CHAPTER THREE
KARLOVA is a mountainous little kingdom. Sovgrad, its capitol city, lies in a fertile little hollow surrounded by many hills through which the old Roman road winds in an easterly direction toward the frontier and Margoth. Just beyond the shoulder of the first of the low foot hills a dirt road diverges north-ward from the main highway, and passing beneath overhanging trees wriggles to and fro through a grim and forbidding forest. Five or six miles above the Roman road it skirts a royal hunting preserve, the favorite abode of Prince Boris. Scarce a quarter of a mile within the wood and a hundred yards back from the dirt road lies an old inn-a place of none too savory reputation, where questionable characters from the city of Sovgrad were reputed to meet and concoct their deviltries against the majesty of the law.
Here too were wont to forgather a little coterie of another class-a half dozen young sprigs of the ancient nobility of Karlova, lured by the spirit of romance and adventure to this haunt of the lower world, and enticed by the cookery of the inn keeper’s wife and the vintages of the black cellars to numerous repetitions of their original excursion, until now they had become regular patrons of the establishment.
Tonight three of them sat at a round table in a tiny alcove, sipping their wine and venturing various explanations of the lateness of one whose empty chair broke the circle at the little board.
There was Alexander Palensk, whose father is prime minister of Karlova, and Nicholas Gregovitch, the son of General Demitrius Gregovitch, minister of war. The third, Ivan Kantchi, is the oldest son of the Karlovian ambassador to Margoth, and all three are officers in The Black Guard-the crack regiment of the Karlovian army.
The fourth member of the party-he whose chair still remained vacant-was riding at a rapid trot along the Roman road as Ivan Kantchi asked, for the fortieth time: “What could have delayed him? Why the:devil doesn’t he come?”
“Calm thyself, Little One,” admonished Alexander Palensk, with an affectionate smile at the giant Ivan, whose six-foot-six had won him the loving diminutive; “our brother is doubtless afraid to ride after dark. The wood is gloomy, and, as is well known, infested by goblins. Chances are that he turned back before quitting the Roman road and has fled home to his nurses’s arms.
“Screaming in terror,” added Nicholas Gregovitch, whereupon all three fell to laughing; but beneath his levity, Ivan Kantehi was still worried.
“You know,” he said, after a moment’s silence, “that The Rider is reputed to have been seen in this neighborhood quite recently. There have been no less than three highway robberies on the Roman road within the month, and all perpetrated by a lone horseman who answers the description of the fellow who has worked the southern provinces for the past three or four years. I think I shall ride toward the city and have a look for our friend.”
“Oh, sit down, Little One,” cried Alexander, “and let us finish this bottle in peace~if he has not come by then we will all ride forth and rescue him from the clutches of The Rider or the goblins, whichever has abducted our tender little playmate.”
Ivan dropped back into his chair. ~t is unfortunate,” he said, “that Prime Ministers couldn’t bequeath a little more brain power to their offspring.”
“Gesundheit!” cried Alexander, raising his glass and grinning good naturedly at his friend.
Where the dirt road leaves the Roman road just withi the foothills a horseman reined his mount to the left and entered the dark and gloomy precinets of the wood. He rode slowly, letting his beast pick its own way, since he could scarce see his own hand before his face. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, but yet a walk was the only gait possible along the black and winding road.
He had covered perhaps half the distance between the Roman road and the inn when a figure loomed suddenly ahead of him-a tall man upon a large horse-blocking the way. Even in the dark the rider could see the glint of reflected light upon the barrel of a long revolver which was levelled straight at his breast.
“Hold up your hands!” whispered the stranger. The rider did as he was bid. The other slid from his saddle and approached him. Deft fingers felt over his person in search of weapons, of which the rider carried none.
“Dismount!” commanded the stranger.
The victim lowered his hands to the pommel of his saddle.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked. “Is it that I have the honor of addressing The Rider?” The tone was mocking.
