# Boys' Life/Volume 1/Number 1/For His Vow's Sake

One of the Finest Boys' Stories Ever Written
FOR HIS VOW'S SAKE
A Wild Dash to a Strange Land
By WARREN KILLINGWORTH
GOOD-NIGHT, Guest."
"Good-night, Mr. Greville."
"Make the most of it," continued the latter, "for this may be your very last chanec of a sound slumber for many a month."
Cyril Guest laughed—the "don't care" laugh of one who seeks to hide misgivings with the air of being perfectly at case.
Through Cyril Guest's excited brain as, following his companion's advice, he vainly strove to compose himself for sleep, surged in endless panorama the scenes through which he had passed since leaving America, London, Dover, Calais, Paris, Berlin, Warsaw, Moscow—these were the principal milestones of the weary journey.
The travelers were still in the train on the Trans-Siberian Railway, within a few hours' journey of Krasnoiarsk, whence it was their intention to cross Siberia, bound for the Mongolian frontier. Although in a sense companions, the two travelers had been thrown together in a manner somewhat out of the ordinary.
Horace Greville, mining expert, was on a propecting tour. He was a man used to roughing it, and this was his third trip to these regions. Cyril Guest, on the other hand, was a mere youth—not yet eighteen (though his looks belied his age). This was his first long journey, and his objective—unknown as yet to the other—bordered on the romantic.
Happening to hear that Greville was going out to Mongolia, Cyril had, after some negotiations, been allowed as a matter of business to accompany him. Oftentimes in the course of his journeyings so far Cyril had been tempted to take Greville into his confidence, but had hung back, fearing the effect of the disclosure on so matter-of-fact and business-like a traveler.
Never was he more inclined to do so, however, than now, when the first part of the journey was nearing its close.
Opening his eyes with a start as the train, running over a badly laid bit of the line, bade fair to jump the metals, Cyril encountered Horace Greville's good-humored questioning glance in his direction.
"Sleep out of the question, eh?" said Greville.
"Rather! Don’t you find it so?"
"Yes, the nearer we get to Krasnoiarsk the more I seem to get the fidgets, though the plain matter-of-fact of it is that I've got you on my mind."
"Me?" ejaculated Cyril, in well-feigned surprise.
"It’s no business of mine, I know; but, all the same. I'm simply eaten up with curiosity as to whatever can have induced you to undertake this journey."
"The bargain was that you should ask no questions, wasn't it?" urged Cyril.
"I admit it," replied Greville; "but look here, Guest. You and I are pledged to one another's company for some months. As one who has journeyed far and wide in his time, and speaking from experience, I must say that in such circumstances as ours mutual confidence is a benefit in more ways than one."
"Oh, I agree there," exclaimed Cyril.
"You know my circumstances exactly," continued Greville. "I'm a mining expert—more or less a free lance—on a prospecting tour. You also know the company I represent."
"I'm a free lance quite," answered Cyril, "journeying absolutely on my own account."
"So I have understood all along; but why does your objective demand so much secrecy?"
"To ensure your not backing out at the last moment," replied Cyril.
"How mysterious you are," replied the other. "Are you a member of some secret society? If so, look out in Russia."
Cyril laughed merrily.
"Oh, no," said he, "at least, there's nothing political; though yours is, after all, not such a bad guess."
"Having proceeded so far," continued Greville, "and if you feel you can trust me with your secret, why not take me into your confidence?"
"I intended doing so," replied Cyril, "the moment we had reached a point whence any idea of turning back was entirely out of the question."
"You're pretty determined," was Greville's comment, "but surely we now have proceeded sufficiently on our journey for your purpose."
"I think so." said Cyril. "To begin with, I was educated at Helmscote College, intended for one of the big professions. The sudden death of my father interrupted my course of study, and I never returned. Casting about for an employment suited to my tastes, I had almost decided on making for the Northwest, when one morning my attention was attracted by a paragraph in a newspaper. It seems that in the 'Agony' column of the Times there had appeared an advertisement written in Chinese.”
