# The House of the Falcon/Chapter 11
### CHAPTER XI EDITH RIDES ALONE

In the varied collection of guidebooks and tourist schedules in the possession of Miss Catherine Rand there had been one pamphlet that described briefly the location, climate, picturesqueness, points of interest, population, and means of travel of the mountain city of Kashgar.
Four kingdoms, said the guidebook in florid phrases, met at the center of the Himalayas. But the makers of maps hesitated over the Himalayas. They were a no man's land. Only in Kashgaria did the slovenly, quilted, musket-bearing soldiers of the Celestial Republic emerge from guardhouses of mud and cry "Halt!"
But the guidebook did say that there were two Kashgars, two cities: the old and the new, some five miles apart. In the new were progressive Chinese merchants, silk-clad magistrates, and the Taotai with all his pomp and power; likewise Samarkand and Punjabi traders, two isolated but indefatigable British missionaries, and even a native officer of British India who acted as a makeshift chargé d'affaires.
Edith Rand had not seen the guidebook. She was ignorant of the nature of the two towns of Kashgar. Iskander of Tahir would have said that destiny drew her to the older city, away from the men of her own race.
​To tell the truth, Edith came to the crossroads leading to the two towns and chose the walled town swiftly—swiftly because she feared pursuit, and because the wall suggested to the girl, who was not acquainted with the vagaries of architecture in the Orient, more of a sanctum than the rambling streets of the modern Kashgar.
Not that she fancied, even in her agitation, that the men of the caravan were immediately behind her. Experience had taught Edith the utmost speed of the powerful Bactrian camels, and the length of time needed to propel, beat, and curse the protesting beasts into momentum; and Iskander's horse, even if the Arab had set out at once on her track, was tired. The white stallion was fleet of gait. The high-peaked saddle afforded the girl a rough pommel for her knee.
Her spirits rose as rider and horse swept downhill through broken brush, past cypress clumps tranquil in the quiet of evening, into the dust haze that hung over the sandy expanse, with its spots of verdure lining rough canals.
The beat of the white stallion's hoofs struck an echo of joy in Edith's heart. She was free! Surely, there would be somebody in Kashgar to appeal to for protection from Iskander—local authorities, perhaps even Arthur Rand.
They had passed outlying huts by the canals where ragged children stood at gaze, peering through the soft dust which is ever in the air of Kashgar. The stallion's hoofs left a trail of denser dust. Now, he slowed obstinately to a walk, panting and grinding at the bit.
Edith urged him on under an archway through the wall of the town. They pounded over a ramshackle ​wooden bridge which spanned the ancient moat under the wall. And a myriad smells assailed horse and rider. Edith grimaced and the stallion fought for his head.
It was by then the last afterglow of evening. Purple and velvety crimson overspread the sky. Stars glimmered into being and slender minarets uprose against the vista of distant mountains. There was a great quiet in the atmosphere; but in the streets of the old city of Kashgar pandemonium reigned.
Into a narrow alley, flanked with canopies stretched across the odorous fronts of booths and stalls, the horse paced protesting. Figures stepped aside reluctantly, only to hasten after. Glancing back, the girl saw that a crowd was following her—a crowd made up of motley and grotesque forms: smocked, wizened Chinamen; sheepskin-clad, swaggering youths, hideously degenerate of face; bulky women with giant, gray headdresses; half-naked urchins—all shrilling and chuckling in a dozen tongues and with a hundred gestures.
Laden donkeys pressed against her knees. She heard the curses of the donkeys' owners. Peering about for sign of a clean and European-looking house, she saw only square gray and brown huts of dried mud with some loftier edifices of blank stone walls.
A yelling lama, beating about him with a heavy staff, his body grotesquely dressed in white and black squares of cloth with a peaked cap of brightest orange, pushed her horse back, staring at her with a louder yell of surprise. Behind him grunted and squealed a line of laden camels, tied nose to rump. Dust swelled and swathed all in the alley.
In a fury of irritation at the camels, the white ​stallion backed obstinately against the open front of a structure covered with grass matting from which lights gleamed. In the reflection, Edith could see a leprous beggar mouthing at her.
