The Lost Valley of Iskander | Page 4

from the
higher levels. And suddenly he stopped short, his pistol snapping to a
level.
On the ground before him lay a man such as he had never seen in the
Afghan mountains or elsewhere. He was young, but tall and strong,
clad in short silk breeches, tunic and sandals, and girdled with a broad
belt which supported a curved sword.
His hair caught Gordon's attention. Blue eyes, such as the youth had,
were not uncommon in the hills. But his hair was yellow, bound to his
temples with a band of red cloth, and falling in a square-cut mane
nearly to his shoulders. He was clearly no Afghan. Gordon remembered
tales he had heard of a tribe living somewhere in these mountains who

were neither Afghans nor Muhammadans. Had he stumbled upon a
member of that legendary race?
The youth was vainly trying to draw his sword. He was pinned down
by a boulder which had evidently caught him as he raced for the shelter
of the cliff.
"Slay me and be done with it, you Moslem dog!" he gritted in Pushtu.
"I won't harm you," answered Gordon. "I'm no Moslem. Lie still. I'll
help you if I can. I have no quarrel with you."
The heavy stone lay across the youth's leg in such a way that he could
not extricate the member.
"Is your leg broken?" Gordon asked.
"I think not. But if you move the stone it will grind it to shreds."
Gordon saw that he spoke the truth. A depression on the under side of
the stone had saved the youth's limb, while imprisoning it. If he rolled
the boulder either way, it would crush the member.
"I'll have to lift it straight up," he grunted.
"You can never do it," said the youth despairingly. "Ptolemy himself
could scarecely lift it, and you are not nearly so big as he."
Gordon did not pause to inquire who Ptolemy might be, nor to explain
that strength is not altogether a matter of size alone. His own thews
were like masses of knit steel wires.
Yet he was not at all sure that he could lift that boulder, which, while
not so large as many which rolled down the gorge, was yet bulky
enough to make the task look dubious. Straddling the prisoner's body,
he braced his legs wide, spread his arms and gripped the big stone.
Putting all his corded sinews and his scientific knowledge of
weight-lifting into his effort, he uncoiled his strength in a smooth,
mighty expansion of power.

His heels dug into the dirt, the veins in his temples swelled, and
unexpected knots of muscles sprang out on his straining arms. But the
great stone came up steadily without a jerk or waver, and the man on
the ground drew his leg clear and rolled away.
Gordon let the stone fall and stepped back, shaking the perspiration
from his face. The other worked his skinned, bruised leg gingerly, then
looked up and extended his hand in a curiously unOriental gesture.
"I am Bardylis of Attalus," he said. "My life is yours!"
"Men call me El Borak," answered Gordon, taking his hand. They
made a strong contrast: the tall, rangy youth in his strange garb, with
his white skin and yellow hair, and the American, shorter, more
compactly built, in his tattered Afghan garments, and his sun-darkened
skin. Gordon's hair was straight and black as an Indian's, and his eyes
were black as his hair.
"I was hunting on the cliffs," said Bardylis. "I heard shots and was
going to investigate them, when I heard the roar of the avalanche and
the gorge was filled with flying rocks. You are no Pathan, despite your
name. Come to my village. You look like a man who is weary and has
lost his way."
"Where is your village?"
"Yonder, down the gorge and beyond the cliffs." Bardylis pointed
southward. Then, looking over Gordon's shoulder, he cried out. Gordon
wheeled. High up on the beetling gorge wall, a turbaned head was
poked from behind a ledge. A dark face stared down wildly. Gordon
ripped out his pistol with a snarl, but the face vanished and he heard a
frantic voice yelling in guttural Turki. Other voices answered, among
which the American recognized the strident accents of Gustav Hunyadi.
The pack was at his heels again. Undoubtedly they had seen Gordon
take refuge in the gorge, and as soon as the boulders ceased tumbling,
had traversed the torn slope and followed the cliffs where they would
have the advantage of the man below.

But Gordon did not pause to ruminate. Even as the turbaned head
vanished, he wheeled with a word to his companion, and darted around
the next bend in the canyon. Bardylis followed without question,
limping on his bruised