“Get down, or you’ll get hurt,” replied the highwayman surlily. “I am The Rider, and if you know anything of me you must know that I don’t put up with any trilling.”
Through the darkness the rider grinned down upon the man who held his bridle rein and covered him with a long and villainous looking revolver.
“‘The Rider,’” he repeated. “A name to conjure with!”
“Get down, you fool,” growled the highwayman.
“‘The Rider’!” continued the horseman, ignoring the other’s command. “How envious my friends will be when I tell them that I have indeed been waylaid by that notorious, nay, let us say, famous gentleman of the road. But will they believe me? They will think me but an idle boaster-unless I take some token of the adventure
“Enough, idiot!” cried The Rider, releasing the bridle rein and stepping forward to seize the horseman and drag him from his saddle. “Do you think that I have all night and the next day to trifle with a second groom or a grocer’s clerk, who doubtless won’t yield the price of a bottle of stale beer?”
He seized his victim’s arm roughly to unhorse him, and at the same instant the latter lunged forward upon the bandit, carrying him heavily to the ground, flat upon his back. Long, powerful fingers closed upon The Rider’s pistol wrist, while, with his right hand, the horseman found the other’s throat.
Futilely the brigand kicked, struggled and struck. His right hand was numbing in the steel grip that held him vise-like-his revolver was useless. The fingers at his throat were shutting off his breath, so that to his first anger and chagrin was now added a real terror for his life.
“No,” said the man upon his chest, “they never will believe me, unless I take with me some token of this delightful meeting-and what evidence more conclusive than the person of The Rider himself! Ah, just the thing, my dear fellow! You shall accompany me! In the flesh and blood, and by the word of your own mouth shall you attest to the truth of the fact that I was waylaid, in the dead of night, upon a lonely road by none other and none less than the redoubtable and uncapturable Rider.”
As he finished speaking he tightened his grip upon The Rider’s wrist until the unhappy man thought that the bones must splinter beneath those steel fingers. At the same time the pressure at his throat was lessened.
“Lay aside your weapon, my friend,” admonished the cheerful voice above him; “Lay it aside lest you harm yourself with so dangerous a plaything.”
The revolver slipped from the relaxing fingers of the bandit.
“Thank you,” said the voice.
The hand left The Rider’s throat, and felt over his person for other weapons. Finding none, it reached out and gathered in the revolver which The Rider had just relinquished, then the weight was removed from the bandit’s chest as the other rose and stood beside him.
“Come, get up!” cried the victor. “My, but you are a slothful fellow!”
The Rider scrambled to his feet, and faced his conqueror.
“Who the devil are you?” he cried.
“I might be a hostler,” replied the other; “but a grocer’s clerk-never! Now that I have a revolver, I could borrow your mask and set up in business as a brigand, eh? What sort of highwayman do you think I’d make, my friend?”
The Rider mumbled an unintelligible reply. His pride had been sorely lacerated and he was in no very good humor.
“Come on, sunshine,” cried his captor, “1et us mount and seek my friends,” and he motioned The Rider toward the latter’s horse which stood where the bandit had left it in the middle
of the road.
Here the captor removed a second revolver from a saddle holster, slipped it inside his shirt, and swung into his own saddle as The Rider mounted.
“Where are you going to take me?” asked the crestfallen brigand.
“To the inn of that old rogue, Peter, where my friends are waiting for me this two hours.”
A smile curved the lips of The Rider. Peter’s Inn! More than one of The Rider’s friends would be there, too.
“And there you will vouch for my story, eh, Sunshine? that I was stopped upon the highroad by none other than the great Rider.”
As the two rode on in the direction of the inn The Rider’s captor kept up a good natured raillery at the expense of the bandit, while the latter, still aggrieved, answered only in monosyllables when a question was put to him and bided his time against their arrival at the place where he was sure he would find enough of his followers to insure escape,. as well as punishment for this presumptious hostler who had dared to turn the tables upon the terror of the highways.
