When I regained consciousness it was night again.
I was lying upon the ground, out beneath the
stars. For a moment I experienced a sense of
utter comfort, but as my tired nerves awoke they spoke to
me of pain and stiffness from many wounds, and my head
throbbed with pain. I tried to raise a hand to it, and it was
then that I discovered that my wrists were bound. I could
feel the matted stiffness of my scalp, and I knew that it
was caked with dried blood, doubtless from the blow that
had stunned me.
In attempting to move, that I might ease my cramped
muscles, I found that my ankles were fastened together as
well as my wrists, but I managed to roll over, and raising
my head a little from the ground I looked about and saw
that I was surrounded by sleeping Kalkars and that we lay
in a barren hollow ringed by hills. There were no fires,
and from this fact and the barrenness and seclusion of the
camp I guessed that we were snatching a brief rest in hiding
from a pursuing foe.
I tried to sleep, but could do so only fitfully, and presently
I heard men moving about and soon they approached
and awakened the warriors sleeping near me. The thongs
were removed from my ankles shortly thereafter, and Red
Lightning was brought and I was helped into the saddle.
Immediately after, we resumed the march. A glance at the
stars showed me that we were moving west. Our way led
through hills and was often rough, evidencing that we were
following no beaten trail, but rather that the Kalkars were
attempting to escape by a devious route.
I could only guess at the numbers of them, but it was
evident that there was not the great horde that had set
forth from the battlefield below the pass of the ancients.
Whether they had separated into smaller bands, or the balance
had been slain I could not even conjecture; but that
their losses must have been tremendous I was sure. We
travelled all that day, stopping only occasionally when there
was water for the horses and the men. I was given neither
food nor water, nor did I ask for either. I would die
rather than ask a favor of an Or-tis. In fact, I did not
speak all that day, nor did any of the Kalkars address me.
I had seen more Kalkars in the past two days than in
all my life before and was now pretty familiar with the
appearance of them. They range in height from six to
eight feet, the majority of them being midway between
these extremes. There is a great variety of physiognomy
among them, for they are a half-caste race, being the result
of hundreds of years of interbreeding between the original
Moon Men and the women of the Earth whom they seized
for slaves when they overran and conquered the world.
Among them there is occasionally an individual who might
pass anywhere for a Yank, in so far as external appearances
are concerned; but the low, coarse, brutal features of
the Kalkar preponderate.
They wear a white blouse and breeches of cotton woven
by their slaves and long, woolen cloaks fabricated by the
same busy hands. Their women help in this work as well
as in the work of the fields, for the Kalkar women are no
better than slaves, with the possible exception of those who
belong to the families of the Jemadar and his nobles. Their
cloaks are of red, with collars of various colors, or with
borders or other designs to denote rank. Their weapons
are similar to ours, but heavier. They are but indifferent
horsemen. That, I think, is because they ride only from
necessity and not, as we, from love of it.
That night, after dark, we came to a big Kalkar camp.
It was one of the camps of the ancients, the first that I
ever had seen. It must have covered a great area, and
some of the huge stone tents were still standing. It was in
these that the Kalkars lived or in dirt huts leaning against
them. In some places I saw where the Kalkars had built
smaller tents from the building materials salvaged from the
ruins of the ancient camp, but as a rule they were satisfied
with hovels of dirt, or the half-fallen and never-repaired
structures of the ancients.
This camp lies about forty-five or fifty miles west of the
battlefield, among beautiful hills and rich groves, upon the
banks of what must once have been a mighty river, so
deeply has it scoured its pathway into the earth in ages
gone.[2]
[2]
The camp described probably occupies the site of present-day
Pasadena.
I was hustled into a hut where a slave woman gave me
food and water. There was a great deal of noise and excitement
outside, and through the open doorway I could
hear snatches of conversation as Kalkars passed to and fro.
From what I heard, I gathered that the defeat of the Kalkars
had been complete and that they were flying toward
the coast and their principal camp, called The Capital, which
the slave woman told me lay a few miles southwest. This,
she said, was a wonderful camp, with tents reaching so
high into the heavens that often the Moon brushed against
their tops as she made her way through the sky.