"Baksheesh—plentee baksheesh. O my God! Baksheesh. O my God!"
This parrotlike ritual emerging from lips half eaten away from the toothless mouth was his one stock in trade. Perhaps this unfortunate plied his trade solely with the missionaries. But in Edith's appearance, he sensed the opportunity of a declining life.
No!" she cried, motioning him away frenziedly. "No baksheesh." To the crowd she appealed eagerly. "English! Where are the English? Don't you understand? Does any one speak English? Sahib log!"
A Chinese merchant of the higher ranks would undoubtedly have gone to Edith's help, from various motives—perhaps from the instinctive good manners of his race. A Punjabi would have defended the girl against a mob, so strong is the bond between Briton and Indian. Even a groups of Afghans might have assisted her boldly, enjoying the excellent pretext for beating the despised Sarts and Chinese and perhaps letting a little blood. Later, they would have claimed a small ransom from the chargé d'affaires.
But there was no Afghan to take the center of the street against the throng of bazaar scum, indolent Sartish townsmen, idiotic Taghlik shepherds, and staring, ignorant Kirghiz, and all manner of diseased filth.
All were intent on her, all gazing, all talking. She could not move the white horse forward against these trouards of the bazaar of a—to all intents—mediæval ​city. Instead, her mount backed against the reed matting that covered the enclosure front.
A fat man in a fez ran out in his slippers and started a tirade against the invader of his premises. Then, seeing the American girl, he fell voiceless, with his great jaws agape. He backed into the house, through the matting, still staring.
"English! I will pay!" Edith faced her tormentors stoically. "Oh, can't you understand? Go—Boro! Boro!"—a phrase borrowed from Iskander, in anger. *'Take me to the sahibs, the eftendi!"
She paused, biting her lips. The bleared eyes stared through the dust, emotionless. The passing camels coughed and grunted. Vile odors swept into the girl. From behind her through the matting billowed a pungent scent of frying fish, mutton fat, dirt, smoke, stale human breath wine-laden, and a penetrating, sweetish aroma she did not recognize as opium.
"Nakir el kadr!"
A voice bellowed near her. At once a snapping, snarling chorus of dogs arose as the curs of the alley felt encouraged to annoy the frantic horse. Edith saw a beast with the body of a dachshund and the head of a mastiff snap at the stallion's flank; a brown mixture of terrier and setter with a Pekingese tail slunk near her. A giant wolfhound bared vicious teeth.
The mob paid no attention, never ceasing to watch her.
It was hideous for Edith to think that in another street Englishmen might be sitting down to dinner, or the governor of the city dining upon his terrace. Perhaps an American missionary was walking near by. She could not move toward them—if, indeed, she knew where to go.
​For the first time in her life Edith knew the meaning of real fear. Long-nailed hands felt of the silver that ornamented the elaborate saddle of the horse; greasy, pudgy fist clutched suddenly the bracelet on her arm and wrenched it off. A parchment-hued face, wrinkled and evil as sin itself, peered up at her, a claw-like hand holding a paper lantern to her face. Other lanterns moved jerkily along the alley as their owners joined the assembly of spectators.
Then the voice bellowed again behind her. The wrinkled face spat, and vanished. The thieving hands fell away reluctantly. She saw the man in the fez bowing and holding her rein. He pointed into the house. Edith shook her head. Bad as the alley was, she preferred it to the walls of such a building.
Whereupon the fat man jerked down a portion of the matting, revealing a spacious room with a stone floor and a huge pot hung over a fire in the great hearth. Shadowy figures of veiled women were visible, and one or two men, also stout, sitting against the wall on cushions. It seemed to be an inn, and the perspiring proprietor made a herculean effort at English, or rather European speech.
"Serai—yah! Entrrez, surre—verree good, my word! Serai, good, yah!"
But Edith would not forsake the vantage point of her horse. Her woman's wit assured her that afoot she would be helpless in the hands of the mob.
Instead, she signed to the serai-keeper to send away the mob. He nodded readily and pounced upon a half-naked boy to whom he whispered urgently. The youth slipped out into the shadows of the alley. Edith noticed this byplay but could not judge whether evil or good inspired it.