"That was a novelty," ejaculated Greville, "and I suppose some enterprising journalist had taken the trouble to get it translated?"
"That's precisely what happened," replied Cyril.
"And," continued Greville, "what might have been the wording?"
"I can't give you the Chinese version of it," replied Cyril; "but in plain English it read thus: 'I declare—Tobolensk-Mongolia—communica​tions, if any, Li Chung, Hertcho.'"
"'Agony' column advertisements," said Greville, "make extraordinary reading sometimes, if one doesn’t possess the key to them; but what, may I ask, has this to do with your coming out?"
"Everything." replied Cyril "But for that advertisement I should very much more likely have gone to Canada."
"Are you mad, Guest?"
"Not yet," replied Cyril imperturbably. "I may be later on if, after taking all this trouble and going to so much expense, the whole affair turns out a hoax. Such a contingency is unlikely, however, for I have ascertained that the order for the advertisement reached New York in a round-about way from Mongolia."
"Then you know the meaning of the advertisement?" ejaculated Greville, brightening.
"Up to a point, yes."
"You're an extraordinary chap, Guest. Explain yourself, for goodness' sake. You've roused my curiosity no end."
"What I know, replied Cyril, "is, after all, not very much to the purpose. At Helmscote there existed a sort of secret society to which most of the students belonged, each member being required on oath to go to the rescue or otherwise assist any of the fraternity who might get into trouble of any kind."
"Had you a secret code then?" ejaculated Greville. "A cipher, or anything of that sort?"
"No."
"Then," said Greville, "how was the idea to be worked out?"
"Very simply. All one had to do was to advertise in the Times, using the two words, 'I declare,' and giving an address."
"Tell me the wording again."
"'I declare,'" repeated Cyril, "'Tobolensk—Mongolia'—"
"Haven't you any idea of the identity of the advertiser?"
"Not the least in the world."
"Wasn't there something else?"
"Yes, 'Communications (if any), Li Chung, Hertcho.'"
"Happen to have a Chinese member of your community at any time?"
"Not to my knowledge; but then, you see, the Helmscote Freemasonry had been in existence generations before my time. There is, therefore, no telling who the man may be."
"The latter part of the advertisement may be only a blind."
"That's precisely what struck me on first reading it," said Cyril.
"And so." continued Greville, "you consider the thoughtless oath of a schoolboy sufficiently binding on you to undertake a long and hazardous journey in obedience to the vow?"
"Not exactly so," replied Cyril. "Inclination went a very long way in my case. Mongolia or Canada were one to me. I meant traveling and seeing things, you understand."
"Then," ejaculated Greville, "that was your inducement in looking out for a man who knew the country you wanted to explore and happened to be travelling thither?"
"Yes, that's so. What, by the way, was your impression at our first interview?"
"Oh, I imagined you were just an adventure-struck youth yearning for a change and determined upon a novel experience. You will remember I tried to dissuade you from going.’
"But supposing I had let on what I was after—what then?"
"Impossible to say," replied Greville, "the adventure sounds enticing enough as told on the Trans-Siberian Railway, but there's no telling how it would have struck me in New York."
"It is no end of a lark, isn't it, traversing two continents on such an errand?"
"It may turn out a very expensive game, Guest, though I admit the attraction."
"What are your apprehensions?"
"As indefinite as your mission. You ought to get through all right, and I'll assist you all I can You have one great advantage in not knowing the advertiser, nor, let us suppose, he you. Supposing, for instance, on arrival you discover the whole thing to be a trick, or, at worst a plot—you would naturally prefer to be out of it."
"Yes, that's so," said Cyril with as much eagerness as he could command, adding heartily, "I'm glad you'll stick by me."
Greville's comments had set Cyril thinking, and the latter part of this remark was intensely sincere.
There was one thing he had omitted to tell Greville, that being the formula understood by the brotherhood as indicating that someone was answering the summons.
The formula itself was unimportant, what was more to the point being the fact of Cyril having despatched a cablegram just before leaving New York. The message reading "I follow suit,—Guest, New York.—Via Krasnoiarsk," would have the effect of nullifying Greville's suggestion, and for the remainder of the journey Cyril kept wondering what his companion would think of his indiscretion, and whether it would make any difference.