They had released my hands, but my feet were still bound
and two Kalkars squatted just outside the door of the hut
to see that I did not escape. I asked the slave woman for
some warm water to wash my wounds and she prepared
it for me. Not only that, the kindly soul saw to my wounds
herself, and after they had been cleansed she applied a healing
lotion which greatly soothed them, and then she bound
them as best she could. I felt much refreshed by this, and
with the food and drink in me was quite happy, for had I
not accomplished what my people had been striving after
for a hundred years—a foothold on the western coast?
This first victory had been greater than I had dared to
hope, and if I could but escape and rejoin my people I felt
that I could lead them to the waters of the ocean with
scarce a halt while the Kalkars still were suffering the demoralization
of defeat.
It was while I was thinking these thoughts that a Kalkar
chief entered the hut. Beyond the doorway the score of
warriors that had accompanied him, waited.
“Come!” commanded the Kalkar, motioning me to arise.
I pointed to my tethered ankles.
“Cut his bonds,” he directed the slave woman.
When I was free, I arose and followed the Kalkar without.
Here the guard surrounded me and we marched away
between avenues of splendid trees such as I never had seen
before, to a tent of the ancients, a partially ruined structure
of imposing height that spread over a great area of ground.
It was lighted upon the inside by many flares and there were
guards at the entrance and slaves holding other flares.
They led me into a great chamber that must be much as
the ancients left it, though I had seen from the outside
that in other places the roof of the tent had fallen in and
its walls were crumbling. There were many Kalkars in
this place, and at the far end of the room, upon a platform,
one sat alone on a huge, carved bench—a bench with
a high back and arms.
I was led before this man. He had a thin face and a
long, thin nose, and cruel lips and crafty eyes. His features,
however, were good. He might have passed in any company
as a full-blood Yank. My guard halted me in front
of him.
“This is he, Jemadar,” said the chief who had fetched
me.
“Who are you?” demanded the Jemadar, addressing me.
His tone did not please me. It was unpleasant and dictatorial.
I am not accustomed to that, even from equals,
and a Julian has no superiors. I looked upon him as scum.
Therefore I did not reply.
He repeated his question angrily. I turned to the Kalkar
chief who stood at my elbow. “Tell this man that he is
addressing a Julian,” I said, “and that I do not like his
manner. Let him ask for it in a more civil tone if he wishes
information.”
The eyes of the Jemadar narrowed angrily. He half rose
from his bench. “A Julian!” he exclaimed. “You are all
Julians—but you are the Julian. You are the Great Chief
of the Julians. Tell me,” his tone became suddenly civil,
almost ingratiating, “is it not true that you are the Julian,
The Red Hawk who led the desert hordes upon us?”
“I am Julian 20th, The Red Hawk,” I replied; “and
you?”
“I am Or-tis, the Jemadar,” he replied.
“It has been long since an Or-tis and a Julian met,” I
said.
“Heretofore they always have met as enemies,” he replied.
“I have sent for you to offer peace and friendship.
For five hundred years we have fought uselessly and senselessly
because two of our forebears hated one another.
You are the 20th Julian, I am the 16th Or-tis. Never before have
we seen one another; yet we must be enemies.
How silly!”
“There can be no friendship between a Julian and an
Or-tis,” I replied, coldly.
“There can be peace,” he said, “and friendship will come
later, maybe long after you and I are dead. There is room
in this great, rich country for us all. Go back to your
people. I will send an escort with you and rich presents.
Tell them that the Kalkars would share their country with
the Yanks. You will rule half of it and I will rule the
other half. If the power of either is threatened, the other
will come to his aid with men and horses. We can live in
peace and our people will prosper. What say you?”
“I sent you my answer yesterday,” I told him. “It is
the same today—the only peace that you and I can share
is the peace of death. There can be but one ruler for this
whole country and he will be a Julian—if not I, the next
in line. There is not room in all the world for both Kalkar
and Yank. For three hundred years we have been driving
you toward the sea. Yesterday we started upon the final
drive that will not stop until the last of you has been driven
from the world you ruined. That is my answer, Kalkar.”
“Take him away,” cried the Jemadar. “Send this message
to his people: I offer them peace on these terms—they
may have all the country east and southeast of a straight
line drawn from the pass of the ancients south to the sea;
we will occupy the country to the west and northwest of that
line. If they accept I will send back their Great Chief. If
they refuse, he will go to The Butcher, and remind them
that he will not be the first Julian that an Or-tis has sent to
The Butcher. If they accept, there are to be no more wars
between our people.”