​Then the fat innkeeper summoned the sitting men with a single word. They leaped up, grasping staves, and flew at the throng. It was fez against turban, with objurgation rising to the roofs of the alley, slippered feet planted against broad buttocks and staves thrust into spitting faces.
Apparently the alley scum were not disposed to fight for the chance of plundering the girl. They seemed listless in defense as well as attack. The men from the inn cleared a small ring around the now passive horse and squatted there, apparently to wait.
To Edith the pause was intolerable. She could not ride free of the alley. The tired horse would not budge—disliking, beyond doubt, the presence of skirts upon his back. The actions of the serai-keeper suggested that he had sent for some one. For whom? Iskander?
Edith decided to wait and see. Every muscle in her slender body ached with fatigue. She dared not dismount to ease her cramped limbs.
Where were Iskander and Aravang? Had they traced her to the walled city? She hoped that they had taken the other turning. Every minute increased the suspense.
Then swaggering men bearing scimitars pushed through the throng that gave back readily. The leader of the file gripped Edith's reins and led the stallion into the serai and she recognized her friend of the tamarisk grove. At this, the innkeeper placed matting across the front of his room with care. One of the newcomers with bared scimitar remained at the entrance.
"Mees Rand!" smiled the man at Edith's side, adding to himself: "Verily is the luck of Monsey good, ​for here is the woman herself, alone and quite harmless."
In this fashion he of the leadership, the soiled fez, the immense shawl girdle and the very dirty drill suiting introduced himself—Abbas Abad, just arrived in Kashgar—and gave sharp command to one of his men to seek out Monsey in the new town.
To Edith it was clear that Abbas Adad was turning a deaf ear to her pleas that he take here to the sahibs—if, indeed, he understood.
Her heart had leaped when she heard her name spoken. Eagerly she stared at Abbas, trying to place him. Then her heart sank.
The whole appearance of the man—oily black hair, moist, bloodshot eyes, and flabby mouth—was against him. He met her gaze boldly and grinned, muttering to himself.
"Who is your master?" she asked.
Abbas shrugged his shoulders, not understanding. When Edith drew back, he gripped her arm in an iron clasp and pulled downward. Instinct warned the girl to keep to the saddle. Abbas only grinned the more and dragged her down with the calm assurance of a constrictor coiled about a gazelle. She slid from the saddle. And Abbas passed a tentative hand across her slim shoulders and the breast of her jacket, after the manner of a skilled Kirghiz feeling a sheep.
"If the American father will not pay," he muttered to himself, "you will be worth much—much, but otherwise. A beautiful slave."
Edith shrank back from the smiling Alaman in angry revolt. The followers of Abbas looked on apathetically but with some curiosity at the dilemma of the white woman. Usually in Abbas' seizure of ​women there had been wrangling and a price to pay. This was different. They gazed idly at the girl's flushed face and indignant eyes.
She saw the serai-keeper approach Abbas servilely and the Alaman toss him some silver coins. It was as if a price had been paid for her capture. The cold expanse of the wall touched her back and Edith leaned against it wearily, as she understood the true nature of these men and the futility of her escape.
Hopelessly, she scanned the smiling Abbas, the leering innkeeper, the two armed followers—and she saw Aravang standing inside the matting.
It did not take an instant for the girl to make up her mind which of her captors was preferable.
"Aravang!" she called appealingly.
The sentry at the matting touched the newcomer wamingly and motioned to the alley. By way of response the scarred follower of Iskander gripped the guard of the scimitar, jerked it from the man, struck him viciously with the hilt between the eyes, and leaped toward Abbas.
Edith stifled a scream and watched, absorbed by the swift flash of weapons and leap of bodies. She saw Abbas bury his knife in the arm of Aravang—saw Aravang fling a useless sword at the remaining enemy with his left hand and spring to grips with the powerful Alaman.
