The Early Adventures of El Borak, page 19
The newcomer had a newspaper in his hand and he strode over to the discontented looking youth in the armchair.
“Still dreaming a daydream?” he asked with a chuckle. “The life of the idle rich don’t suit you much.”
The other waved his hand toward the papers he had discarded.
“I’m trying to find something interesting,” he said, “but there’s nothing happening in the whole world except divorce suits.”
His friend laughed. “You’re behind times,” he chaffed. “I have a later edition than those.”
He seated himself comfortably and opened the paper. “It says that Ecuador and Colombia are on the verge of war.”
“They always are,” answered the young man languidly.
“And the Bolsheviks are calling on the Balkan states for support.”
“I should worry,” yawned the ennui-ed one.
“And there were over a thousand divorces last month,” pursued the other.
The languid young man sat up suddenly.
“Say!” he said with force. “You know such stuff don’t interest me. You’ve got something up your sleeve. Spill it!”
The other shifted himself to a more comfortable position and eyed his friend speculatively.
Finally he asked, “Steve, were you ever in India?”
“Yes, I was there with Gordon a couple of years back.”
“Um, I suppose you know all about the Afghans?”
“No, I’ve heard a great deal about them, but I’ve known only one personally. That was Yar Ali Khan, who was with Gordon in Arabia. I’ve never seen very many of them. You see, I never went north of Lucknow.”
“Well, it says in this paper that the Afridis are stirring up a row. There’s been looting and murder all along the Afghan border. Seems like there’s a mullah, a descendant of the Prophet, who’s preaching a jihad, a holy war. The British fear an invasion of India through the Khyber Pass.”
Steve’s eyes lighted with interest. “Indeed. Let me see that paper, please.”
He read the article silently. Then he turned to his friend.
“Billy, run down and get tickets on the first ship while I pack up.”
His friend grinned. “It’s already been done. What’s more, we make the straight trip. We’re booked on the liner Valencia, sailing tomorrow for Bombay.”
“Good work,” Steve approved. “Now to pack up.”
The task of packing trunks and travelling bags having been brought to a satisfactory conclusion, Steve said, “Buck, I’m going to leave the rest to you while I chase around and give my regards to my respected relatives. Meet me on board.”
At a certain elegant mansion on Riverside Drive, a highly respectable family were dining. Only part of the family were present, two to be exact. These two were a stately, silver-haired lady and a beautiful, dark-haired girl.
And upon these people descended Steve. He entered with scant ceremony.
“Where are Uncle John, Teddy, Dorothy and the rest?” he demanded.
“Father is at the golf club,” the girl answered. “The others have gone with a party to Delmonico. Did you want to see them?”
“Well, I rather hoped they would all be here,” he admitted. “I wanted to give them all my respects as I am leaving on the next boat.”
“Where are you going?”
“To India.’’
“India!” exclaimed middle-aged respectability.
“India!” echoed budding respectability.
“Well, of all the weird ideas!” chorused the two.
“Stephen,” said his aunt, rather sternly, “I must really protest. This running about all over the world does you no good. This new whim of yours is simply preposterous.”
He laughed. “Say,” he said, almost rudely, “the opinion of you stay-at-homes doesn’t matter in the least. You said I was silly to go to Yucatan—and I discovered a lost silver mine. You said that it was ‘preposterous’ for me to go to Arabia—and I came back with a fortune. So wish we luck, for I’m bound for the Orient.”
“Oh, very well,” sighed his aunt. “If you have made up your mind I suppose you will go, but I had hoped that you would stay longer in New York.”
When the ensuing conversation was concluded, Steve kissed his aunt’s hand with all the grace of a courtier and turned to go. His cousin followed him to the hallway.
“You are really going?” she asked wistfully. She was a beautiful young woman, no older than Steve, but as is usually the case, she appeared at all times more of the grown woman than he did of the grown man.
He regarded her with a brotherly affection, just as he did his sisters, but the feeling she had for him was something more than that. Steve, however, did not suspect it. He was no ladies’ man, was Steve Allison.
“Are you going alone?”
“No, Billy Buckner is going with me.”
“Why must you go?” she asked.
“Why, of course I don’t have to,” he laughed. “But you know me, Madge. I can’t stay still long. I have the wanderlust, strong.”
“Then why don’t you go to some civilized country like France or England?”
“And moon around and go to teas and theaters? Hardly, my dear. I don’t think,” he laughed, “that I am scarcely civilized, myself.”
“But you will stay in Bombay or some city?”
“No, we will go north to the Khyber Pass and perhaps beyond to Kabul and Herat.”
“But I have heard that those mountain tribes are hostile.”
“They are, sometimes.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked curiously.
“Say,” he protested uncomfortably, “you’re making me talk like a melodrama hero. Yes, no doubt I shall be scared, but think of the fun I’ll have.”
She could not understand. Her idea of pleasure was idle luxury, dances, balls and an occasional tour of Europe. She could understand why anyone would wish to go to Paris or London, but to invade the wilds of Asia!
