ND what,” asked Arslan, “shall I say to Subotai Bahadur?”
The little Mongol looked more like a Turk than ever, because he had managed to plunder a Bokharian's horse caravan and had taken for himself a red-and-green-striped khalat, shagreen boots, and a turban of sheer blue silk sewn with pearls. Moreover the lot of a patrol leader suited him well. He had killed a sheep every day and had dined off the fat of the tails until his broad cheeks were puffed out like puddings. He had worn the turban because he fancied himself in it, and had thrown away his peaked cap with the sable edge, but since the mysteries of turban winding as done by an orthodox Muhammadan horse thief were quite beyond his understanding, the blue silk headgear looked more like a pavilion wrecked by a storm than anything else.
“What order was given?” Hugh inquired.
Arslan counted off on his fingers that were rank of grease and mutton.
“One—to watch for pursuit and bring word of it. Two—not to lose any horses. I have three times the number given me. Three—not to get drunk. There were wineskins in that karwan, and after we had emptied all the skins we rode through the forest with torches and shouted, but took no harm. Four—to look steadfastly for you and bring you direct to the Eagle.”
“Then you have obeyed all of the order but one part. I saw the light of the torches the night you were—” Hugh smiled—“drinking.”
“But without harm, O Swooping Hawk. We all woke up in the yurta, and groomed the ponies the next day.”
“Still, the order was not to get drunk.”
“Aya tak. Thus it was. And yet he who gave the order did not know there would be wineskins.”
“It would be better not to mention the wine.”
“Much better. But Subotai Bahadur will be glad because I am bringing you. He thought you were vanished, like a stone cast into deep water. It may be in his mind to bind your arms and set you on a stake or wind you with straw and light you as a torch at night. How should I know?”
Hugh still smiled, but his eyes were thoughtful.
“Tell to Subotai Bahadur the truth—that I sought your camp and came back to the Horde of my own will.”
“That is truth.”
Although the trail of the Mongols was broad and clear it was by no means easy to follow. Arslan and the crusader had to descend deep gullies that the cavalry had crossed by bridges of timber that were taken up and carried in sleds, to be used over again. For days they skirted the mighty shoulders of Kasbek, working up into higher altitudes where the vultures flapped away from the carcasses of cattle that had died by the way.
And before they were abreast the summit of Kasbek, hidden in its mists, they were forced to leave the trail and take shelter up the slope. Here in a broad valley the wild tribes of Circassians of Kasbek and the Alans had beset the Horde and had been driven off. But bands of horsemen were combing over the field, as hornets buzz around a broken hive.
If Arslan and Hugh had been seen they would have been hunted down without mercy. They hid in the timber. Arslan could not resist bringing in some stray horses that wandered too near their covert. It seemed to Hugh as if the Mongol could never get horses enough.
Still, the growing herd served a doubly useful purpose. They mounted after nightfall and rode boldly along the valley floor. More than once they were hailed by the hillmen, and Arslan answered readily.
The dispatch rider of the Kha Khan had the gift of tongues and he knew many of the strange dialects which were spoken between the Khaukesh and Samarkand. In whatever speech he was hailed he made shift to answer with oaths that made his companions chuckle. To one who shouted from a fire, he cried:
“A sheep stealer is bold after a battle, but we ride Mongol ponies. Come and look!”
A ragged hillman sprang up and stood shading his eyes from the glare of the fire. Evidently he counted the warriors with Arslan, and made out the flaming turban and khalat, for he answered surlily:
“'Tis the dog-born dog from Bokhara, the lifter of horses who sells to the Roumis.”
Though this would have brought a true Bokharian out of his saddle, sword in fist, Arslan contented himself with a parting shot.
“There is loot in the dunghills for such as thee!”
Whoever sat around that fire and heard him must have thought he had other men within call or had other reasons for his boldness. Arslan passed without being attacked, well pleased with himself, though he would have liked a fight better.
“Come,” he said then, “we waste time.”