It was the wolfish snarl on Hawkston's thin lips, the red glare
in his eyes, which first roused terrified suspicion in the Arab's
mind, there in the deserted hut on the outskirts of the little town
of Azem. Suspicion became certainty as he stared at the three dark,
lowering faces of the other white men, bent toward him, and all
beastly with the same cruel greed that twisted their leader's
features.
The brandy glass slipped from the Arab's hand and his swarthy
skin went ashy.
"Lah!" he cried desperately. "No! You lied to me! You are not
friends—you brought me here to murder me—"
He made a convulsive effort to rise, but Hawkston grasped the
bosom of his gumbaz in an iron grip and forced him down into the
camp chair again. The Arab cringed away from the dark, hawk-like
visage bending close to his own.
"You won't be hurt, Dirdar," rasped the Englishman. "Not if you
tell us what we want to know. You heard my question. Where is Al
Wazir?"
The beady eyes of the Arab glared wildly up at his captor for an
instant, then Dirdar moved with all the strength and speed of his
wiry body. Bracing his feet against the floor, he heaved backward
suddenly, toppling the chair over and throwing himself along with
it. With a rending of worn cloth the bosom of the gumbaz came away
in Hawkston's hand, and Dirdar, regaining his feet like a bouncing
rubber ball, dived straight at the open door, ducking beneath the
pawing arm of the big Dutchman, Van Brock. 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 grousing 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 sledge-like 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 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 foreswear Muhammad. 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 saved 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 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 grey 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?" As the Dutchman and the Italian
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 accoutrements, 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.