Marching Sands. Harold Lamb

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      A green light flamed from the temple gate. The gongs sounded a final crash—and Gray awoke at the noise of the stick and coins falling to the floor.

      He became fully conscious instantly—from habit. And was aware of two things. He had been asleep for some time. Also, the door had been thrown open and dark forms were running into the room.

      Gray caught at his automatic which he always hung at his pillow. He missed it in the dark. One of the figures stumbled against the bed. He felt a hand brush across his face.

      Drawing up his legs swiftly he kicked out at the man who was fumbling for him. The fellow subsided backward with a grunt, and the officer gained his feet. His sight was not yet cleared, but he perceived the blur of figures in the light from the open door.

      He wasted no time in outcry. Experience had taught him that the best way to deal with native assailants was with his fists. He bent forward from the hips, balanced himself and jabbed at the first man who ran up to him.

      His fist landed in the intruder’s face. Gray weighed over a hundred and seventy pounds, and he had the knack which comparatively few men possess of putting his weight behind his fists. Moreover, he was not easily flurried, and this coolness gave his blows added sting.

      At least four men had broken into the room. The other two hesitated when they saw their companions knocked down. But Gray did not. There was a brief rustle of feet over the floor, the sound of a heavy fist striking against flesh, and the invaders stumbled or crawled from the room.

      Gray was surprised they did not use their knives. Once they perceived that he was fully awake they seemed to lose heart. The fight had taken only a minute, and Gray was master of the field.

      He had counted four men as they ran out. But he waited alertly by the door while Delabar, who had remained on his bed, got up and lit the lamp. Gray’s first glance told him that no Chinamen were to be seen.

      He was breathing heavily, but quite unhurt. Having the advantage of both weight and hitting power over his light adversaries, he took no pride in his prompt clearing of the room. Delabar, however, was plainly shaky.

      “What did they want?” the professor muttered, eyeing the door. “How——”

      “Look out!” warned Gray crisply.

      From the foot of his bed a head appeared. Two slant eyes fixed on him angrily. A Chinaman in the rough clothes of a coolie crawled out and stood erect.

      In one hand he held Gray’s rifle, removed from the case. With the other he was fumbling at the safety catch with which he seemed unfamiliar.

      Gray acted swiftly. Realizing that the gun was loaded and that it would go off if the coolie thought of pulling the trigger, inasmuch as the safety catch was not set, he stepped to one side, to the head of the bed.

      Here he fell to his knees. The man with the rifle, if he had fired, would probably have shot over the American, who was feeling under the pillow.

      As it happened the coolie did not pull the trigger of the gun. A dart of flame, a crack which echoed loudly in the narrow room—and Gray, over the sights of the automatic which he had recovered and fired in one motion, saw the man stagger.

      Through the swirling smoke he saw the coolie drop the gun and run to the window.

      Gray covered the man again, but refrained from pressing the trigger. There was no need of killing the coolie. The next instant the man had flung open the shutters and dived from the window.

      Looking out, Gray saw the form of his adversary vaguely as the coolie picked himself up and vanished in the darkness.

      The street was silent. The guitar was no longer to be heard.

      Gray crossed the room and flung open the door. The hall was empty. He closed the door, readjusted the stick and string of coins and grinned at Delabar who was watching nervously.

      “That was one on me, Professor,” he admitted cheerfully. “The coolie who bobbed up under the bed must have been the one I kicked there. Fancy knocking a man to where he can grab your own gun.”

      Delabar, however, saw no humor in the situation.

      “They were coolies,” he said. “What do you suppose they came after?”

      “Money. I don’t know.” Gray replaced the shutters and blew out the light. “We’ll complain to our landlord in the morning. But I don’t guess we’ll have much satisfaction out of him. The fact that my shot didn’t bring the household running here shows pretty well that it was a put-up job.”

      His prophecy proved true. The proprietor of the hotel protested that he had known nothing of the matter. Asked why he had not investigated the shot, he declared that he was afraid. Gray gave up his questioning and set about preparing to leave Honanfu.

      “The sooner we’re away from Wu Fang’s jurisdiction the better,” he observed to Delabar. “No use in making an investigation. It would only delay us. Our baggage came this morning, and you’ve engaged the muleteers. We’ll shake Honanfu.”

      Delabar seemed as anxious as Gray to leave the town. Crowds of Chinese, attracted perhaps by rumor of what had happened in the night, followed them about the streets as Gray energetically assembled his two wagons with the stores, and the men to drive the mules.

      He made one discovery. In checking up the list of baggage they found that one box was missing.

      “It’s the one that had the rifles and spare ammunition,” grunted Gray. “Damn!”

      He had put the rifle that had been intended for McCann with his own extra piece and ammunition in a separate box. In spite of persistent questioning, the drivers who had brought the wagons to Honanfu denied that they had seen the box.

      A telegram was sent to the railway terminal. The answer was delayed until late afternoon. No news of the box was forthcoming.

      “It’s no use,” declared Delabar moodily. “Remember, you told Wu Fang Chien that our rifles were with the luggage. Probably he has taken the box.”

      “Looks that way,” admitted Gray, who was angered at the loss. “Well, there’s no help for it. We’ll hike, before Wu Fang thinks up something else to do.”

      He gave the word to the muleteers, the wagons creaked forward. He jumped on the tail of the last one, beside Delabar, and Honanfu with its watching crowds faded into the dust, after a turn in the road.

      From that time forth, Gray kept his rifle in his hand, or slung at his shoulder.

      While they sat huddled uncomfortably on some stores against the side of the jogging cart—nothing is quite so responsive to the law of gravity as a springless Chinese cart, or so uncomfortable, unless it be the rutted surface of a Chinese imperial highway—both were thinking.

      Delabar, to himself: “Why is it that an imperial road in China is not one kept in order—in the past—for the emperor, but one that can be put in order, if the emperor announced his intention of passing over it? My associate, the American, who thinks only along straight lines, will never understand the round-about working of the oriental mind. And that will work him evil.”

      Gray, СКАЧАТЬ