Rawhide Robinson Rides a Dromedary Page 12

  Rawhide Robinson tossed a sheaf of the poison weed over the fence and brushed the residue off the palms of his hands. “I don’t know what it is, either. But I can guess how it got here.”

  “Hasan,” said Harry.

  “Hasan,” Major Wayne agreed.

  “Hasan!!” added Ensign Scott.

  “&^@)*!” said Whitman Fitzgerald.

  Hurry squatted in the dust studying a sprig of the strange plant. “I know what it is. I think I know.”

  “What?” came the chorus.

  “From the East come the two-humped camels. The slow, lumbering ones. I have talked from time to time with their handlers when they come in a caravan. I wanted to understand those strange animals that are camels, but unlike camels—”

  “Huri!” Harry said. “What is it?!”

  “One of them told me of a plant of many varieties that grows in a faraway place called Mongolia. Shiir, he called those plants. He did not know if it has a name in our tongue. The plant makes camels—and goats and horses and sheep—sick like these, if I remember rightly what he said to me. I do not know. But I think this is shiir.”

  “Mongolia is a long way from here,” Major Wayne said. “Who on earth around here would even know about this poison weed, let alone get their hands on some?”

  The chorus came at once: “Hasan!”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Fitzgerald said. “He is as ingenious as he is devious. I do not doubt the man’s cunning drives him to acquire all manner of tools for accomplishing his evil schemes.”

  “The question is,” Wayne said, “what do we do now? Will these camels recover?”

  It was a question no one could answer. Then, Rawhide Robinson said, “If it’s anything like locoweed, it could go either way. If they didn’t get too much they might pull through. If they ate a lot, they may not get over it, and stay loco. They could even die.”

  “Is there any treatment?”

  “None that I know of. They get over it in a day or two on their own or they don’t. Some folks I knew would try to get the horse to drink a lot of water to push it on through. But I don’t guess that would work with these critters.”

  Wayne thought.

  And thought.

  Then thought some more.

  “I guess all we can do is wait and see.”

  “I will wait. I will see,” Hurry said, blinking back tears.

  “You will not be safe here,” Harry said. “If it is Hasan, he will try again. He will send Balaban to take care of you—and the camels.”

  Hurry laughed without mirth. “Balaban. That domuz does not frighten me. I will stay.”

  “Yes, he is a pig—but still, Huri—”

  “Do not worry, Harry,” Major Wayne said. “We will post a guard. I am confident Captain Clemmons will concur. Ensign Scott, will you see to it?”

  A snappy salute and crisp “Yes, sir! I will watch over the girl myself, if necessary. And the camels, of course.”

  Harry looked skeptical. “But the danger—”

  “I wouldn’t worry none, Harry,” Rawhide Robinson said. “If Balaban does show up, I don’t believe he could lay hands on Hurry. Besides, I’m fixing to stay here and look after these camels. And I’ll feel a whole lot safer knowing that girl’s here looking after me.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  * * *

  With the intense heat of his ire, Whitman Fitzgerald feared blisters would rise on the rims of his ears. But neither his florid complexion nor the fire in his eyes affected Midhat Pasha, who sat cross-legged on his cushion sipping tea and sucking smoke from a hookah pipe.

  “But you are the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire!” the diplomat said. “Surely there is something you can do!”

  “My concerns are much larger than the acquisition of camels by the American army. As you are aware, our empire is teetering on the brink and there are crises aplenty that demand my attention. You must address your concerns to the local authorities. I soon return to Istanbul and my duties there.”

  “You know as well as I do that Hasan has all of Smyrna in his pocket. No one in this city dares lift a finger against him.”

  Midhat exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke and sipped at his tea. The first sign that he may be troubled by Fitzgerald’s rant came when he removed his fez and mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief.

  “I should think,” Fitzgerald said, “that given the political difficulties you allude to, a strong alliance with the United States would serve you well.” After allowing the Turk’s laughter to subside, he said, “I know you think we are nothing but an upstart nation and that is true in terms of our longevity. But I can assure that America is destined to become a world power.”

