ON TO THE METIDJA MINE
A startled exclamation at his side causes the young doctor to remember that he has a companion. He whirls around and just in time to avert what might have turned out to be a catastrophe, for Monsieur Constans, seeing the figure of an Arab coming toward them, has no other idea than that it is an enemy.
Perhaps the fiery Gaul is somewhat anxious to try his fire-arms. At any rate, when John so suddenly wheels upon him, monsieur is in the act of covering the advancing figure.
John with a sharp cry knocks his leveled weapon up, and calls out:
"It is a friend; my guide, Mustapha Cadi."
"Diable! I am one fool," exclaims the Gaul. "I recognize ze man now, and but for you he would be dead. I shall beg his pardon. It was one grand meestake."
Meanwhile Mustapha has come up.
Doctor John Craig is filled with a new excitement now. In his eyes the coming of this man means much. It is strange that no suspicion enters his head in connection with Mustapha. Even while he is so certain that the driver of the omnibus is in league with their enemies; that the break down is only a part of the grand scheme to obtain possession of the English girl who can pay a big ransom, he has never once connected the Arab guide with the matter.
This is all the more singular because Mustapha Cadi was on the top of the coach at the time of the wreck, and he disappeared with the driver.
It can only be accounted for by the fact that like most keen men John Craig is in the habit of relying upon his judgment in such matters, and there is something about the face of Mustapha that wins his confidence.
Then, again, there are the events of the preceding night. The courier stood by him like a Spartan hero; yes, he can be trusted.
Thus John meets the guide warmly, and a new hope immediately springs into existence, a hope born of confidence.
"What does all this mean, Mustapha Cadi? See, I have brought the agent of the stage line, but when we arrive at the scene of the wreck we find it deserted. What does it mean? Have my friends fallen into the hands of robbers?"
Mustapha immediately nods his head.
"It is so, monsieur."
"Who are they?"
"Arabs, Kabyles, Moors—all who hate the Franks, yet love money more. They are under a desperate leader, the Tiger of the Desert."
At this Monsieur Constans utters a low cry.
"He means Bab Azoun, ze terrible gate-way of death."
Mustapha again nods, and John resumes his cross-questioning with a lawyer's tact.
"Were our friends injured?"
"Not seriously. They fight well. The soldier threatens to kill all, but they do not allow him to do it."
"Brave Blunt; he deserves a Victoria cross. But where were you, Mustapha?"
The Arab hangs his face; he looks sheepish.
"I come up just when all was over. They twenty against one. It would be foolish for me to try and fight. I believe I can do better; so I watch, I follow, I learn much."
John cannot restrain his feelings. He seizes the Arab's dusky hand and shakes it with real Chicago ardor.
"Mustapha, you're a jewel. Go on. Where did you go at the time of the accident?"
"Bismallah! I was after him, the cause of it all—him, who entered into this conspiracy—the driver. Monsieur, he ran like a deer through the dark. I thought to grasp him more than once, but each time he turned and let me hug the air. But success at last."
"You got him?"
"He picked up a stone with his foot and stretched his length on the ground. Here was my opportunity. I embraced it. Both were out of breath, but I held him there, pinned to the earth. Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet."
"Did you make him confess?"
"I tried to persuade by silvery speech, but it did not meet with success. Then I turned to muscular force. Monsieur, when Abdul el Jabel saw I was in earnest, he cried out for fear, and swore by all the prophets that if I would let him live he would confess the truth."
"Good, good!" says John, pleased with the business qualities of his guide.
"Begar! it ees better zan one play," mutters the French agent.
"So I made the miserable driver confess that he had entered into an arrangement with one of the robbers to upset us between Birkadeen and Al Jezira, so that they could make the capture."
"The villain! he deserved hanging. I hope you executed Arab justice on him then and there."
Mustapha shakes his head.
"Monsieur forgets. I had given my word. An Arab will never break that. But I let him go after a few kicks, which, you see I have learned to give from the Franks. He will not go back. He now becomes an open ally of Bab Azoun, the desert tiger."
"Well—"
"Monsieur, one word more. He could not tell me all, but gave me to understand that Bab Azoun was in the employ of another party, some Frank who loves revenge."
This opens up a new vista. John is visibly agitated by the news.
"I believe I see light; the hand of Pauline Potter is behind it all."
"Monsieur, pardon."
"Well, what is it now?"
"From all he said I was inclined to believe it was a man who bought Bab Azoun."
"Yes, yes; but you see he may have been mistaken. Besides, Blunt fought like a tiger. It does not matter just now. What we want to do is to rescue them all."
"That is right."
"You came upon the scene just as these friends of mine were overpowered. Tell us what next occurred?"
"A move was made. I feared that it would be the end, for Bab Azoun and his followers usually dash into the desert when they have secured plunder, the pursuit from the French soldiers being what they fear, since the Algerian rulers have given all over into the hands of the Franks.
"Monsieur, I was surprised to see them start off on foot. I was more than pleased to find that they took a chemin de travers or what you call a country cross road that leads to the deserted mines or caves of Metidja. This told me they were encamped there, and I heard one man telling another they would not leave until morning, as they had other business in hand."