CHAPTER FOUR
AT THE inn, Alexander, Nicholas, and Ivan had finished their wine and were preparing to take their departure in search of their missing friend. A dozen or more rough and unkempt fellows were drinking in the open bar room and mine host Peter, together with trig little Bakla, was bustling about wiping off table tops, removing empty mugs and glasses, and replacing them with filled ones.
In the smoke begrimed kitchen adjoining the bar Peter’s frowzy fraw broiled with her steaks before a glowing grill. From the pipe between her toothless gums to the dirt upon her bare feet she was all athrob with the ecstacy of a true artist, for tonight she was preparing a dinner for the fine young gentlemen from the capitol, who could appreciate such culinary achievements as her’s. The swine she ordinarily cooked for knew nothing of the divine exquisiteness of the food she served them, yet, being a true artist who labors first for the love of art, Peter’s frau cooked as well for them as for the more appreciative, though with scarce the same enthusiasm.
Upon her artistic reveries now broke Bakla, with a rude interruption. The gentlemen were leaving. They had sent word that they would return when they had located their missing friend. Tillie threw up her hands in horror. The dinner would be spoiled! In fifteen minutes it would be ready to serve. She rushed toward the doorway leading into the barroom. She would explain. She would entreat the fine, young gentlemen to eat first and seek their friend later. Bakla trotted in the wake of her mistress. She, too, was perturbed; but not on account of the spoiled dinner. Bakla shared the uneasiness of the departing guests over the unaccountable tardiness of the missing friend-the tall, black haired, grey-eyed young man who smiled much and spoke always in a soft and kindl voice. He had been coming here to Peter’s Inn for many months, and though she did not know who he might be she was convinced that he was a very fine gentleman with a great deal of money and a large and generous heart. Many were the sighs that Balda had heaved to the heroic figure of this guest of guests.
As Tillie and Bakla rushed into the barroom the three young gentlemen were just slipping on their military capes as they crossed the sanded floor toward the doorway at the opposite side of the room.
At the same moment the door swung open and a tall figure, booted and spurred, filled the doorway. The upper half of his face was hidden beneath a black mask. The three departing guests halted in the middle of the floor, and three hands flew to the hilts of three swords. The man at the doorway stepped within, disclosing another, equally as tall, directly behind him. At the sight of the face of the latter, Ivan gave voice to an exclamation of relief.
“Dimmie!” he cried. “It’s Dimmie! Where have you been? We were just setting out to look for you, and who the devil have you with you?”
Dimmie stepped into the room and bowed low to his friends and the assembled guests, servants, and hosts of Peter’s Inn.
“Permit me,” he said, “to present my very good friend The Rider!”
A chorus of exclamations greeted the introduction. The roughs rose from their tables and pressed forward, as did the three guardsmen, Peter, Tillie, and Bakia.
“The Rider!” exclaimed Bakla, clasping her little hands together in an ecstacy of thrills.
“He held me up upon the road, Alexander,” cried Dirmie. “I knew you would never believe me unless I brought proof, and so I persuaded my good friend to come along with me and assure you that it is indeed true that I have been waylaid by no less a person than the much talked of Rider. Eh, Sunshine, is it not true?” and the speaker turned toward his captive. A surly looking fellow who had been sitting alone at a far table now shouldered his way through the crowd about the two new comers. His evil, little eyes scanned the faces of them both; and it is a matter open to dispute as to which of the figures caused him the greater astonishment
The Rider saw him and hung his head. Then he looked up, caught the other’s eye, and surreptitiously touched the empty holster at his hip. The other raised his eyebrows in mingled surprise and understanding.
Ivan was also examining the two men. He noted that he of the mask was unarmed, while Dimmie carried a long, evil looking revolver half hidden behind him. Suddenly he burst into a loud laugh.
Alexander and Nicholas looked at him in surprise. The Rider glanced quickly over the faces of the assembled guests. Fully half were men of his own stamp with whom he was familiar in the vice haunts of the city; but only one, he of the small and evil eyes, knew that their city crony and The Rider were one and the same.
