Ferocious gaiety in the sounds. For here was the cruel, perverted, thrill of the man-hunt.
“Get him!”
“Kill him!”
“Quick, quick, quick! Around the next corner! Cut him off!”
Swearing, shrieking. Throwing bricks and pots and clubs and stones. Pop! pop! pop!—the constable’s revolver dropping punctuation marks into the night. And on, on, the sweep of figures. And Omar the Black running, his lungs pounding, his heart beating like a triphammer; darting left, right, left, right—steadily gaining on his pursuers, at last finding temporary refuge at the edge of town, in the old cemetery, among the carved granite tombstones that dreamed of Judgment Day.
There, stretched prone on the ground, he turned his head to watch the mob hurrying on and past on a false trail. He listened to the view-halloo of the chase growing fainter and fainter, finally becoming a mere memory of sound.
Then, slowly, warily, he got up. He looked about.…
Nobody was within sight.
So he doubled on his tracks and left Gulabad from the opposite direction, hag-ridden by his double fear—of the Grand Khan’s revenge and of Fathouma’s loving tenderness.
To put the many, many miles between himself and this double fear, this double danger—that is what he must do, and do as quickly as possible. His resolve was strengthened by the knowledge that money was sultan in High Tartary as anywhere else in the world; that the tale of the rich reward which had been offered for his capture—a hundred pieces of gold—would be round and round the countryside in no time at all, and so every hand there would be against his, and every eye and ear seeking him out.
Therefore Omar the Black traveled in haste and in stealth. At night he traveled, hiding in the daytime, preferring the moors and forests to the open, green fields; taking the deer- and wolf-spoors instead of honest highways; plunging to the knee—and his rheumatic leg hurting him so—at icy fords rather than using the proper stone bridges that spanned the rivers; avoiding the snug, warm villages where food was plentiful and hearts were friendly. And living—as the Tartar saying has it—on the wind and the pines and the gray rock’s lichen!
Footsore he was, and weary; and wishing: “If only I had a horse!”
A fine, swift horse to take between his two thighs and gallop away. Then ho for the far road, the wild, brazen road, and glittering deeds, glittering fame! Yes—glittering fame it would be for him; and he hacking his way to wealth and power; and presently returning to Gulabad.
No longer a fugitive, with a price on his head and the Grand Khan’s revenge at his heel, but a hero, a conqueror; the equal—by the Prophet the Adored!—to any Khan.
Omar was quite certain of his ultimate success, and for no better or, belike, no worse reason than that he was what he was: a Tartar of Tartars—the which is a thing difficult to explain with the writing of words to those who do not know our steppes and our hills.
Perhaps it might best be defined by saying that his bravery overshadowed his conceit—or the other way about—that both bravery and conceit were overshadowed by his tight, hard, shrewd strength of purpose, and gilded by his undying optimism. Anyway, whatever it was, he had it. It made him sure of himself; persuaded him, too, that some day Gotha would be his, so sweet and warm and white in the crook of his elbow.
The imagining intoxicated him. He laughed aloud—and a moment later grew unhappy and morose. Only a fool, he told himself, will grind pepper for the bird still on the wing.
Not a bird, in his case, but a horse. A horse was the first thing he had to have for the realization of his stirring plans. Without a horse, these plans were useless, hopeless—as useless and hopeless as trying to throw a noose around the far stars or weaving a rope from tortoise-hair.
Yes, the horse was essential. And how could he find one, here in the lonely wilderness of moor and forest?
Thus, despondent and gloomy, he had trudged on. Night had come; and the chill raw wind, booming out of the Siberian tundras, had raced like a leash of strong dogs; and hunger had gnawed at his stomach; and thirst had dried his throat; and his leg had throbbed like a sore tooth. “Help me, O Allah, O King of the Seven Worlds!” he had sobbed—and as if in answer to his prayer, he had heard a soft neighing, had seen a roan Kabuhi stallion grazing on a short halter, had sneaked up noiselessly, had unhobbled the animal and been about to mount.… And then:
“By Beelzebub,” he said now, angrily, to his twin-brother, “it had to be yours!”
Again he sighed.
“Ah,” he added, “am I not the poor, miserable one, harried by the hounds of fate!”
* * * *
Omar the Red looked up.
“Not poor, surely,” he remarked.
“What do you mean—not poor?”
“Unless, in your flight, you lost the jewels which you took from the rich Jew.”
Omar the Black jumped up.
“As the Lord liveth,” he exclaimed, “I had forgotten them!”
Anxiously he tapped his loose breeches. There was a pleasant tinkle, and a few seconds later a pleasant sight as he brought out a handful of emeralds and rubies that sparkled in the moon’s cold rays.
Then once more he became despondent.
“What good,” he asked, “are these jewels to me? As much good as a comb to a bald-headed man. Why, not even were you to give me your horse—”
“Which, decidedly, I shall not.”
Omar the Black paid no attention to his brother’s unfeeling comment.
“No,” he repeated, “not even were you to give me your horse.”
For, he went on to say, Gotha was a slave in the harem of Yengi Mehmet, the Khan of Gulistan. The latter, according to Timur Bek, was as eager for money as a young flea is for blood. Therefore, before Omar the Black had a chance to leave his mark upon High Tartary and return to Gulabad, a hero, a conqueror, somebody else might covet the girl, might offer a great price for her—and Yengi Mehmet would sell her.…
He drew a hand across his eyes.
“Allah, Allah!” he cried. “What am I to do? Ah, if you could see this girl! As a garment, she is silver and gold! As a season, the spring!”
“So,” was the other’s impatient interruption, “you told me before—and bored me profoundly. The question is—you desire this girl?”
“As Shaitan, the Stoned Devil, the Accursed, desires salvation.”
“Very well. You shall have her.”
“But—how?”
“I shall help you”—Omar the Red paused. “For a consideration.”
“There would be,”—bitterly,—“a consideration, you being you.”
“There is, I being I—or for that matter, anybody being anybody. Therefore, if I help you to get your heart’s desire, will you—”
“Yes, yes! Anything! Put a name to it!”
“A dear name! A grand and glorious name! The old palace back home where you and I were born, which I lost to you—”
“In a fair fight.”
“Fair enough. I want it back.”
“Is that all? Help yourself.”
“Thanks. Only—I have not enough money. But you, with a tenth of these jewels, can pay off the old debts.… Listen!” He spoke