CHAPTER XVIII

THE KIRGIZ YOURTAR

--I found it a terrible thing. These villains set on me, and I beginning to resist, they gave but a call, and in came their master. I would, as the saying is, have given my life for a penny: but that, as God would have it, I was clothed with armor of proof.--JOHN BUNYAN.

In the northern parts of Siberia, in summer time, it seems as if the night would never come. At midsummer, it is almost true to say that there is no night--nothing but a veil of sapphire twilight, which lasts three or four hours. It was a month past midsummer when Felix drove to play tennis and dine at the Governor's house; but even then the dark was long in coming, and Vronsky did not expect his darling home until midnight. There was no moon that night; but the sky was cloudless, and the North burnt as if with the glow of a furnace hidden just below the horizon.

Out on the Steppe, between Savlinsky and the Forest of Nicolashof, there stood, some quarter of a mile from the road, and hidden from view by one of those undulations of the ground too low to be called hills, a Kirgiz yourtar, or tent. From a distance these yourtars look more like haystacks than anything else--round, fat haystacks, bound together by strips of hide. The material of which they are really made is thick, warm felt; and they afford a most efficient protection from cold and wet.

By the door, all that afternoon, sat three men, in the dress of Kirgiz peasants--long linen shirts, such as one may imagine Abraham to have worn as he sat in his tent door. The woman also, in her long white robe, with a white handkerchief bound round her head, going to and fro with her waterpails to a pond at a short distance, was very like a figure from the Old Testament.

From a hillock on the way to the pond she could just see a glimpse of the white highroad, her own head not being a conspicuous object upon the landscape, and all the rest of her being hidden from view by intervening swells of ground. From an hour before mid-day until an hour or so after, her avocations seemed to necessitate almost constant passing to and fro for water. Soon after half-past one a carriage shot past upon the quiet road. The woman at once reported this unusual event to her male companions. She added the information that the tarantasse contained Felix only, and that Vronsky was not with him. The statement was evidently of interest to one of the men, whose features did not seem to be of the true Kirgiz type, and who was smoking a pipe that suggested Western civilization. He consulted in low tones with the two other men. They seemed to come to some arrangement, and then fell silent. The long afternoon hours passed away, and they sat on like graven images. About five o'clock the woman again grew restless, and remained long at her coign of vantage, watching the road. But nothing stirred upon its empty expanse. After a while the woman brought supper, and they ate in silence, while the children, unwashed, untended, crept inside to sleep. It was about nine o'clock when a solitary figure appeared over the top of the low hillock which protected the yourtar from view of the road.

The men at the tent door made no movement nor sign that they had seen this man. He came on, quite alone; and when he had come near enough to speak, he greeted them in Russian. It was Streloff.

Evidently he bore disturbing news. He directed most of his talk to Cravatz, who, in his disguise, sat immovable, his eyes alone glittering in the dusk, showing his deep concern in the affairs related. There followed much urging, discussion, argument. At last a decision was arrived at. Cravatz was to depart southward at once, and alone. He must walk during the greater part of the night, not touching the highroad, straight to a yourtar which belonged to the brother of the man who now sheltered him. This man was a political refugee--no Kirgiz, but living as one, and married to a Kirgiz woman. As soon as Cravatz was gone, the other two men took off the Kirgiz shirts they wore, armed themselves, and with Streloff proceeded quietly westward, towards Nicolashof, not walking by the road, but keeping as far possible parallel with it, though out of sight of it, and using great caution until they were lost in the beginnings of the forest.

They disappeared--Cravatz to the south, they to the west--and the woman and children remained in the yourtar alone.

Soon they were sound asleep, while the deep rich blue of the northern summer night grew deeper and more intense, and the stars glowed like drops of fire.

Streloff carried the dagger of the Brotherhood. He had received his orders. Felix, in spite of Streloff's attempt to prevent it, had carried to the Governor the arraignment of Cravatz. Felix was to die that night. It was the first mission of the kind upon which the young man had been engaged, and he relished it.

In the wood all was very quiet. No living soul was astir. The village was long ago hushed into slumber, no light glimmered in all its extent. But Streloff and the two men with him did not go as far as the village. They passed the outer skirting of birch trees, where too much light fell upon the road, and entered with precaution the deeper depths of the pine trees, intending to halt at a certain spot where there was a dense thicket into which a body might with ease be dragged and hidden.