“Well, kiss me before you go,” she said. “You might get assassinated by bandits.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her as he would have his sister. She returned his kiss and then lay quiet in his arms, her eyes closed. He tenderly brushed back a stray lock of hair from her soft, white cheek and said, playfully, “I’ll bring you back a rajah’s crown jewels or would you prefer the rajah himself?”
She drew back from his embrace and stood erect. “I suppose you will have a harem, of course?” she said, banteringly.
He chuckled, “I’ve been to the Orient three times and have escaped so far. I don’t think you need have any fears in that direction.”
“Let us hope so,” she said demurely.
“Well, give my respects to the rest of the folks and tell them I’ll bring them each something from India.”
Chapter 2.
“Moriarty’s on this boat!”
Allison stood on the promenade deck of the Valencia, leaning on the rail and gazing eastward. Two days out of New York and the voyage seemed most promising as to time and weather.
Allison eyed the liner in admiration. He had tried his hand at sailoring, both steam and sail, and he knew a fine ship when he saw one.
“What a change!” he mused. “Here I’m bound for the same place Columbus was, he in a wooden tub, I in a floating palace and headed in exactly the opposite direction.”
A quick step sounded behind him and Billy Buckner leaned on the rail beside him. Allison cast a quick glance at him and asked, “What’s up, Buck?”
“Moriarty’s on this boat!” was the answer in a low, quick tone. “I just saw him.”
“Moriarty, eh?” Allison repeated softly.
“What had we better do?” demanded Buckner.
“Does he know you saw him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Listen, then. After dinner you go to his cabin. And manage it so that he knows you go. The door will be unlocked; open it and go in, then—well, you’ll see. But be sure that Moriarty follows you.”
On another part of the deck a large, genial looking man reclined in a deckchair and chuckled. Moriarty, corporation detective, had reason to feel well of himself. Some years before, Allison with the aid of Buckner had successfully staged a most daring robbery and gotten away with a vast sum of a large mining corporation’s funds. The proofs were not sufficient to send Allison or any of the others to the penitentiary, yet the corporation felt there must be proofs somewhere and finally they put Moriarty on the trail. Moriarty was a keen, persistent detective, a bold man and something of a genius in his way. For months he had tirelessly followed Allison and members of the former road-agent band. But especially he had pursued Allison. But the young ex-road-agent had outwitted him at every turn.
Now, Moriarty felt that it was his turn. For here were Allison and Buckner on the same ship and so far as he knew, they were not aware of his presence aboard.
Moriarty believed that he would soon be collecting that two thousand dollar reward that the corporation had offered for the capture of the highwaymen, in addition to his regular wages which were considerable. This sum was highly desirable to Moriarty, but the zest of the game was more so. He really did not need either the salary or the reward to live comfortably, for he had been both a private detective and a Federal detective and had accumulated quite a tidy sum. But the joke of it was, that the two had taken passage on the same ship in which he had booked, intending to go to Lisbon and not aware that Allison was in New York! He chuckled and twirled his mustache.
Just then the dinner gong rang and he went to the salon. Buckner was there, but there was no sign of Allison.
Moriarty watched Buckner closely. He seemed to be nervous, glancing around occasionally in a furtive manner.
“I was wrong,” thought Moriarty. “He knows I’m aboard.”
Moriarty did not know what a perfect actor Buckner was.
Buckner finished his meal rather hurriedly and then hurried out of the salon.
Moriarty rose and strolled after him, unhurriedly. Walking with a lightness surprizing in so large a man, he followed Buckner across the deck and down the companionway.
“Oh, so it’s my stateroom you’re after calling on!” he murmured as Buckner stealthily approached the stateroom belonging to Moriarty. He fumbled with the door, opened it and stepped inside, leaving the door open. The room was dark, but the lights in the corridor illuminated it enough so that Moriarty could see Buckner step to the table and begin to go through the papers on it.
The detective drew his pistol and stepped noiselessly through the door, covering the young man.
“Put ’em up, Buckner. I’ve got you,” he said sharply, and at that instant something pressed against the back of his neck and a soft voice remarked, “Please do the same, Mr. Moriarty.” And simultaneously Buckner stepped aside, out of line with Moriarty’s pistol.
Moriarty knew when he was caught. His hands went into the air; Buckner stepped forward and twitched the gun from his fingers and went over him skillfully in search of hidden weapons. He found a detective’s badge and a pair of handcuffs, both of which he appropriated.
The man who had held up Moriarty had pushed the door to and turned on the lights. Now he locked the door and stepped in front of his prisoner.
“Allison, eh?” grunted Moriarty. “Well, I might have looked for it.”
“Sit down,” ordered Steve, motioning toward the berth. The detective went over and sat down.
“You were easy, Moriarty,” commented Allison, sitting on the edge of the opposite berth and twirling his gun by the trigger-guard.
“You come lumbering in here, yelling ‘Han’s up!’ and all I have to do is to step out from behind the door and tickle you with the muzzle of my gat. Buck didn’t come down here to steal anything or to establish your identity; he knew you’d stalk him. That’s what I like about you, Moriarty, you do just exactly as we think you will do.”