  “We shall see. In another century, maybe two, we shall see.” The Grand Vizier assumed the American diplomat would recognize that as a dismissal, but Whitman Fitzgerald did not rise from his cushion or otherwise give ground. He again harangued the Grand Vizier with his complaints, asking—demanding, in diplomatic language—the aid and assistance of the Ottoman Empire in bringing Hasan Hussein to bay.

  Midhat said, “Hasan, as you are well aware, is a powerful man. Although I do not deal personally with such trash, he does, as you say, have the attention of local leaders here in Smyrna. We hear of his exploits even in Istanbul. But he is—how do you say it?—but a flea annoying the ear of the empire. I cannot waste time with such trivialities.”

  “Surely there is something you can do.”

  Following more silent and thoughtful sipping and smoking, Midhat Pasha brightened. “It is camels you are after, and camels Hasan denies you—that is so?”

  “That is so.”

  “Then I, Midhat Pasha, Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire, shall gift you with a glorious camel! This marvelous beast from the royal stock will put to shame any other camel you shall acquire and represent well the strength of the Ottoman Empire to the people of America!”

  “One camel? Only one camel!?”

  “Ah, but he is a grand camel, as you shall see. Now I must move along to other business, Mister Fitzgerald. See my assistant to arrange delivery of the generous gift of my magnificent beast. As for further acquisitions, you must do as you must do. Deal with Hasan Hussein as best you can.”

  The day was growing late when Fitzgerald’s carriage rolled away from the palatial estate the Grand Vizier occupied when visiting Smyrna. The gift of a camel did nothing to relieve his sense of failure.

  Even as Whitman Fitzgerald failed, Rawhide Robinson found success. But his joy would be short-lived.

  The cowboy and Hurry had spent the night tending the ailing camels while sailors stood guard. There wasn’t much they could do beyond encouraging the camels to drink, try to calm those who were overly active, and keep the inactive ones up and around.

  Hurry’s connection with the camels impressed Rawhide Robinson all over again and throughout the night he dogged her heels, asking questions about the beasts and observing her actions. When dawn broke, he believed time—and her ministrations—had done their work and all the animals appeared healthy, or nearly so.

  “You fellers might as well go back to the boat,” he told the sailors, sleepy from their night duty. “I don’t suppose that monster of a man or his master will try anything in broad daylight with me and Hurry standing by. Tell Major Wayne the camels seem to be over the worst of it.”

  “Yes, sir!” the sailors said with what passed for snappy salutes at that early (or late) hour. As they stumbled off toward the city and the waterfront, Rawhide Robinson settled into the long sunrise shade of a haystack, plopped his thirteen-gallon hat over his face and studiously studied the crown for holes until his eyelids slammed shut and slumber ensued.

  Hurry, for her part, propped herself against a fence post meaning to keep an eye on the camels, but that eye—and its mate—soon grew heavy and she, too, dozed until mid-day.

  The snort of a camel interrupted her slumber and she leaped to her feet as if on springs. Her action startled Balab
an and he dropped the rucksack he carried and pulled a revolver from the sash at his waist. Instinctively protecting the camels, Hurry ducked under the fence rails and ran past the giant, slowing only to kick him in the shin.

  Gun in hand, Balaban turned and fired. Hurry seemed to anticipate the shot and dodged at the last moment. Another shot missed as she darted in the opposite direction, and yet another as she dived into a roll, regained her feet, and ducked away again as a bullet kicked up the dust behind her.

  The racket awakened Rawhide Robinson, who found his feet with six-shooter in hand. Whether through luck, providence, or skilled marksmanship (Rawhide Robinson believed the first but would claim the last) his shot found its mark—sort of. The giant let loose a bellow as the bullet struck his gun hand, sending the weapon winging through the air. He roared again, grabbed the offended hand, clutched it to his chest and lumbered off at top speed.

  “Hurry! You all right?”

  The girl dusted off her clothes. “Yes. Balaban is a fool and cannot shoot a gun. He could not hit the wide side of a camel with a bucket of barley.”

  Hurried footsteps announced the arrival of Major Benjamin Wayne, accompanied by Ensign Ian Scott, Harry, and a handful of sailors from the USS Cordwood.

