CHAPTER XII

Lingering in his vision was a leering face.

Mud had been thrown into his eyes, and the filth was plastered from

eyebrows to nose. In a flash he recognized the face. Months ago he

had thrown that Chinese from the deck of a steamer into the

shark-infested waters of Tandjong Priok, the harbor of Batavia, Java.

Such amusing spectacles as the struggling unbeliever with rich mud

plastered in his eyes have a tendency to evoke keen appreciation from

the yellow races, who are supposed to be devoid of a sense of humor.

Shrill and explosive laughter was arising on all sides of him.

Light came slowly to his tortured eyes through a thick, yellow film.

All of his muscles were tensed; any instant he expected to experience

the long anticipated thrill of cold steel between ribs--or at his

throat.

Some kindly Samaritan had taken him by the hand. Mucous breath

assailed him. He distinctly heard a thud, a grunt, a screamed order.

No words were spoken, yet the mysterious hand tugged urgently at his

wrist. Peter knelt down and raised handfuls of water to his eyes from

a tub. He looked about for his benefactor and met only the leering

countenance of a highly amused group of urchins, men and women,

diverted as they had probably never been diverted before.

And in the meanwhile he realized with a torn heart that the thundering

hoofs were receding farther with each flitting instant.

Peter knocked down one man as he struck out through the amused circle.

The square was now all but deserted. Two bodies lay in the mud,

unattended. Examination proved these to be the earthly remains of the

two Mongolian horsemen--the two he had shot down. The two horses were

unattended. Peter mounted the nearest.

The air was growing cold. A keen, ice-edged wind was moving northward

from the range, and the sky was graying with storm clouds.

His horse was moving like the wind, perspiring not at all, a

thoroughbred, a mount for a prince! At his present rate he should

catch up with the Mongolian rear by nightfall; otherwise the pursuit

was certainly lost. And then Peter fell to wondering what tactics he

would pursue when he reached the band. How could he, alone, armed only

with an automatic revolver, hope to overpower professional riflemen who

numbered at the least forty? It was a nice problem; yet he could

reason out no simpler solution. He was bent on a task that might have

won applause from a _Don Quixote_.

The sun was settling upon the golden roof of the range, sending out

monstrous blue shadows across the valley.

Mountain darkness soon enveloped the world. A dazzling star appeared

with the brilliant suddenness of a coast-light. The wind was winy with

the flavor of high snows.

And suddenly the horse stumbled. Peter jerked on the reins. The horse

whinnied, dancing awkwardly on three legs.

Peter dismounted. A foreleg was crippled. He groaned. Fate, long his

ally, was laughing at him. The chase was ended.

Suddenly hoofs thudded on the firm dirt; a shadow darted by, nearly

colliding with him. There was a trampling. A lantern frame clicked,

and a lance of yellow light rippled upon his face, broadened.

He glared into the anxious brown eyes of Kahn Meng.