For a moment the two muscular bodies swayed and trampled across the floor, the men cursing and panting. One of Abbas' men gripped Aravang from behind. Whereupon Edith's guardian—for now she thought of him so—thrust Abbas away, to reel back to the opposite wall. Then the other assailant, gripped by the back of the neck, flew head over heels ​to the floor. Aravang sprang to the hearth and flung a blazing log at Abbas, who dodged. Seeking a new weapon, the scarred champion of Edith bellowed defiance and seized the great black pot from its rests.
"Sayak!" he roared.
Abbas caught up one of the low tabourets that stood in front of the cushions by the wall and advanced on Aravang, knife in hand. The pot of steaming meat and boiling water was hurled, but the table resisted it and the next moment Abbas was on his foe, stabbing and grunting with rage.
Aravang was thrust back, moaning, almost into the fire. He looked over the shoulder of his assailant, motioning, in spite of his own peril, to Edith to run from the room. But even if she had had command of her limbs, the two men of Abbas were hovering about the hearth with drawn weapons. The serai-keeper lurked cautiously by the door, wishful to keep intruders out, but with a keen eye for the safety of his own skin the while.
With a cry Edith covered her eyes with her hands. She had seen Abbas' knife flash red in the firelight—with a redness that was not of the fire. She had seen the mute appeal in the eyes of struggling Aravang.
Two shots roared in the narrow confines of the room.
Startled anew, Edith dropped her hands. She saw Iskander's tall form framed against the mats, a smoking revolver in his hand. The Arab's face was utterly tranquil, save for a slight smile and a certain alertness of the keen eyes.
The two followers of Abbas staggered and slumped slowly to the stone floor, their hands groping and their mouths wide in dumb amazement. Abbas himself ​turned from Aravang to hurl his knife. Seeing the flash of steel, Iskander swayed aside, so that the hurtled blade barely tore the skin of his side, pinning his cloak to the matting. He wrenched himself free at once, but Abbas had vanished into a curtained archway. Nor was the innkeeper any longer to be seen.
Iskander cast a brief glance at the two bodies, moving slowly on the floor and shot a question at Aravang. The big native bared his fine teeth in a smile and shook his head. Then the Arab took Edith by the arm.
Revolver in hand, he led her out of the serai. The white stallion had galloped free during the struggle. Iskander strode through the alley, followed by Aravang, whose strong frame seemed able to stand upright and walk in spite of the stabbing it had endured.
Edith was silent, feeling very much as she had felt once when her father caught her playing truant from school and escorted her home. Dim forms emerged to look at them and the dog pack gave tongue.
They passed under grotesque wooden arches, between tumble-down huts, across a turgid canal on one of the curving Chinese bridges, and came to the shadowy bulk of a waiting carriage.
Into this Iskander thrust Edith with scant ceremony. There was a roomy space about the rear seat, covered with straw. Aravang lay down at once and Iskander, who had jumped upon the front seat beside the driver, called back softly for Edith to sit in the straw until they were free of the town.
With Aravang beside her, she would have no chance to leave the carriage. But Edith did not intend to try. What she had seen in the eyes of Abbas and his men had struck deep into her consciousness.
​"Allah!" muttered the Arab impatiently.
But there was the flash of a match and the driver—a bearded giant with bronzed, high-cheeked face, and enormous sheepskin hat—lit his pipe with care. This done, the Kirghiz leaned back indolently and cracked his whip.
The four-horse tarantass sped through the night, under the stars. As they went, the driver rumbled a kind of song in his throat. He seemed utterly indifferent to the horses who plunged forward into the dark. Again they were going up and by the feel of the wind and sight of the stars Edith fancied they were on their former course, to the north.
Once when they stopped long enough for a man by the roadside to pass something to Iskander—something that very much resembled the medicine pail—she ventured to speak.
"Poor Aravang,*' she observed to the Arab. "Can't we stop at a house to see how badly he is hurt?"
"A house? Before long we will come to one that is yours. Until then you must sleep. Sleep! Aravang has said he will not die."
The callousness of the words chilled Edith more than the growing cold into which they plunged headlong. A hand touched her and she started. Then, since her nerves had suffered, she almost cried—out of pity. The injured Aravang was trying to place his heavy coat about her as a covering against the cold.