The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
Shaw thrust back and forward again, leaped away, stood on guard. It was all in a flash.
Barbarroja moved not. He stared at Shaw with an expression of dismayed consternation. Then, unexpectedly, the Toledo dropped from his hand. Across his breast surged a sudden wide flare of crimson. His knees crumpled; he plunged forward on his face and lay quiet.
“Whether he died from the point,” murmured Shaw, panting, “or from sheer amazement that I pinked him—’tis all one. The result, logically enough.”
From the three ruffians came a wild, hoarse yell—a shout of mingled rage, despair, and fright. They broke and ran for the horses. With a rush, a scramble, a flood of hot oaths, they mounted and took to flight. Dr. Shaw gazed after them, wide-eyed. Then he felt the hand of Mistress Betty seize his arm—heard her voice crying out at him:
“Look! Look—it is he—Spence!”
Shaw whirled about. There, upon the road, he beheld a cloud of dust, and far ahead of the dust three riders already drawing close—the foremost of them Spence.
An instant later Spence was reining up beside them, while his men whirled on in pursuit of the three escaping rogues.
“Good!” cried Spence, exultantly shaking hands. “The old governor scented something amiss in your departure—he said I might catch up with you, so I came along. Shaw, what’s been going on here? Why did you leave town, Mistress Betty?”
There was a moment of hurried explanations as all spoke at once. Then the girl seized upon the story, and Spence heard of what had taken place. Soberly he nodded at mention of Mulai Ali’s death.
“Aye, we heard of his death—Ripperda was carried off his feet with delight. He is a gracious scoundrel, that Ripperda! Hello, Shaw, what are you up to?”
They turned. Dr. Shaw was muttering over the Toledo, which he had picked up. Now he lifted his face to them, his eyes gleaming with delight.
“Look!” he cried. “The rascal told the truth! This graving says that the blade was made at Toledo, in the year 368 of the Moslem calendar, by special order of the great Almansur of Cordova! To think of such a sweet tool—a historic relic—eight hundred years of age.”
“Thrust it into your scabbard and let us be gone—with congratulations on your victory, doctor! A noble fight. But Ripperda is awaiting you, and so keep your wits about you.”
Shaw stared with fallen jaw. Ripperda!
“Then look to yourself, Patrick!” he cried suddenly. “This Barbarroja told me that it is known you carry the casket behind your saddle! Gholam Mahmoud knows it.”
Spence broke into another hearty laugh.
“Nay, let him search!” he cried gaily. “When I met with Ripperda, yesterday, I threw the box into the river. The box is gone, Mulai Ali is dead—there is an end to all intrigue! Here come three horsemen who rode with me.”
The horsemen, among whom were some of Ripperda’s bodyguard, were returning. At the saddle of the three foremost were three bloody heads. Steel, says the proverb, is swifter than judgment.
Thus the three, reunited, rode back into Udjde. If Patrick Spence thought that he was done with intrigue, however, he was far wrong, for Mulai Ali, though wounded and hidden away by the old governor, was not dead at all.
CHAPTER X
“He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it!”
Pasha Ripperda sat in the justice hall of the kasbah and enjoyed his triumph. With the death of Mulai Ali, the one external danger that menaced him was gone. This thin man with the haunted eye was the supreme ruler of western Africa; the combined Barbary armies and fleets obeyed his orders—Egypt was in alliance with him.
Inwardly, gout rioted in his blood. As he sat and gave orders and heard reports, agony twisted him. Around him were his famous renegades, bitter, cruel men, devoted to him. And they could not save him from the devils that dwelt in his blood.
Messengers were dispatched to the sherif with news of Mulai Ali’s death—though the body had not been found—and Ripperda ordered a litter made ready that night, for he was returning swiftly to the army.
Dr. Shaw, Patrick Spence, and Mistress Betty entered the hall.
Though the effort made his face livid, Ripperda arose and tendered the girl the pitiful ghost of that bow whose courtly grace had once been famous from Vienna to Madrid. Then he staggered and fell back among the cushions.
In the eyes of the girl lay pity. Dr. Shaw, after one cold bow, stood gazing at the man with no evidence of feeling. The shrewd doctor was sensible that he faced an enemy.
Ripperda began to speak in English, and suddenly the inner man shone forth. That tongue of Ripperda’s had done incredible feats, and had not lost its cunning. He ignored Shaw for the moment and addressed the girl, whose story he had learned from Spence on the road.
“You have naught to fear under my protection, mistress,” he concluded with that wan and haunted smile of his. “I shall take you to the coast and place you aboard he first Christian ship available; I have promised the same to Captain Spence. And, lady, I have heard much regarding your skill with the stars. I would talk with you later in the day regarding these augurs of destiny. This gentlemen, I take it, is the famous Dr. Shaw, of Algiers?”
Shaw bowed again, assenting dryly. Ripperda eyed him, smiled, assumed a blunt frankness.
“What say you—shall we consign the past to oblivion, sir? I know in whose company you have journeyed; but as our Spanish proverb say, ‘The dead have no friends.’ How say you?”
Shaw chuckled.
“It is also said that a living dog is better than a dead lion. I pay you my compliments for your generosity, admit my culpability, and pray your grace.”
Ripperda, generous enough in victory, uttered a frank laugh.
“Greatness knows how to punish and how to forgive. I pardon you and welcome you, for your erudition is famed. I pray that you will join me for the noon meal; meantime, your late quarters are again at your disposal.”
With a brief bow Shaw accepted the dismissal. The three were conducted to the quarters so recently vacated, and there, with the girl’s permission, the two men lighted pipes and talked. Spence told what had happened to him, and how he had flung the leather box into the river and joined Ripperda.
“Ripperda was friendly enough,” he concluded. “He knew all about our friendship with Mulai Ali, bore no grudge, and welcomed me. A most amazing man!”
“Very!” said Shaw dryly. “Before Ceuta, he had two Spanish spies impaled on the same stake one day, which amazed even the Moors! Mistake not, Patrick; we play with fire.”
Spence shrugged.
“Mistress Betty,” he said, “your predictions to Mulai Ali scarce jibe with the fate that has befallen him! How explain you this discrepancy?”
“I explain nothing, Mr. Spence,” she said. “I am more interested in knowing what is to become of us. Will Ripperda keep his promises, think you?”
“He takes us to the coast tonight,” answered Spence. “Yes, it—it—”
As he spoke he had glanced through the window, which overlooked the courtyard. His voice died away. Suddenly he turned, darted to the door, flung it open. In the doorway stood one of Ripperda’s bodyguard, pistol on arm. The man, a Frenchman, did not budge.
“No one is permitted to leave,” he said, and grinned. “By order of the pasha.”
Spence slammed the door again. “Down there—Gholam Mahmoud, talking with the soldiers! The presence of that man bodes us ill.”
Dr. Shaw started.
“The man in black—Ripperda’s confidential