Moriarty was boiling, but he smiled grimly. “Well, well, ’tis me old friends, ‘Drag’ Buckner and th’ Sonora Kid. This is indade a pleasure.”
“It is indade,” they murmured politely.
“How well the two av yez will look in sthripes,” mused Moriarty.
“Moriarty,” said Allison, “you haven’t got anything on us and never will. But you interfere with us. We are trying to go straight, but how can we with an idiotic detective following us from place to place, never giving us a minute’s rest?”
“Oh, I’ll get yez, me buckoes,” promised Moriarty.
“If you were a gunfighter, I’d know how to manage it. But it would be murder to force you to a gunfight. However—Drag, what did you take off him?”
“The gat, handcuffs and a badge.” He flipped up the badge, caught it and asked, “Don’t it keep you broke most of the time, Moriarty?”
“What?”
“Buying badges, handcuffs and guns to replace the ones we take off of you.”
Moriarty cursed soulfully.
His captors chuckled softly.
“What an orator you’d have made, Moriarty,” said Allison admiringly.
“What do you want av me?” demanded Moriarty.
Allison was silent for a moment and than said, “It’s like this, Moriarty. As I said, we’re going straight. I don’t mind telling you we’re going to India. We’re going to try to do the world a mighty good turn, if you only know it. What we want you to do is to get off at Lisbon as you intended. (Oh, yes, we even knew where you were going). We want you to promise us that you won’t molest us, at least until we have completed our business in India.”
“And do yez think I will make any such promises?” asked Moriarty.
Allison stood up and looked straight into the detective’s eyes.
“You will promise or by heaven, I’ll kill you,” he said. “I’m going to India and no detective on earth shall stop me.”
Moriarty was looking at Allison’s eyes. They were mere slits and they flamed and glinted like daggers. Moriarty knew that the soul of a killer was looking out through them and he winced in spite of himself.
“Make your choice,” Allison was saying. “Promise what we ask you and keep that promise and we will not molest you. Refuse, and we will kill you and throw you through the porthole. Choose.”
Moriarty was a brave man. These threats were like melodrama but for the look in Allison’s eyes. It is nothing to Moriarty’s discredit that he answered as he did.
“And suppose I make this promise, what will prevent me breaking it?”
“Nothing,” Allison replied. “But I don’t think you’ll break it, Moriarty. I’ve always found you a man of your word.”
Allison had skillfully touched the right chord. Moriarty had always prided himself on keeping his promises, even to criminals.
He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
“All roight. I promise yez that I will not molest yez in any way until you blaguards have finished your ‘business’ in India and also, that I will lave the ship at Lisbon as was me former intentions. Does that satisfy you, Kid and Drag, me cheerful road-agents?”
“It does,” answered the Sonora Kid, replacing his gun in its hidden holster. “Give him back his stuff, Buck. Good. Now, Mr. Moriarty, unless you wish to talk of old times with us, we will wish you a pleasant good night.”
“Good night,” answered Moriarty, and a second later the stateroom door closed behind his erstwhile captors.
“The young blaguards,” muttered Moriarty. Then he grinned and a close observer might have drawn the conclusion that he did not dislike the two as much as he pretended.
Chapter 3.
“That’s Bombay.”
Straight across the Atlantic, stopping for a day in the Azores, then to Lisbon, swinging around Gibraltar, then straight across the blue Mediterranean. Through the Straits of Suez, down the Red Sea and around Aden into the Indian Ocean.
Buckner and Allison stood for’ard, in the bows of the liner. Buckner was eagerly scanning the eastern horizon, but Allison’s gaze was turned westward, where the sandy, desert shore of Arabia was fading into the skyline. He was deep in thought. In Arabia he had first met his friend Gordon, and had had his first close experience with the Orient.
He was living over again the conspiracies and intrigues of an Eastern court: the fierce struggle for supremacy between the court nobles; the swift expedition into the desert; the pursuit; battles and running skirmishes; and finally the finding of the buried city and the fierce battle for the fortune discovered; then the victory in the swirling simoon and the flight across the desert to Aden.
Buckner’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “We should be getting close to our destination, shouldn’t we?”
Allison nodded.
Buckner’s thoughts swerved to something else and he remarked, irrelevantly, “Moriarty’s a pretty good scout after all. He got off at Lisbon just like he promised.”
Steve grinned. “Yes, I thought he’d keep his word. There’s nothing mean about Moriarty.”
And then one morning Buckner gave a gasp of delight as he gazed on the spires and mosques and minarets of a great city, rising from the horizon, each detail leaping into clearness as the liner neared the shore.
Allison threw out his arm in a gesture that embraced both bay and city.
“That’s Bombay,” he said, “and beyond lies India.”
And more wonders were in store for Buckner. As they rode through the streets to a European hotel, he wondered at the amazing blending of East and West; for Bombay is the cosmopolitan of the Eastern world.
