Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 146 No. 4 — page 41: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

DOWN THE COAST OF BARBARY. die. Finding nothing more, Spence bound the Moor and left him. He struck into a gallop after his own party, and within twenty minutes had come up with them. Then, not pausing, he pushed them on at all speed, for time was precious in the extreme. When the true dawn glimmered into day- light, they halted beside a rivulet to water and refresh the horses. Here Spence in- spected the paper he had captured. It was a note written in Arabic, and neither the girl nor Yimnah could read it, so he called in the Spahis. From their reading, Mis- tress Betty translated the note. It was un- signed, and was addressed simply to Gho- lam Mahmoud. It read: The hawk is at Arzew and rides south. Catch him this side Udijde or his talons will be plunged into El Magrib. Slay him. Lay the snare at the Cisterns, with Allah’s help! ** Ah!” exclaimed Mistress Betty eager- ly. “ By ‘ the hawk’ is meant Mulai Ali— this must be from a spy! They know he is coming! The Cisterns is a place west of Tlemcen on the highway.” “And Gholam Mahmoud, he of the twisted face, is ahead,” said Spence. * Well, forewarned is forearmed! How far have we come?” “ Nearly halfway.” She pointed ahead. “There is the Maila River; beyond, the Sharf el Graab, or Raven Crag—that high pinnacle of rock. At the river I shall show you a famous place.” Thankful that she seemed cheerful, even gay, Spence called to horse. They rode on. Within ten minutes they halted at the river ford. Here the high banks were gul- lied to a depth of fifteen feet; a dense growth of trees concealed*the river and op- posite bank. The girl turned to Spence with a glow in her eyes, pointing to the sandy beach and ford. “T used to read in an old French book,” she said, “ how, when the Spaniards were catching the great pirate Barbarossa, they pursued him to a river, where he scattered all his treasure, hoping in that way to delay them. “T even remember the words: ‘ JI /ais- soit couler de tems en tems de Vor et de 511 Vargent par le chemin. This is the very place, where we are standing! It was here that he strewed his gold and silver—” The words died suddenly on her lips. The Spahis also had been speaking of Bar- barossa, for this place was famous in le- gend; they were now silent, staring. Spence looked up swiftly. A rough, boisterous voice had risen ahead —a voice that sang in reckless gayety; a Spanish voice, twanging out the vowels with peasant whine. Some one was approaching from the other side of the ford. Spence looked at the Spahis, made a swift gesture. They wheeled their horses and vanished among the trees. The voice of the singer came closer. The eunuch, Yimnah, baring his _ scimitar, slipped from fhe saddle and glided forward to the masking trees. Then he was back, his thick lips chattering words of fear, his limbs trembling. “ He says it is the ghost of Barbarossa,” said Mistress Betty. Spence chuckled. “Wait here, then.” His musket ready, he urged the horse forward into the gully. Here he waited, motionless, looking at the man splashing and singing as he made his way across the shallows. A big and burly man he was. The ruf- fianly face bore a spade beard and two enormous mustaches, all of flaming red, matching his long hair. Not until the horse plunged at the bank did the man see Spence sitting there above him. He clapped hand to sword—a long blade at his hip. Spence threw back his cowl, and the man cried out in surprise: “Ha! A Christian!” “No biustering, senor,” said Spence sternly. ‘‘ Your name and errand.” The glittering eyes drove to right and left as the bushes crackled. He saw that he was ambushed, and a sudden laugh burst from his lips. No Moor, this, but a Span- jard. “Well met, caballero!” he cried jovially. “My name is Lazaro de Polan, though in some parts I am known as Barbarroja. I am a soldier by trade; can teach you tricks with saber or espadsic) Hiss{ero