Читать книгу The Fighting Fool - Perley Poore Sheehan - Страница 3

Table of Contents

He didn't know where he was. He'd almost forgotten that he was a freeborn American---almost forgotten his name, he'd been called by so many different names in so many different dialects.

THE way Shattuck slid around that rock would have done credit to a fox. But, even as he did so, he knew that he was trapped. There was no other cover near. The rock had concealed him from the camp he'd been stalking. When he'd heard those voices from the rear his quick shift of position meant he'd be seen from below.

The people in these hills had eyes like hawks--eyes like those of their own hunting eagles.

In any case, he was out of rifle range from the camp. That lay about a mile below, in a hidden little valley. He'd been looking at it for the past two hours as he slowly approached it from above. In the high thin air of the mountains the camp lay microscopic--it had been like looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope, everything minutely clear, but too microscopic to be studied.

And he had to study his moves--did Shattuck.

ALL he knew was that he was somewhere in the midriff of Asia--Himalaya country---Pamirs--Hindu Kush; that one of those gossamer billows of blue and white off there to the north might be the Tien Shan--that is, the Heavenly Mountains, as the Chinese called them.

In a general way, he was headed for China.

China to Shattuck almost meant the United States. He'd passed his boyhood there--in Canton, Shanghai, Tientsin--where his father had lived and traded.

NO other countries open to him at all! And perhaps not even China! A man without a country! He had no papers, no relatives. He could hardly think of a living soul who could link him up with his past--who could actually swear that he was Pel Shattuck--Pelham Rutledge Shattuck--and not some international tramp who'd merely appropriated that name.

Like a wild animal caught in his dangerous position he blended himself as best he could with the gravel and dead grass at the foot of his rock and there lay completely still.

For a time the voices he had heard were stilled. He might have been seen. Or the intruders might have spied some other game.

From where he lay, without other movement than that of his eyes, Shattuck could view the camp--or the better part of it--through a crotch of his sheepskin coat. No excitement yet!

Whatever happened, he'd have to go into some camp again pretty soon anyway.

He wondered where he was--wondered who these people were.

THESE were some of the questions that had kept him on the scout ever since running away from Juma's camp. The trouble with Juma's camp was that Juma had a daughter, a girl named Mahree. And not even a man who has got himself in bad with governments will do certain things that a girl might propose.

"Khabadar!"--a voice near-by had spoken.

IT was a word of warning. It hadn't been addressed to himself. But Shattuck knew that he'd been discovered.

His mind worked quickly. There was no friction even to thought in the thin air of these high altitudes. Down in the camp just now he'd seen a man staring up in his direction. He could guess the rest. The man had signaled to the hunters on the mountain. ...

It wouldn't do to let them take him for a wolf or a bear.

Shattuck began to whine a bit of song that he'd learned in Juma's camp--just a bar or two---then stopped short.

As if by accident he thrust his foxskin cap beyond the edge of the rock. No shot was fired.

He left the cap where it was and took a look from the other side. He saw four men--two of them elderly, with beards, and all of them slant-eyed. The quartet were fanned out and had their rifles ready, evidently in a maneuver to surround him.

"Let us drink tea," Shattuck offered, in one of the last phrases he'd picked up in Juma's camp.

It was an invitation to a parley, an offer to talk--they'd get the purport of it whether they understood his speech or not. He recovered his cap. He stepped from behind his rock with his own rifle ready.

"Who are you?" one of the bearded elders asked.

His language wasn't like the Kirghiz dialect of Juma's people, but it was close enough to it to be understood.

"Ameriki," Shattuck answered.

He smiled and raised his right hand in salutation. He'd dropped his rifle into the crook of his left arm but he'd be able to use it, he guessed, if he had to.

The four stared. They were a wild looking lot, dressed in sheepskin and felt. The two elders, those who were bearded, had their left ears pierced and ornamented with large turquoise earrings. None of them looked as if he'd been washed or had had his hair cut since the day of his birth.

As for that, Shattuck felt that neither had he himself.

The four converged closely as Shattuck approached. There was an air of tenseness about them that Shattuck didn't like. They were like strange dogs closing in on a dog they'd selected for a kill.

In an instant Shattuck had swung his rifle back to ready again and had them covered--ready to fire from the hip.

The movement was so swift that they were caught unprepared. He gave them a quick survey, then addressed the elder who carried the best weapon--that alone was enough to indicate he stood higher than these others.

"Let the guns fall," he ordered. "Quickly! Then, maybe, we shall talk like friends."