Shortly afterwards, however, they whirled and rode directly toward the two travellers, and then Dirrag straightened in his saddle, cast the sleep from his eyes and gave a low growl.
“They are of the Tribe of Raab — a wild and rebellious band that hates Burah and supports the cause of Kasam the Pretender.”
“Why are they here?” asked Ahmed.
“To prevent our reaching Mekran, I suppose. They do not want the sirdars and your father to publicly acknowledge you the successor to the throne.”
“Well?”
“It was for the same reason the pool was poisoned. Treachery first; then the sword. Can you fight, my prince?”
“I can try,” smiled Ahmed. “We are taught the arts of warfare in the monastery.”
“You surprise me. I thought the priests passed their time in the worship of Allah.”
“And in preparing to defend the Faith, good Dirrag. Yet I do not know how well I can wield a cimeter in actual combat Naked steel differs from a wooden foil. And the men of Raab outnumber us.”
“There are a dozen of them, at least. But you and I are of the tribe of Ugg. If we cannot win the fight we may at least honor our kinsmen by taking three lives to our one.”
“It is worth the trial,” returned Ahmed, cheerfully, and he drew the cimeter from its leathern sheath and eyed the blade curiously.
“The spear first, my lord,” said Dirrag.
“After that the sword play. These men of Raab are not skillful, but they are brave.” And he proceeded to instruct Ahmed in the conduct of the coming encounter.
The horsemen were now so near that their shouts could be plainly heard. They were racing on at full speed, waving their spears in the air as they rode.
“Seel” exclaimed Ahmed, after a glance over his shoulder. “We are being surrounded.”
Dirrag looked and growled again; but there was a more cheerful note to his voice this time.
“A caravan!” he exclaimed. “They are yet far off, but they have dromedaries and are swiftly approaching. If we can escape the first attack of the assassins we may be rescued yet.”
There was no time for further words. The fierce tribesmen of Raab were quickly upon them, and by a concerted movement Ahmed and Dirrag whirled their horses in opposite directions, separating as they dashed away over the sands. This was intended to cause the band to divide, a part following each fugitive. But, to Dirrag’s annoyance, only two came after him, yelling and shaking their spears, indeed, but seeming not over anxious to engage him in combat, so long as he did not rejoin Ahmed.
It was upon the young heir of Mekran that most of the Raabites hurled themselves, circling around him at full gallop and watching a chance to thrust a spear into his back.
Ahmed recognized his peril. He cast his spear at one assailant, cleft another through turban and skull with his keen cimeter, and then, with a word to the gallant bay of Mehmet, he raised the horse high in the air and hurled it like a catapult at the foeman who chanced to be before him.
Even at the moment of impact the glittering blade whistled again through the air and the man of Raab sprawled with his horse in the desert sands, while Ahmed’s steed broke through the circle of his foes and bounded away to rejoin Dirrag, who was so lost in admiration of his young master’s prowess that he hardly looked to defend himself from his own assailants.
“Shall we fly?” asked Ahmed.
“It is useless,” panted Dirrag, ranging his horse beside that of his master, so that it faced the opposite direction. “They can outrun us easily, for our steeds are weary. But a few more strokes like those, my prince, and the dogs will themselves take to their heels.”
There was no indication of this at present, however. Again the enemy with fierce determination surrounded the two, and while each guarded the other’s back they sat side by side and gave stroke for stroke with calm precision.
“Hold!” cried an eager voice, sounding above the melee.
The men of Raab, as if fearful of being robbed of their prey, made a sudden furious dash. At the same time a pistol shot rang out and the leader tumbled from his saddle. The Raabites were demoralized, and fell back. They had no fire-arms.
“Forbear, I command you!” said the same imperative voice. “I am Prince Kasam.”
Yells of surprise and disappointment broke from the tribesmen. With a sudden impulse they wheeled and galloped swiftly over the desert, while the rescued men, wearied and breathless, lowered their swords to gaze around them in surprise.
The caravan had come upon them unawares. Twenty stout Afghans rode back of the young prince who had interrupted the conflict, and behind these stood dromedaries upon whose ample backs were perched ladies in European dress and gentlemen composedly smoking cheroots.
“Well done, Kasam,” cried Colonel Moore, approvingly, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs.
Dirrag, who had dismounted to pull a spear-head from his horse’s flank, scowled and shrank back so that the bay’s body partly hid him. Ahmed, at the sound of English words, drew the folds of his burnous close about his face, so that only the grey eyes were left revealed; but he sat his horse quietly and gave the native salute.
“We thank Prince Kasam for our rescue,” he said in the native tongue.
Kasam flushed and laughed good-naturedly.
“Keep my secret, friend,” he returned. “I was, indeed, foolish to reveal my station to that rabble yonder. But they are men of Raab, from which tribe I am myself descended, and in the emergency it seemed the only way to compel their obedience.”
The other bowed coldly and turned away to watch the Afghans rifling the bodies of the fallen.
“Bury those fellows in the sand,” ordered Kasam, shivering as he looked at the stark forms. “Were they not of my tribe they should feed the jackals for so cowardly an attack. What was your quarrel, friend?” turning again to Ahmed.