Suddenly one of the two men--a genuine Kirgiz--halted, his finger on his lip. The other two halted also, and crouched where they stood. They had heard a noise--very, very slight. It sounded like the striking of a match. Streloff felt his heart in his mouth. A moment later, and the unmistakable flicker of a light gleamed among the trees some distance ahead. It died down. The very, very faint sound of a voice, a whisper, broke the stillness. Someone was there. They held their breath, listening intently. They looked from one to the other blankly. What was to be done? Someone was there, and meant to stay there, for no movement was perceptible. Streloff considered. If there were but a solitary wayfarer it was awkward. They did not want to murder anybody unnecessarily; but this was not a solitary wayfarer, since they had heard someone speak. One does not talk to oneself--as a rule.

The one thing supremely important to the young spy was that he should not be seen. And he doubted whether it were now possible even to retreat, without making some slight noise to put those mysterious others upon the alert. They had almost walked into an ambush. His brain ached with the wonder. Who could they possibly be? What conceivable object, save to stop Felix Vanston's tarantasse, could lead men to hide in the wood at that hour? And he could not think of any others besides himself who would be likely to wish to do that. He was horribly agitated. For these men, no doubt, were as desirous as himself of being unobserved. They made no noise. In the intense silence of the forest he could not hear a sound. And he dared not make one.

Nothing was less desired by this young man than any kind of a fight. He wanted a murder, that was all. One accomplice to hold the horse, one to hold the coachman--and himself to knife Felix, who would almost certainly be unarmed. This sudden, wholly unexpected check upset his nerves. His subordinates looked to him for orders. He had none to give. But a few minutes' reflection steadied his nerves. They must somehow retreat, unobserved. They must cross the road lower down, and re-enter the wood on the other side of the road. Then they must rapidly work their way along, to a point between the village and the spot where the ambush lay, and there await the coming of their victim.

With inconceivable precaution they crept away. Among pine trees there is little undergrowth, few dead twigs to crack beneath the foot. Nevertheless, in that silence, for three men to retreat unheard was something of a feat; and Streloff, when after a quarter of an hour that seemed an eternity they stood out of sight and earshot, at the edge of the road, felt that he was proving himself a born spy.

They listened. Not a sound broke the calm of the summer night except the sigh of the wandering breeze in the tops of the pines. Like three flitting shadows, they crossed the road; and entered the wood upon the farther side. Streloff was immensely anxious to go on for at least half a mile--to meet the tarantasse at as great a distance as possible from where the ambush waited. But he was bothered, for the unknown others had chosen the very place he had decided to occupy--in the deep part of the wood, yet far enough from the village to prevent sounds from being heard. Who could they be? As they pushed along, he told himself that he was a fool. Doubtless these men were but three or four tramps, perhaps on their way from the harvest of one village to that of another--sleeping in the woods on their journey. But, whoever they were, they must not be witnesses of what was to take place.

And then, before he and his followers had reached a spot parallel to that where they had seen the lighted match, they heard the ringing of the harness-bells upon Felix's carriage.

For a moment they paused, simultaneously, while the musical ting, ting, ting, sounded each second clearer. This sudden destruction of his plans caused Streloff to hesitate--to hesitate three or four long, endless seconds, before he said: "Run back--back--as far down the road as we can."

They ran. But behind them the bells of the tarantasse rang more and more piercing sweet. And then there was a long, wild shout, and Streloff faced suddenly round, to see that a man had sprung from the other side of the road and caught the horse's head, and that Felix Vanston was standing up in the tarantasse, and had just hurled a second man down upon the ground; while two or three others were winding ropes about the prostrate form of Max, whom they had dragged from his seat.

Streloff gave no orders to his followers. He forgot all about them. Without a second thought he sprang into the mêlée. He never doubted that these men, though unknown to him, were his allies, for manifestly they were hostile to Felix; and he ran forward, his knife bare, shouting wildly, "Kill him--kill him! What is the use of taking him prisoner?"

He had brought no revolver, for he had meant to do his work silently, and shots carry on a still night. But his sudden appearance from nowhere seemed to strike the other men for a breathing space still with amazement. He saw then that they were masked.

"Help! Help!" cried Felix, writhing in the grip of three of them.

But the man who led had recovered from his bewilderment. "Stand, or I fire!" he called out, covering Streloff with the muzzle of his revolver.

"Streloff!" shouted Felix. "What are you doing here? Help me, you young fool! Knock that fellow down!"

"He has a knife! Look out!" cried another of the masked men, springing behind Streloff and pinioning his elbows.