In view of Greville's remarks, the thought of that cable message speeding to its destination heralding his approach made Cyril particularly uneasy in his mind.
CHAPTER II
Forty-eight hours after the travelers had left the railroad a lively scene was enacted outside a certain hotel in Krasnoiarsk.
The question at issue was the purchase of a sledge. Greville figuring as buyer, while between him and the owner—a sheep-skin clad moujik (Russian peasant)—a battle royal waged. The driving of the bargain amused Greville, who played his man as an angler will a cunning fish who strives to break his line; but the long-drawn negotiations exasperated Cyril, who was in a desperate hurry to take the road.
"Why can't you pay him what he asks and have done with it?" he cried, unable any longer to control his impatience.
The moujik nervously glanced toward the speaker, for there was a savage ring in the young American's voice, and immediately poured forth in voluble Russian a score of reasons why he could not abate his price one kopeck.
To this appeal Cyril, being unacquainted ​with the language, necessarily turned a deaf ear.
Greville only laughed.
"You can't unduly hasten matters in this country," he remarked, "try as you may."
"But," protested the other, "this is the sixth peasant who has interviewed us during the past two days, not including the man who knocked me up in the small hours."
"But this fellow," replied Greville, "has got just the kind of thing we want. His price is only thirty roubles—just half what others asked for ramshackle affairs half a century old."
"Never mind an old rouble or two," urged Cyril, "if you're satisfied with the sledge. This
"He was engaged in overhauling their baggage"
hanging around day after day is maddening."
The hurried dialogue, closely followed by the moujik, who seemed to divine by voice and gesture what was passing, resulted in an abatement arrived at on the principle of splitting the difference, and the seller, more than satisfied, went off to fetch the sledge.
Meantime a messenger was despatched to summon the man with whom they had previously bargained for horses, and, as a consequence of Cyril having forced the pace, in less than an hour the sledge stood ready, packed with the baggage and a store of provisions for the journey. Into it both travelers tumbled with alacrity, and in a few minutes more the emschik (or native driver), haying mounted is driving perch, was urging on his horses down the road toward the frozen river with weird cries and much cracking of a knout-like whip.
Then, and not until then, did Cyril breathe freely again.
Krasnoiarsk, which at one time had seemed an impassable barrier, lay behind them, and the unknown future was being whirled toward the travelers at the rate of twenty versts to the hour.
From beneath the hood of the sledge little could be seen save the flanks of the plunging horses and the muffled figure of the yemschik; little heard beyond the occasional unearthly cries to which the latter gave vent as a means of maintaining the pace.
Had either of the travelers been in the mood for much talking at the outset of the journey, they would have found conversation difficult to sustain, what with the swaying motion of the sledge, the continual jolting over rough ice, and the before-mentioned distractions on the driver's part.
As a matter of fact they could do little else but hang on for dear life while occupying their minds with individual reflections.
Thus was the first stage of fifteen miles accomplished while yet the day was young—the second, third, and fourth.
By this time both travelers began to experience the numbing effects of the intense cold, and whereas at the previous stages Cyril had refused to leave the sledge, and scouted the idea ​of stopping any longer than was necessary for changing horses, he was now only too ready to seek shelter where their yemschik had pulled up.
As Cyril rolled out of the sledge, staggering beneath the weight of his furs and reeling from the effect of cold in his half-frozen limbs, his eyes rested upon another sledge which stood, horseless, outside the log-built post-house.
"Another traveler on the road, eh?" he remarked to Greville as together they entered the house. "Wonder whether he’s bound north or south."
The traveler in question was seated on a rough bench by the brick stove, which occupied one side of the room and gave out so fierce a heat that the new arrivals were only too glad to throw off their heavy fur pelisses, gloves and head-gear.
While the post-house keeper and his wife hurriedly prepared a hot mess for the Englishmen, the latter had leisure to examine the stranger who sat beside the stove.
