The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones

noted, too, a cloud of dust coming toward him from the north, betokening other riders on the road to Udjde. Since he had a straight story to tell and naught to fear, he waited, meaning to join them and ask protection as far as Udjde. He perceived that no caravan was approaching, but a group of horsemen, perhaps a detachment going to join the army.

      Then, as he watched, the curiosity of Spence changed to incredulous amazement. Here were a score of horsemen, brilliantly garbed, and amid the foremost rode one clad in a plain white burnoose. Against this white burnoose, at the throat, was a glitter—there could be only one man in all the world with the effrontery to display the collar of the Golden Fleece against the garb of a renegade.

      It was Ripperda beyond question. Ripperda, and with him his bodyguard of renegades—and riding to Udjde!

      CHAPTER VIII

      “I’ll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I’ll see some issue of my spiteful execrations!”

      Doctor Shaw did not regain control of his terrified horse until he pounded up alongside the two Spahis, who held between them the reins of Mistress Betty.

      Vainly had she ordered them to return and fight, vainly threatened them, vainly entreating them, all but swearing at them in an agony of supplication. They, dour, bearded Turks, shrugged their shoulders and pricked westward. So when Shaw came up with the three, and the girl saw that he was alone, she turned upon him fiercely.

      “Where is Captain Spence?”

      “When I left he was still fighting.”

      The divine gave no explanation of his desertion.

      “Oh!” cried the girl. “Oh—coward that you are, to leave him! Shame upon you!”

      The Spahis grinned in the moonlight. They did not understand the words, but had no need to. Shaw, who still carried his naked rapier in his hand, wiped and sheathed it.

      “My dear madam,” he said, the cool stiffness of his voice giving no hint of the tears that were upon his cheeks, “Patrick Spence is very dear to me. But it is I who bear the letter to the Governor of Udjde. It is I who am charged with a commission involving the fate of empires and of religions—”

      “And you save your craven neck for that reason!” burst forth the girl, bitterly.

      “Even so, and it pleases you,” rejoined Shaw’s emotional voice. “Unless I reach Udjde, our friend Mulai Ali falls into a trap back yonder, and receives no aid. In this event Pasha Ripperda remains sole ruler of Morocco. In such case, the Barbary States combine against Spain, who will be alienated from her allies; and the Moors will begin a holy war for the reconquest of the peninsula. It is very logical that—”

      “A murrain on your logic!” snapped Mistress Betty. “Patrick Spence is worth more than all your fine plans and schemes!”

      “So speaks the woman, mulier saeva,” reflected Dr. Shaw. “The cruel woman who recks empire less than the little finger of a man! Truly says Clemens Alexandrinus that—”

      His voice ended, however, in a choked silence and a gulp. Here, perhaps, Mistress Betty perceived that in him was a greater tenderness than appeared, and guessed that his desertion of Spence might have other reason than cowardice or logic, for after this she rode on in silence.

      They rode into Udjde in the morning with a great and haughty shouting on the part of the Spahis, and demands to see the amel immediately. Udjde, amid its wide orchards and olive groves, the most fertile oasis in all the Nagad steppe, opened itself to them by way of the Bab el Khemis.

      Amid a continually growing concourse of horsemen, curious townfolk, and men of the famed Barbary tribes, they rode to the kasbah in the south quarter of the town. Thirty minutes later a hundred men of the ancient Lamta tribe were spurring madly eastward along the caravan road to the Cisterns.

      Dr. Shaw found himself and Mistress Betty given commodious quarters in the citadel and hospitably entertained by the amel, or governor—an old, hoary Moor who had managed to live long by dint of guile and not too high ambitions.

      During most of the day the worthy doctor rested. Toward evening he was summoned to dine with the governor, with word that news of Mulai Ali was expected at any time. Mistress Betty, being a woman, was forced to remain in her own apartment with the female slaves allotted her.

      Garbed in clean linen, Shaw was conducted to the private quarters of the governor, whom he found alone. While a bountiful repast was served, the two fell to discussing affairs in Morocco. The governor was certain that once Mulai Ali could get into the country his star would quickly blaze above that of his cousin Abdallah.

      “All men turn to the new master,” he said sagely, stroking his white beard with his left hand, while his right plunged into the food. “El Magrib is ripe for revolt—but Abdallah is strong, and stronger yet is Ripperda, in whose hands is the power.”

      “If Mulai Ali comes will you declare for him?” asked Shaw.

      “Yes, and my warriors will ride to Fez with him. Know you who that renegade was—him with the red beard, whom you called Barbarroja?”

      Shaw shook his head. The old governor chuckled as at a good jest.

      “He serves the Sherif Abdallah and carries with him the royal signet. And the other of whom you told me this morning, the man in the black burnoose, Gholam Mahmoud, is the agent of Pasha Ripperda. He, he! No wonder those twain laid in ambush for Mulai Ali!”

      Before Shaw could reply to this disclosure—indeed, for a moment he sat agape at hearing the truth about Barbarroja—a slave hurriedly entered and knelt. In his hands was a pigeon, which he presented to his master. Knowing that the force sent to the Cisterns had taken carrier pigeons, the quicker to inform the governor of what took place there, Shaw leaned forward anxiously as a tiny roll was taken from beneath the bird’s wing.

      The old Moor opened it, read a scrawl of Arabic, and turned pale.

      “God, God, and God the Compassionate, the Merciful!” he ejaculated. “This is from a friend in Adjerud. It warns me that Pasha Ripperda is on his way here with his bodyguard of renegades. He should arrive tomorrow.”

      Shaw gave a start.

      “Ripperda—with his bodyguard! No troops?”

      The old Moor shook his head. He was extremely agitated; the very fact of Ripperda’s coming had thrown him into consternation.

      At this instant a second slave dashed in and presented a second bird. With trembling fingers the governor detached the missive. He read it, then crumpled the thin paper in his hand and sat staring before him, like a man who sees utter disaster ahead. In reality, his fertile old brain was scheming and planning, but Shaw did not know this.

      “What is it?” demanded the divine eagerly. “News from Mulai Ali?”

      For a long moment the Moor made no response. He stared straight before him, as though the question had been unheard. Shaw, unable to bear the suspense, reached out for the paper, but the Moor hastily tore it across.

      “Catch Ripperda when he comes!” exclaimed Dr. Shaw swiftly. “You see your chance? Catch him at the city gates, capture him, raise the flag of Mulai Ali—”

      The old Moor turned, lifted his head, regarded Shaw steadily.

      “Ali,” he said slowly, “is dead. The redbeard has done his work. The troops reached the place too late—Ali had been stricken by a bullet.”

      Shaw quivered under the blow. Then, silently, he resumed his seat and folded his hands on the table. Mulai Ali dead! Everything was lost. He did not observe that, while speaking, the eyelids of the Moor had fluttered slightly—an involuntary lowering of the lids, which is nature’s signal of a lie issuing from the lips.

      Swiftly the governor clapped his hands. A slave brought writing materials, and the old Moor dashed off several notes, which he sealed and dispatched. Then the captain of the troops, a splendid Berber of the hills,