They took me back then to the hut of the old slave woman
and there I slept until early morning, when I was awakened
by a great commotion without. Men were shouting orders
and cursing as they ran hurriedly to and fro. There was
the trampling of horses’ feet, the clank and clatter of trappings
of war. Faintly, as from a great distance, I heard
presently, a familiar sound and my blood leaped in answer.
It was the war cry of my people, and beneath it ran the
dull booming of their drums.
“They come!” I must have spoken aloud, for the old
slave woman turned toward me.
“Let them come,” she said. “They cannot be worse
than these others, and it is time that we changed masters.
It has been long now since the rule of the ancients, who,
it is said, were not unkind to us. Before them were other
ancients, and before those still others. Always they came
from far places, ruled us and went their way, displaced by
others. Only we remain, never changing. Like the coyote,
the deer and the mountains we have been here always. We
belong to the land, we are the land—when the last of our
rulers has passed away we shall still be here, as we were
in the beginning—unchanged. They come and mix their
blood with ours, but in a few generations the last traces
of it have disappeared, swallowed up by the slow, unchanging
flood of ours. You will come and go, leaving no trace;
but after you are forgotten we shall still be here.”
Now Kalkars entered the hovel. They came hurriedly
and as hurriedly departed, taking me with them. My wrists
were tied again and I was almost thrown upon Red Lightning’s
back. A moment later we were swallowed up by
the torrent of horsemen surging toward the southwest.
Less than two hours later we were entering the greatest
camp that man has ever looked upon. For miles we rode
through it, our party now reduced to the score of warriors
who guarded me. The others had halted at the outskirts
of the camp to make a stand against my people and as we
rode through the strange trails of the camp we passed thousands
upon thousands of Kalkars rushing past us to defend
The Capital.
We passed vast areas laid out in squares, as was the custom
of the ancients, a trail upon each side of the square,
and within, the grass-grown mounds that covered the fallen
ruins of their tents. Now and again a crumbling wall
raised its ruin above the desolation, or some more sturdily
constructed structure remained almost intact except for
fallen roof and floors. As we advanced, we encountered
more and more of the latter, built of that strange, rock-like
substance, the secret of which has vanished with the ancients.
My guard turned in beneath the high arched entrance of
a mighty structure. From the filth of its spacious floor
rose mighty columns of polished stone, richly variegated.
The tops of the columns were carved and decorated in colors
and in gold. The place was filled with horses, tied to long
lines that stretched almost the length of the room, from
column to column. At one end a broad flight of stone steps
led upward to the second floor. After we had dismounted
I was led up these steps. There were many Kalkars coming
and going. We passed them as I was conducted along
a narrow avenue of polished white stone upon either side
of which were openings in the walls leading to other chambers.
Through one of these openings we turned into a large
chamber, and there I saw again the Or-tis whom I had seen
the night before. He was standing before one of the openings
overlooking the trail below, talking with several of his
nobles. One of the latter glanced up and saw me as I entered,
calling the Jemadar’s attention to me. Or-tis faced
me. He spoke to one near him who stepped to another
opening in the chamber and motioned to someone without.
Immediately a Kalkar guard entered bringing a youth of
one of my desert clans. At sight of me the young warrior
raised his hand to his forehead in salute.
“I give you another opportunity to consider my offer of
last night,” said the Or-tis, addressing me. “Here is one
of your own men who can bear your message to your people
if you still choose to condemn them to a futile and
bloody struggle and with it he will bear a message from me—that
you go to The Butcher in the morning if your warriors
do not retire and your chiefs engage to maintain peace
hereafter. In that event you will be restored to your people.
If you give me this promise yourself, you may carry your
own message to the tribes of Julian.”
“My answer,” I replied, “is the same as it was last night,
as it will be tomorrow.” Then I turned to the Yank warrior.
“If you are permitted to depart, go at once to The
Vulture and tell him that my last command is that he carry
The Flag onward to the sea. That is all.”
The Or-tis was trembling with disappointment and rage.
He laid a hand upon the hilt of his sword and took a step
toward me; but whatever he intended, he thought better of
it and stopped. “Take him above,” he snapped to my
guard; “and to The Butcher in the morning. I will be
present,” he said to me, “to see your head roll into the
dust and your carcass fed to the pigs.”
They took me from the chamber then and led me up and
up along an endless stairway, or at least it seemed endless
before we finally reached the highest floor of the great tent.
