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“You mean he was killed?”
“Yes, and the man who shot Hickok was too much of a coward to
face him, but entered the room where he played cards, and shot
Wild Bill in the back. He paid the piper, though.”
“Judge Lynch held court?”
“Well, he got away at first, but the boys just up and howled. There
was a trial, and in the end the matter was settled.”
“By the way, is it loaded?”
“I reckon not, but that don’t count. I depend on the general
appearance of things to intimidate. If that fails me, here is another
Texan trick.”
How he does it the Canadian never knows, but this wonderful
genius, once actor, tramp, cowboy, and now stockbroker, puts his
hand up to the back of his neck and draws out a most formidable
weapon—half knife, half sword—a curiosity that would charm a
collector, rusty in spots, even nicked and shabby, yet showing signs
of former splendor as a Texan bowie.
“You see I had my choice of this and a Mexican machete I own
among my curios, and I took this because it lies so charmingly along
one’s back under the coat—its shape was adapted to that very
purpose by Colonel Bowie, who invented it, and I assure you, Aleck,
I have positive proof that this is the identical weapon he fashioned
himself and used to such advantage.”
Craig throws up his hands.
“I no longer doubt the outcome. If those poor Turks ever set their
eyes on that saber, their wretched knees will knock together like
Spanish castanets and the Street of Cairo which once was haunted
with their presence will know them never again.”
“Craig, you are heartless—cruel. Sir, in the land of the Texan this is
reckoned only as a play toy.”
“For Heaven’s sake put it away. The sight of it is enough to bring up
thoughts of hari kari. If one hated himself he could not wish for
anything more desperate with which to end his existence than that
same old rusty blade,” says Aleck.
“Rusty old blade, forsooth! You have no reverence for relics, Craig.
In the hands of one entirely great, the bowie is mightier than the
sword.”
“Well, come along, my boy. Tempus fugit, and I see Samson Cereal
with his friends sauntering down the avenue. When he separates
from them, as will soon be the case, the Turkish spider will throw his
wonderful web across the street, and the American fly be asked to
'walk into my little parlor!’”
Wycherley buttons up his coat and carefully conceals his array of
weapons. No one looking at him now would dream he was such a
walking arsenal. Appearances are deceptive, and many a person
who goes about this Midway Plaisance wears a mask.
Thus they leave their eyrie, and once more rub elbows with the
jostling, good-natured crowd, that surges about the spot where the
camels kneel to receive and deposit their squealing burdens.
Sauntering down Cairo Street, they keep at a respectable distance
behind the great operator and his two companions.
The time for action is near at hand. No doubt the Turk fumes at
seeing how Samson’s friends stick closer than brothers, and
doubtless he is exercising his mind in the endeavor to invent some
way of separating them.
He need not worry. Samson himself will arrange all that. The two
gentlemen appear to be ordinary business men, one stout and red-
faced, the other tall and cadaverous. They survey the scene as
though indelibly stamping it on their minds for production, and are
interested in all the details.
Finally they drew near the bend. Here on the left Cairo Street, more
narrow than before, runs down to the stables of the donkeys and
camels, beyond which rise the needles of Cleopatra, guarding the
entrance of the Egyptian Temple of Luxor. On the right the main
street continues a short distance, terminating in the theater where
the dancing girls amaze and disgust most of those who go in to see
their gyrations.
At the point of division is the well remembered “cold drink” café,
where Turkish and Egyptian flavors are given to weak American
lemonade, or ice cream of a like character served in a glass. It is
second habit for the pilgrims of Cairo Street to try every novelty, and
so they purchase a horchata as the people of Spain call these
refrescos—expressed juice of the fruit, mingled with sugar and cold
water.
While they discuss the merits of the beverage the three friends talk
of their plans, and presently the two who have come to take in all the
sights, on business principles, leave Samson Cereal standing there,
while they enter the door of the theater, through which the Turkish
bridegroom runs, carrying his bride, at the termination of the
ridiculous “bridal procession,” given several times each afternoon
and evening, with all the pomp of gayly caparisoned camels,
mounted swordsmen, flashy palanquin and the most excruciating
music that ever assailed American ears.
“At last—alone!” says Wycherley, and Aleck is compelled to smile at
the reference, for only an hour or so previous, both of them have
been admiring the picture of the young husband folding his bride in
his arms after the wedding guests have gone.
Now is the time for the Turk to start his little game of Oriental
duplicity. Having but a faint idea of the manner in which Scutari
intends to act, Aleck is, of course, deeply interested in the whole
business. He and Wycherley have halted at a convenient distance,
and watch for the spider to send his emissary forth.
Just across the way is the room of the veiled fortune teller, though no
flaming sign announces her presence, only the modest wording
given before. That it is through her in some way the manipulator of
wheat is to be trapped, Aleck does not doubt, and yet he cannot fully
believe the woman is in league with Scutari. They only met two
evenings before, and he seemed astonished at her presence in
Cairo Street. Perhaps he has not seen her in these twenty years.
Why should she enter into a league with the Turk—she has no
reason to hate her former husband, and least of all should the
mother conspire to throw her child into the hands of one she loathes.
Of course the tricky Aroun knows how to utilize certain forces—he
has made a study of woman, Turkish women at least, and believes
he can bend them to his will. Through cunning, then, he may cause
Marda to be the bait that will draw the foolish fly into the net.
“Look!” says Wycherley.
Samson is no longer alone.
Standing at his side is an Arab boy—such a lad as races the
donkeys up and down, and takes a fiendish pleasure in scaring old
ladies half to death by shouting in their ear as his long-eared charge
rubs against their arm in passing. This dark skinned youth rises on
his toes to deliver a card to the American with the gray mustache,
and then makes a low salaam, sweeping his arms in the direction of
the wall, where over the narrow door and under the odd latticed
balcony window one can read the sign of