A glance was sufficient to denote a nationality south of the frontier had not Greville taken occasion to whisper the word "Mongol.”
"So I supposed,” said Cyril under breath. "Rum-looking customer, isn't he?"
The post-house keeper—a Russian moujik—gave a whimsical glance in the same direction as he placed before his guests the welcome meal, having despatched which Cyril announced his intention of proceeding while the daylight lasted.
But here an insurmountable difficulty arose; for the Mongol, it was discovered, had bespoken the only available horses, and their yemschik refused point blank to drive further without a relay.
There was nothing for it, therefore, but to arrange to pass the night where they were and arrange for an advance early next morning.
During the colloquy the Mongol huddled by the stove, showing no more interest in what was going forward than if he had been carved out of stone. Whether or not he understood it was impossible to guess, though Cyril fancied he detected a gleam of mirth flitting across the immobile yellow face at the plight in which the American Excellencies, so eager to proceed, were placed by the fact of this non-descript stranger having forestalled them.
In another moment he rose from his crouching position, shambled rather than walked across the apartment, and, entering his sledge, which was now horsed and ready, shaped a northward course up the frozen river.
Cyril and his companion watched him depart up the track they had just left. He engaged no yemschik, but drove himself, and that in a fashion betokening an intimate knowledge of Siberian post-horses.
"Hang the yellow-skinned interloper," was Cyril's comment on re-entering the post-house.
"Perhaps he'll get frozen to death for his trouble," was Greville's grim rejoinder.
Cyril shivered at the thought.
"I don't envy him his lonely ride in the gathering dusk," he replied; "night falls quicker in these latitudes than I imagined."
Accommodations at the lonely post-house beside the frozen river were limited to the advantage of a separate sleeping apartment tor the American travellers.
Their yemschik departed soon after nightfall to quarters provided by a relative in the village.
With him out of the place all connection with Krasnoiarsk and the outside world seemed severed, and a feeling of desolation ensued which the natural reserve of their host and his wife did not lend to dissipate; consequently the night was young when Cyril and his companion sought the boarded-on partition which was to serve them for a bed-chamber.
Wrapped in his furs, with an immense sleigh-rug for extra covering, Cyril was soon curled up on the bench. Not until he lay down did he realize how fatigued he was. Soon he dropped into a dreamless sleep, his last impression being that of his companion, who sat upon the largest of their kit bags—back against the wall and head already drowsily nodding. He intended rousing Greville, but sleep overcame him and he remembered nothing more until awakened by an unaccountable impression of something wrong.
Opening his eyes, a twinkling light moving hither and thither first attracted his attention. The light in question was so swallowed up by the pitchy darkness that at first he imagined he was dreaming. Then the sound of Greviile's unnatural breathing smote his ears, and the next instant his roving glance became riveted upon a face lit up by a flickering candle flame.
It was that of the Mongol they had seen crouched by the stove on first entering the post-house!
How had he got back, and what in fortune's name was he doing there?
As Cyril's eyes became more accustomed to the dark shadows in the room he noted with chilling dread that between the teeth of this midnight interloper a knife was gripped whose blade glittered in the candle light, and further that he was engaged in overhauling their baggage.
Why did not Greville stir?
Even as the question arose a suspicion that the nightcap of vodka he had drunk before turning in had been drugged entered his mind. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he stirred upon the improvised couch. The Mongol looked up, and their eyes met.
At the same moment the light was extinguished, but not before Cyril saw a yellow hand grasp the haft of that wicked-looking knife, and became conscious of a figure stealing upon him in the darkness.
In an instant, calling loudly upon Greville, he leaped to his feet and threw with all the force he could command upon his advancing foe the heavy rug which had covered him.
A muffled curse in an uncouth tongue told him his aim had been a true one, and Cyril, still standing upright, fumbled desperately with his feet for the revolver which had lain beneath his pillow.
His foot touched it.
Uttering a cry of delight, he stooped down; but hardly had his fingers closed upon the cold steel of the barrel, when a pair of sinewy arms enveloped him from behind and dragged him backwards.
(To be Continued.)