There they pushed me into a chamber the doorway to which
was guarded by two giant warriors.
Squatted upon the floor of the chamber, his back leaning
against the wall, was a Kalkar. He glanced up at me as I
entered, but said nothing. I looked about the bare chamber,
its floor littered with the dust and debris of ages, its
walls stained by the dirt and grease from the bodies that
had leaned against it, to the height of a man. I approached
one of the apertures in the front wall. Far below me, like
a narrow buckskin thong, lay the trail filled with tiny people
and horses no bigger than rabbits. I could see the pigs
rooting in the filth—they and the dogs are the scavengers
of the camp.
For a long time I stood looking out over what was to me
a strange landscape. The tent in which I was confined was
among the highest of the nearer structures of the ancients,
and from its upper floor I could see a vast expanse of tent
roofs, some of the structures apparently in an excellent
state of preservation, while here and there a grass-grown
mound marked the site of others that had fallen. Evidences
of fire and smoke were numerous and it was apparent
that whatever the ancients had built of other materials
than their enduring stone had long since disappeared,
while many of the remaining buildings had been gutted by
flame and left mere shells, as was attested by hundreds of
smoke-blackened apertures within the range of my vision.
As I stood gazing out over distant hills beyond the limits
of the camp I became aware of a presence at my elbow.
Turning I saw that it was the Kalkar whom I had seen
sitting against the wall as I entered the chamber.
“Look well, Yank,” he said, in a not unpleasant voice,
“for you have not long to look.” He was smiling grimly.
“We have a wonderful view from here,” he continued;
“on a clear day you can see the ocean and the island.”
“I should like to see the ocean,” I said.
He shook his head. “You are very near,” he said, “but
you will never see it. I should like to see it again, myself;
but I shall not.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I go with you to The Butcher in the morning,” he replied, simply.
“You?”
“Yes, I.”
“And why?”
“Because I am a true Or-tis,” he replied.
“Why should they send an Or-tis to The Butcher?” I
demanded. “It is not strange that an Or-tis should send
me, the Julian; but why should an Or-tis send an Or-tis?”
“He is not a true Or-tis who sends me,” replied the man,
and then he laughed.
“Why do you laugh?”
“Is it not a strange joke of Fate,” he cried, “that sees
the Julian and the Or-tis going to The Butcher together?
By the blood of my sires! I think our feud be over, Julian,
at least so far as you and I are concerned.”
“It can never be over, Kalkar,” I replied.
He shook his head. “Had my father lived and carried
out his plans, I think it might have ended,” he insisted.
“While an Or-tis and a Julian lived? Never!”
“You are young, and the hate that has been suckled into
you and yours from your mothers’ breasts for ages runs
hot in your veins; but my father was old and he saw things
as few of my kind, I imagine, ever have seen them. He
was a kindly man and very learned, and he came to hate
the Kalkars and the horrid wrong the first Or-tis did the
world and our people when he brought them hither from
the Moon, even as you and yours have hated them always.
He knew the wrong and he wished to right it. Already he
had planned means whereby he might get into communication
with the Julians and join with them in undoing the
crime that our ancestor committed upon the world. He
was Jemadar, but he would have renounced his throne to
be with his own kind again. Our blood strain is as clear
as yours—we are Americans. There is no Kalkar or half-breed
blood in our veins. There are perhaps a thousand
others among us who have brought down their birthright
unsullied. These he would have brought with him, for they
all were tired of the Kalkar beasts.
“But some of the Kalkar nobles learned of the plan, and
among them was he who calls himself Or-tis and Jemadar.
He is the son of a Kalkar woman by a renegade uncle of
mine. There is Or-tis blood in his veins, but a drop of
Kalkar makes one all Kalkar, therefore he is no Or-tis.
“He assassinated my father, and then set out to exterminate
every pure-blood Or-tis and all those other uncontaminated
Americans who would not swear fealty to him.
Some have done so to save their hides, but many have gone
to The Butcher. In so far as I know, I am the last of the
Or-tis line. There were two brothers and a sister, all
younger than I. We scattered and I have not heard of
them since, but I am sure that they are all dead.
“Yes, if my father had lived the feud might have been
ended; but tomorrow The Butcher will end it. However,
the other way would have been better. What think you,
Julian?”
I stood meditating in silence for a long time. I wondered
if, after all, the dead Jemadar’s way would not have
been better.