Suddenly the bandit snatched the mask from his face, revealing a countenance wherein intelligence and bestiality were oddly combined. The forhead was high and broad, the ears well set, but a trifle too small, the chin and mouth sensitive without weakness. The man’s nose and eyes were the least prepossessing of his features. The former was slightly bulbous, while the latter were small and close-set.
At sight of The Rider’s face a number of the rougher guests gave vent to expressions of astonished recognifion, and exclamations of, “The Wolf,” fell from the lips of several.
“Yes,” said The Rider, “I am The Wolf, your old friend and comrade. Will you see me dragged off to prison by a handful of dandies-me, who could send the half of you to the halter if I chose?”
“That we’ll not,” growled one of the drinkers. “Come, comrades, pluck these fine chickens and throw them out to the dogs. We do not want them here. Peter’s place belongs to us. What business have they here? Come!” and he stepped truculently forward toward him whom Ivan had addressed as Dimmie.
Tillie, a large grilling fork in one huge, red hand, ran screaming toward the speaker.
“Pig!” she cried,“what would you do? Chase away the only guests who have brains enough to know what they are putting into their stomachs and purses long enough to pay for what they eat and drink and I’ll have the rotten heart out of you!”
But the man was already beside Dimmie. One paw-like hand was clutching for the young man’s shoulder. Alexander, Nicholas, and Ivan sprang forward with cries of mingled rage and horrifled warning. The Rider, seeing his opportunity, also turned upon his captor; but Dimmie, still smiling good naturedly, let drive a smashing right that caught the would be deliverer of The Rider full in the mouth and sent him sprawling backward upon the floor. Then he wheeled upon The Rider just as the latter seized him about the body, reached quickly over his shoulders, caught him around the waist, and, lifting him bodily from the floor, hurled him completely over his head.
In the mean time the three guardsmen were engaged with others of the roughs who had entered the fracas in the defense of their friends. No weapons had been drawn upon either side-as yet it was but a rough and tumble fist fight. The revolver which Dimmie had held when he entered the room he had slipped inside his shirt with its fellow, and now that he had disposed temporarily of the t~~o who had attacked him he ran to the assistance of his friends.
Ivan and Nicholas were holding their own with ease; but three men had engage
d Alexander at once, and he was in a fair way to being beaten into insensibility when Dimmie leaped upon the back of one of his adversaries, hurled him aside, and struck another a blow upon the chin that might have dropped a horse. As the third attempted to scramble from his path, the young man swung his foot in a kick that sent the fellow sprawling beneath a table.
Tillie, appalled by the dimensions and ferocity of the fracas, had retreated to the side of the room, where she stood with Bakla and the trembling Peter, wringing her hands and screaming out a torrent of invective. Beside her and next to Bakla stood the surly rough who had been the first to recognize The Rider. He had taken no part in the fight, and now one of his friends discovered him, and taunted him with his seeming cowardice.
The man muttered an oath, and turning to Bakla, said: if the fools knew who they were fighting with they’d break all your windows trying to see which could get out of here first and lose himself in the woods.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bakla. “Can they not see that they are attacking officers of The Black Guard?”
“I don’t mean them fellows,” growled the man. “It’s the other-do you mean to say you don’t none of you know who he is?”
“Why of course I know who he is,,, cried the girl. “He has been coming here for months-he is M. Dimmie.”
“M. Dimmie, hell,” cried the man. “That’s-,” and he leaned close to Bakla’s ear and whispered a name that brought her eyes and mouth open in incredulous astonishment.
The fight seemed to be going all the guardsmen’s way, when The Rider bolted suddenly for the door. Dimmie sprang across a table in a mad effort to head off the escaping bandit, and the two met before the exit. Once again The Rider went down before the superior skill of his antagonist; and Dimmie turned with his back to the doorway as Alexander, Ivan, and Nicholas ran to his side.