At this John plucks up courage. The thought of Lady Ruth being miles away, mounted on a fast horse and speeding toward some desert fastness of the robbers, was one to almost paralyze his brain, for the chances of his doing anything to help her in such a case were few and far between.
"What can we do, Mustapha? We are bold and determined, still we are only three against an army. The odds are great."
"Ah! monsieur, it might be beyond our power to overcome the fighters of Bab Azoun by force, but there are other ways."
"Thank Heaven, yes."
"The battle is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift."
"He speaks like ze prophet," murmurs Monsieur Constans, gazing upon the sublime face and magnificent figure of the Arab courier with something that partakes of the nature of awe.
"True, we are three—they are forty. If we venture to attack we will meet death. That is very good; death comes to all men, and the Koran teaches us that the brave who die in battle, with their faces toward the foe, are transported immediately to paradise. That is why the followers of Mohammed never know fear in a battle. But if we die, what then becomes of those in the hands of Bab Azoun?"
"Ay, what indeed?" mournfully.
"Therefore, to save them, monsieur, we must try to live."
"It ees good; we will live," echoes the Gaul.
"And rescue the prisoners of the desert tiger."
"How far away are these deserted mines?"
"About a mile."
"Among the hills on this side of the plain known as Metidja?"
"It is even so, illustrious Frank, on a line with that snowy peak, Djara Djura, which towers above the Atlas Mountains."
"Your plan, Mustapha—speak, for I know you have been considering it."
The courier places his hand on his chest and bows. Praise delights even the tympanum of an Arab, and flattery gains favors in the most unexpected quarter.
"Ciel! we are in the agony of suspense," declares the Frenchman, never once taking his eyes off the Arab's face.
"Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. I am but as a grain of sand on the sea-shore. Let the praise be his."
With this preliminary, Mustapha Cadi gives his plan of action briefly.
It was his intention to go to Al Jezira, to seek the French commandant at the barracks known as the Kasbah, and give him the information concerning Bab Azoun.
It has long been the ambition of the various French generals stationed in Algeria to kill or capture the notorious desert prince who for years has defied their power, suddenly making a bold dash upon some point, and, leaving smoking ruins in his wake, as mysteriously vanish.
Again and again have they sought to track his band over the plains, along the desert and into the wild recesses of the mountains, but it has always turned out a failure. Bab Azoun, on his native heath, laughs them to scorn, and once laid an ambuscade in which the soldiers suffered badly.
Hence, it can be set down as certain that the military governor of Algiers will be delighted with a chance to surround the tiger of the desert, and his band, so close to the city—that as soon as the news is carried to him he will fit out a secret expedition against the enemy.
Now that there are three of them instead of one, it is not necessary that all should go. A single messenger is enough.
Whom shall it be?
Fate decrees.
They look to Monsieur Constans. Mustapha is needed to serve as a guide to the old mines, and Doctor Chicago ought to be on hand, because it is to rescue his friends they go.
Even the French agent recognizes this fact.
"Parbleu! Monsieur Craig, it ees right I should go. Besides, I am well acquaint wiz ze commandant. Zen let us consider ze business as settle. I sall away to ze Kasbah, and zen in due time look for ze swoop of ze French zouaves. Begar! if Emile Constans may have a hand in ze capture of zat deevil, ze reward will allow him to visit ze adorable Paris again. I am off. I sall let nothing stop me. Allons!"
With a majestic wave of the hand he turns his back on them and runs.
They stand and listen.
Plainly can they hear him plunging on through the darkness in the direction of the spot where the old stage was left. Once, twice he measures his length on the ground, only to scramble to his feet, and uttering choice Parisian invectives, continue his flight.
"Now he reaches the stage," says John.
Then comes the crack of a whip.
"They are off. Jupiter! what a noise he makes! How the old stage rattles and bangs. The man is raving mad to plunge over such ground at a reckless pace like that. He will surely meet the same fate, sooner or later, that befell the old vehicle we were in. He only thinks of the reward; of a great holiday lasting six months, on the boulevards and in the cafes of Paris. Sometimes there's a slip between—Great Scott! he's over!" as there comes a grand smash and then utter silence.
Mustapha appears uneasy.
"Monsieur, it is their worst fault; they are too hot-blooded. Not so the English. He is dead."
"Hark!"
Now they hear the clatter of a horse's hoofs; the sound heads toward Algiers.
"Has that horse a rider, Mustapha?" asks John, ready to rest his decision upon the trained ear of the Arab.
"It is even so. You hear yourself; he runs too regularly to be loose."
As he speaks they catch a cry from the quarter where the horse runs, a cry as of a rider urging his steed on.
"That is enough. Monsieur Constans is on the way to the Kasbah. Now we can turn our heads in the direction of the mines of Metidja."
"It is well. Follow me, monsieur," says the courier, gravely.
"We may need this," holding up the lantern.
"It would be dangerous to carry it, for the eyes of Bab Azoun's men are like owls'. Besides, monsieur, we do not need it. Another lantern will give us all the light Allah desires."
As he speaks he points toward the east, where, just peeping above the hill-top, is a golden rim like a monster eye that is about to be fastened upon the earth below.
"The moon; that is a blessing. I accept it as an augury of success. Mustapha, I am ready. Lead on, and may the God of battles decide for the right."