The young man guessed himself in a trap, though unable to understand its nature. They were gagging Felix--he saw that--they could not understand that he, Streloff, was on their side--they might think him a rescue party, since they probably knew him to be in Vronsky's service. He struggled like a panther in the hold of his captor, writhed himself free, and hurled himself, knife in hand, upon Vanston. There could be no doubt of his murderous intent, and the man who covered him with his revolver fired without hesitation. The sound died away upon the quiet air, a light smoke drifted between the horrified eyes of Felix and the black trunks of the surrounding trees. Streloff dropped forwards, a strangled word upon his lips, a grin of rage upon his features. His blade had actually grazed young Vanston's ribs.

"Please God," said the policeman who had shot Streloff to Felix, "you'll never be nearer death than that again--until your time comes."

"Are there any more of them?" asked one of his colleagues, moving cautiously along the edge of the wood.

"I saw only him," replied a subordinate.

They raised the young fellow's body. He was quite dead.

"But he never could have started out alone to grapple with Mr. Vanston and Max," thoughtfully said the policeman. He gave an order, suddenly and sharp. "Search the wood thoroughly on both sides."

The men went off, searching up and down. But the two Kirgiz had got a couple of minutes' start, and they made the most of it. Like streaks of shadow they fled, down by-ways they knew well, and never paused until they stood before the yourtar, and roused the sleeping wife and children. By morning all was gone. There was no trace of yesterday's camp, except the brown circle of downtrodden grass where the tent had stood. The two men, the woman and the children, were tramping harmlessly along the highroad southward, towards the yourtar whither Cravatz had withdrawn.

It was past midnight when, with a rush and a crash of breaking wood, the horses galloped madly into the stableyard at Savlinsky, having broken one wheel off the tarantasse against the gate-post. Vronsky, who was restless and feverish, heard the uproar, and sent his servant, who slept in his room, to find out what had happened.

The man returned, chalk-white, and shaking as with ague. The carriage had returned, but it contained neither Felix nor Max. Its only occupant was--was the corpse of Streloff, the young clerk, murdered by a bullet wound in the temple.

The single shot fired by the policeman--the shot that killed Streloff--did not rouse the sleeping village. There was nobody to see the party of kidnappers slip in among the trees with their bound victims, nor to watch them unloose their bonds as soon as darkness covered them.

There was not, nevertheless, a moment to be lost, for the dawn was hard upon their heels, and all must re-enter the Governor's domain unseen. They separated. Only one remained as a guide with Felix and his servant, the others melted away into the forest in various directions. The guide kept them going at a swift trot, along a wood-cutter's path, and in several places over tracts where there was no path. If they came to a place where footmarks were perceptible he covered them up before proceeding. But in most places, on the hard, dry summer ground, their feet left no trace. On they went, on and on, the dawn shimmering down each instant with a more direct threat of daylight. Soon the north-east was on fire with rose-red light, as if it must burst into flame in a few minutes more. Trails of gossamer drifted across the eyes of Felix as he ran, the gray Siberian squirrels ran up the smooth trunks, the birds began to chatter and call. At last, when it seemed they had run for hours, they found themselves breasting a steep hill, where their feet slipped perpetually in the pine needles, and their guide, with infinite labor, had to obliterate their tracks by brushing them with a branch of pine foliage.

At last they reached the high wall or palisade of untrimmed fir trunks which protected the Governor's grounds from the forest.

Along it they moved, battling here with rank undergrowth which grew in profusion wherever trees had been cut down. At last came a door; their guide inserted a key. They slipped through, and found themselves in a long dim green alley.

It seemed to Felix that it reached to the end of the world. His head was swimming, his feet sticky with something that ran down his legs into his boots. But he staggered on, holding on to Max, who did not seem at all distressed; and at last dragged himself into a small room, where stood a table with food and drink, and the Governor himself advanced, with hand outstretched.

"All well?" he asked. "I was a little anxious. You are later than you should have been by nearly an hour."

"There was more than one ambush," began Felix; but, to his own surprise, his voice failed, and the room rocked round him. He made a dizzy step forward and lurched. But the arms of Max behind upheld him.

"Unfasten his coat," said the servant, himself still breathless with the flight. "Unless I am much mistaken he has been losing blood all the way."

"Blood!" echoed the Governor. "Was there an accident, then?"

"There were real murderers afoot, your Excellency, as well as sham ones," said Max. "If your men had not been there, who can tell what might have happened?"

He had opened Felix's shirt at the throat. The whole of his clothing was soaked and saturated with blood. A handkerchief which the policeman had hurriedly pushed in was scarlet and dripping.

"Good heavens! This was not my fault?" cried the Governor, in horror.

"No, indeed, my Lord. As I say, it is a good thing your men were in the way. They have saved his life," said Max, gathering his master into his arms. "Before they tell you more may we carry him to bed, and stop this bleeding?"