The latter made no reply, waving a hand toward Dirrag. Whereat the warrior, despite his repugnance, forced himself to come forward and answer for his silent chief.
“We are of the tribe of Ugg,” said he, briefly.
Kasam laughed.
“That is the usurper’s tribe,” said he; “the tribe of old Burah, who is either dying or dead at this moment. No wonder my kinsmen assailed you!”
Some of the ladies and gentlemen, who had understood nothing of this conversation, now rode forward with eager questions in English concerning the affray and those who had been slain. Bessie screamed at sight of the mound of sand that was being rapidly heaped over the victims, and Aunt Lucy declared she was about to faint and would fall off the camel. Dr. Warner, in well chosen words, denounced a country where such murderous assaults were possible, and the Colonel regretted they had not arrived in time to see more of the fight. Even Allison Moore displayed considerable interest in the incident, and condemned Kasam for interrupting what might have been “a very pretty scrap.”
Meantime Ahmed, with muffled face, sat his horse as if turned to stone, and Dirrag scowled more and more at the gabble of the foreigners.
“Friend,” said Kasam, mistaking the scarred warrior for the leader of the two, “we are riding to Mekran. If you travel ioo our way you have permission to attach yourselves to my caravan. It will doubtless insure your safety.”
To what extent Dirrag might have resented this implication that they were unable to protect themselves is uncertain, for an ungracious reply on his part to the kindly-meant invitation was interrupted by a recollection of the importance of his mission and the dangers that now menaced his young companion.
“Prince Kasam has our thanks,” he muttered. “We journey to Mekran.”
As the caravan started anew Janet Moore, who had remained quietly in the background, among the baggage-men and camel-drivers, rode slowly forward and joined the group of Americans. Whereupon Bessie laughingly reproached her for her timidity, and began chattering an unintelligible explanation of what had happened.
The men of Ugg silently joined the caravan. Neither they nor their horses seemed much the worse for the conflict, although Dirrag’s animal had a gaping wound in the thigh that would soon become stiff and sore, and the warrior had himself added a scratch across the forehead to his collection of wounds.
“Your countrymen seem to regard life very lightly, Prince,” said the Colonel, as they rode together near the front.
“Among themselves they have fought for centuries,” answered Kasam. “Yet I am told that of late years, under Keedar and Burah Khan, these minor frays have been forbidden and the combatants, if caught, severely punished. But old Burah is as good as dead, now, and the squabbles of the tribesmen are likely to break out afresh until I have time to reorganize the government and pacify the country.”
“Will you, too, be known as ‘a fighting khan,’ such as the ‘Lion of Mekran?’” asked Bessie, looking upon the young man with admiring eyes.
“I hope not, indeed,” he replied, laughing. “I shall try to instil European ideas into the heads of my stupid countrymen, and teach them the superiority of the Arts of Peace.”
None noticed that Ahmed’s horse had gradually forged ahead until he rode just behind the party of Americans.
“Isn’t it queer,” remarked Miss Warner, musingly, “that the future potentate of this big country is personally conducting us to his capital? It was really nice of you, Prince, to return with our passports. For a time we thought you had forsaken us, and Allison was bent on our retracing our steps and quitting the country.”
Kasam glanced into Janet’s grave face.
“You need not fear my deserting you,” he said earnestly. “Indeed, had I remained in Mekran during these days of waiting for the Khan’s death I should have gone wild with suspense, for there is nothing that can be done until Burah breathes his last breath. His physician, a stubborn Persian, promised him life for seven days.”
“Suppose the Persian fails, and you are absent?” suggested the Colonel.
“If the Persian fails, so much the better,” returned Kasam; “for then the monk-taught weakling son of Burah will not be acknowledged his successor, and the title of Khan reverts to me.”
“But if the son arrives before his father’s death?”
It was the doctor who asked this question.
“Then we revolt — I believe that is the plan — and drive every member of the tribe of Ugg from Mekran. But my cousin Ahmed cannot arrive before the seventh day, which is the day after tomorrow, and, according to my uncle Agahr, who is clever at intrigue, it will not be possible for Burah’s son to arrive at all.”
“Why not?” demanded the Colonel.
“Assassination, I suppose,” suggested the doctor.
Kasam shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not ask my Uncle Agahr to explain these things. Ahmed is not to be assassinated, however; he promised me that. Otherwise, it matters little what prevents him from reaching his father’s death-bed.”
“What a splendid man that barbarian isl” whispered Bessie to Janet. The latter turned slowly in her seat and gave a start of surprise, for Ahmed rode just behind her. The look in the calm grey eyes seemed to thrill the girl strangely, for she swayed in her saddle and might have fallen had not the “barbarian” thrust out a strong arm and steadied her.
“What are you doing here?” cried Kasam, angrily, in the native Baluch. “Back to the rear, my man, where you belong!”
Ahmed bowed gravely and retreated to where Dirrag rode. Nor did he again venture near the front.
“How cross you were to that handsome fellow,” said Bessie, pouting her pretty lips.
“Why, as for that, Miss Bessie,” returned the Prince, “I happened to remember that I was indulging rather freely in political gossip; and while it is impossible that he should understand English, your handsome fellow is of the tribe of Ugg — our hereditary foes.”
