The Lost Valley of Iskander | Page 2

whined high and wide. Gordon's flying shape was sighted but an instant,
then the shadowy gulfs of the night swallowed it up. His enemies raved
like foiled wolves in their bewildered rage. Once again their prey had
slipped like an eel through their fingers and was gone.
So thought Gordon as he raced across the plateau beyond the clustering
cliffs. They would be hot after him, with hillmen who could trail a wolf
across naked rocks, but with the start he had—. Even with the thought
the earth gaped blackly before him. Even his steel-trap quickness could
not save him. His grasping hands caught only thin air as he plunged
downward, to strike his head with stunning force at the bottom.
When he regained his senses a chill dawn was whitening the sky. He
sat up groggily and felt his head, where a large lump was clotted with
dried blood. It was only by chance that his neck was not broken. He
had fallen into a ravine, and during the precious time he should have
employed in flight, he was lying senseless among the rocks at the
bottom.

Again he felt for the packet under his native shirt, though he knew it
was fastened there securely. Those papers were his death-warrant,
which only his skill and wit could prevent being executed. Men had
laughed when Francis Xavier Gordon had warned them that the devil's
own stew was bubbling in Central Asia, where a satanic adventurer was
dreaming of an outlaw empire.
To prove his assertion, Gordon had gone into Turkestan, in guise of a
wandering Afghan. Years spent in the Orient had given him the ability
to pass himself for a native anywhere. He had secured proof no one
could ignore or deny, but he had been recognized at last. He had fled
for his life, and for more than his life, then. And Hunyadi, the renegade
who plotted the destruction of nations, was hot on his heels. He had
followed Gordon across the steppes, through the foothills, and up into
the mountains where he had thought at last to throw him off. But he
had failed. The Hungarian was a human bloodhound. Wary, too, as
shown by his sending his craftiest slayer in to strike a blow in the dark.
Gordon found his rifle and began the climb out of the ravine. Under his
left arm was proof that would make certain officials wake up and take
steps to prevent the atrocious thing that Gustav Hunyadi planned. The
proof was in the form of letters to various Central Asian chiefs, signed
and sealed with the Hungarian's own hand. They revealed his whole
plot to embroil Central Asia in a religious war and send howling hordes
of fanatics against the Indian border. It was a plan for plundering on a
staggering scale. That package must reach Fort Ali Masjid! With all his
iron will Francis Xavier Gordon was determined it should. With equal
resolution Gustav Hunyadi was determined it should not. In the clash of
two such indomitable temperaments, kingdoms shake and death reaps a
red harvest.
Dirt crumbled and pebbles rattled down as Gordon worked his way up
the sloping side of the ravine. But presently he clambered over the edge
and cast a quick look about him. He was on a narrow plateau, pitched
among giant slopes which rose somberly above it. To the south showed
the mouth of a narrow gorge, walled by rocky cliffs. In that direction he
hurried.

He had not gone a dozen steps when a rifle cracked behind him. Even
as the wind of the bullet fanned his cheek, Gordon dropped flat behind
a boulder, a sense of futility tugging at his heart. He could never escape
Hunyadi. This chase would end only when one of them was dead. In
the increasing light he saw figures moving among the boulders along
the slopes of the northwest of the plateau. He had lost his chance of
escaping under cover of darkness, and now it looked like a finish fight.
He thrust forward his rifle barrel. Too much to hope that that blind
blow in the dark had killed Hunyadi. The man had as many lives as a
cat. A bullet splattered on the boulder close to his elbow. He had seen a
tongue of flame lick out, marking the spot where the sniper lurked. He
watched those rocks, and when a head and part of an arm and shoulder
came up with a rifle, Gordon fired. It was a long shot, but the man
reared upright and pitched forward across the rock that had sheltered
him.
More bullets came, spattering Gordon's refuge. Up on the slopes, where
the big boulders poised breathtakingly, he saw his enemies moving like
ants, wriggling from ledge to ledge. They were