“Bosh,” this from Steve. “Superstitions. The Bedouins were scared by the tales that have come down to them from their ancestors. They mistrust cities anyway, and no doubt this one had an evil reputation in its lifetime. And nobody except Bedouins have ever seen this place before — except that Turk, who was probably half-demented with suffering.
“You can see for yourself that the ‘skeleton hand’ stuff was an embellishment — those bones are crumblin’. They may be the bones of a king — maybe not. Anyway, no tellin’ how long they’ve been here. The dry desert air preserves such things indefinitely. May be Assyrian, or most likely Arab — some beggar that got the gem and then died on that throne, for some reason or other. Look, only the skull is anything like whole, and it’ll turn to dust if I touch it.”
He stretched forth his hand, but again Yar Ali halted him; the Afghan’s eyes were uneasy. He seemed to be listening.
“I heard a sound, sahib,” he muttered. “For the last few minutes I have heard stealthy noises as if ghosts or dead men were stealing upon us. Harken! Is that not the sound of beings mounting the stairs?”
Steve wheeled, alert.
“By Judas, Ali,” he snapped, “something is out there — ”
The ancient walls re-echoed to a chorus of wild yells as a horde of savage figures flooded the chamber. For one dazed, insane instant Steve believed, wildly, that they were being attacked by re-embodied warriors of a vanished age, then the spiteful crack of a bullet past his ear and the acrid smell of powder told him that their foes were material enough. Clarney cursed; in their fancied security they had been caught like rats in a trap by the pursuing Arabs.
Even as the American threw up his rifle, Yar Ali fired point-blank from the hip, hurled his empty rifle into the horde and leaped down the steps yelling, his long Khyber knife shimmering in his hairy hand. Into his gusto for battle went real relief that his foes were human. A bullet ripped the turban from his head, but an Arab went down with a split skull beneath the hillsman’s first, shearing stroke.
A tall Bedouin clapped his gun muzzle to the Afghan’s side, but before he could pull the trigger, Clarney’s bullet scattered his brains. The number of the attackers hindered them, and the tigerish quickness of the big Afridi made shooting as dangerous to themselves as to him. Some of them swarmed about him while others charged up the steps after Steve, who had expended his second bullet with deadly effect. At that range there was no missing.
Now in a flashing instant Clarney saw two things — a tall Arab, who with froth on his beard and a heavy scimitar uplifted, was almost upon him, and another who crouched on the floor drawing a careful bead on the plunging Yar Ali. Steve made an instant choice and fired over the shoulder of the charging swordsman, killing the rifleman. Steve had voluntarily forfeited his own life to save his friend, for the scimitar was swinging at his own head, but at that instant the wielder slipped on the marble steps and the curved blade, swinging erratically from its arc, clashed on Steve’s rifle barrel. In an instant the American clubbed his rifle and as the Arab recovered his balance and again raised the scimitar, Clarney struck with all his power, shattering stock and skull together.
And then a heavy ball smacked into his shoulder, sickening him with the shock and almost flooring him with the impact. As he staggered, a Bedouin whipped a noose about his feet and jerked heavily. Clarney pitched headlong down the steps to strike with stunning force. A gun-stock went up to dash out his brains, but an imperious command halted the blow.
“Slay him not, but bind him hand and foot.”
As Steve struggled dazedly against many gripping hands, it seemed to him that the voice was faintly familiar.
The American’s downfall had occurred in a matter of seconds. Even as Steve’s second shot had cracked, Yar Ali had slashed a raider across the face and received a numbing blow from a rifle stock on his left arm. His sheepskin coat, worn in spite of the heat, saved his hide from half a dozen slashing knives. One was hacking at him with a scimitar, but Yar Ali engaged and locked blades, disarming his foe with a savage wrench. A rifle was discharged so close to his face that the powder burnt him, eliciting a blood-thirsty yell from the maddened Afghan. The rifleman paled and as Yar Ali swung up his blade, the Arab lifted his rifle above his head in both hands to parry the downward blow, whereupon the Afridi, with a yelp of exultation, shifted as a jungle cat strikes and plunged his long knife into the Arab’s belly. But at that instant a rifle stock, swung with all the hearty ill will its wielder could evoke, crashed against the giant’s head, laying open his scalp and dashing him to his knees.
With the dogged and silent ferocity of his breed, Yar Ali staggered blindly up again, slashing at foes he could scarcely see, but a shower of blows dropped him again, nor did his attackers cease beating him until he lay still. They would have finished him in short order but for another peremptory order from their chief. They bound the unconscious knifeman and flung him alongside Steve, who was fully conscious, though the bullet in his shoulder hurt him savagely.
He glared up at the tall Arab who stood looking down at him.
“Well, sahib,” said this one in perfect English, “do you not remember me?”
Steve scowled in the effort of concentration.
“You look familiar — by the devil! — you are — Nuredin el Mekru!”
“The sahib remembers,” Nuredin salaamed mockingly. “And you remember, no doubt, the occasion on which you made me a present of — this?”
The dark eyes shadowed with bitter menace and the sheikh indicated a thin white scar on the angle of his jaw.
“I remember,” snarled Clarney, whom pain and anger did not tend to make docile. “It was in Somaliland, years ago. You were in the slave trade then. A wretch of a negro escaped from you and took refuge with me. You walked into my camp one night in your high-handed way, started trouble and got a butcher knife across your face. I wish I’d cut your lousy throat.”
“You tried hard enough,” answered the Arab. “But now the tables are turned.”
“I thought your stampin’ ground lay west,” growled Clarney. “Yemen and the Somali country.”
“I quit the slave trade long ago,” returned the sheikh. “It is an outworn game. I led a band of raiders in Yemen for a time — then again I was forced to change my location. I came here with a few faithful followers. By Allah, these wild men nearly cut my throat at first! But I overcame their suspicions and now I lead more men than have followed me in years.
“Those you fought off yesterday were my men. They were scouts I had sent out ahead, and who rode back to report to me after you had beaten them off. My oasis lies far to the west. We have ridden many days, for I was on my way to this very city. When my scouts told me of two wanderers, I altered not my course, for I had business first in Beled-el-Djinn. We rode into the city from the west and saw your tracks in the sand. Tracking you was easy then.”
Steve growled angrily.
“You wouldn’t have caught us so easy, only we thought no Bedouin would dare to come into Kara- Shehr.”
Nuredin nodded. “But I am no Bedouin. I have traveled far and seen many lands and many races. I have talked with many men and have read in the books of the Rhoumi, the Turks and the Franks as well as those of my own race. I know that fear is smoke, that the dead are dead, and that djinn and ghosts and curses are mists that the wind blows away. I had heard the tale of the Fire of Asshurbanipal; that is why I came to this part of Arabia. But it has taken months to persuade my men to ride here with me. They fear the curse of the ancient ones who dwelt here.
“But — I am here! And your presence is an added pleasure. No doubt you have guessed why I had my men take you alive — I have a more elaborate entertainment planned for you and that Pathan swine. Now — I take the Fire of Asshurbanipal and we will go.”
He turned toward the throne and one of his men, a bearded giant with but one eye, exclaimed: “Hold, my lord! Bethink ye — this city is very old, and old cities are foul. Ancient evil reigned here before the days of Muhammad. The djinn howl through these halls when the winds blow and men have seen ghosts dancing on the walls beneath the moon. No man of mortals has dared this black city for a thousand years — save one, half a century ago, who fled shrieking.
“In the old, old days men of the desert ventured here, and many died strangely, who sought to take the jewel, and on those who even looked upon it, a curse was laid. You have come here from Yemen; you do not