  Major Wayne, between labored breaths, said, “Good heavens, Robinson! What happened? We heard shooting.”

  “Oh, it weren’t nothing. That oversized feller of Hasan’s dropped by for a visit. We sent him on his way.”

  “What was he up to?”

  “Didn’t ask. Truth is, I was napping when he showed up. Didn’t dream he’d try anything in the daytime. I woke up when he started throwing lead at Hurry here.”

  Ensign Ian assured himself the girl was unhurt. Harry checked on the camels. Wayne asked Hurry if Balaban had said anything.

  “No, sir, he did not. When he saw me he dropped that haversack over there and started shooting. I was never in any danger. Balaban is a fool. And inept with firearms.”

  Rawhide Robinson said, “I don’t know how good a shot that goon is, but I don’t believe Annie Oakley her own self could shoot that girl, quick as she is. Why, Hurry was bouncing around amidst all them flying blue whistlers like a billiard ball. I swear she plumb outrun some of them bullets!”

  “Sir!” one of the sailors shouted, holding the giant’s rucksack upside down and shaking out dried stems and leaves.

  “Looks like he intended to give the camels another dose of his poison,” the major said. “Robinson, did you return fire?”

  “I did. I must have hit something ’cause he left here a-cussin’ up a storm.”

  “Major Wayne, have a look at this,” Ensign Scott said. “Rawhide, you might want to see this, too.”

  The young officer stood over Balaban’s revolver where it lay in the dust.

  “I’d say there’s no doubt that you hit him, or where. Look at that.”

  The cowboy and the army officer squatted over the pistol for a closer look.

  “Well butter me like a biscuit!” Rawhide Robinson said.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” Major Wayne said.

  “It is a wonder,” Ensign Scott said.

  The sailors and the girl, by now gathered round the spectacle, voiced similar astonishment.

  Balaban’s pistol looked ordinary enough. But the fact that an index finger was still wrapped around the trigger was extraordinary.

  “He’ll have a heck of a time shootin’ at anyone else,” Rawhide Robinson said.

  Wonder still hung thick in the air when interrupted—then enhanced—by the tinkling of a bell. Plodding into the camel yard came a beast as big among camels as Balaban among men.

  Major Wayne broke the silence of astonishment. “Glory be, what can that be?”

  Not only was the camel conspicuous by his size, his accoutrements could attract a crowd. Halter, reins, blanket, saddle, packs—everything was artistically tooled, richly embroidered, bedecked with jewels. It sparkled and shined, glimmered and glistened, flickered and flashed. The shimmering camel stopped and Whitman Fitzgerald stepped out from among the rays, haloed in their glow.

  “Well, if it ain’t Whit Fitz himself,” Rawhide Robinson said.

  “I come bearing gifts. Yesterday afternoon, I demanded and was granted an audience with Midhat Pasha, Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire who happens to be visiting Smyrna. My request for assistance in reining in Hasan was denied, but in recompense for your present difficulties in acquiring camels, Midhat makes this gift.”

  The men stared in awe. Hurry hotfooted it over to the camel and stroked its nose, scratched its neck, rubbed its shoulders, and otherwise introduced herself.

  “I ain’t seen a whole lot of camels,” the cowboy said, “but that thing don’t look like no camel I ever seen.”

  “He is a tulu,” Hayri said.

  “?” came the response from the Americans.

  “A tulu. His mother is a dromedary, like the camels we have purchased. But his father is a Bactrian camel—the two-humped variety from the East.”

  “He’s sure enough a big ol’ thing,” Rawhide Robinson said.

  “I make him to be at least ten feet long and seven high,” Ensign Ian Scott observed.

  “The tulu is known for size and strength,” Harry said. “They grow larger than either parent, and their feats of strength and power are remarkable.”

  “Then why don’t folks use them more, if they’re so good?”

  Major Wayne had the answer to that question from the cowboy, remembering having read of the tulu—also known as a bukht, a bertuar, dromano, dromel, iner, iver, majen, nar, turkoman, yaml, and a variety of other names depending on where you were in the world of camels. “The tulu are no good for breeding purposes. Like the mule, they are hybrids.”

  Harry said, “I am told they are more popular in other places as work animals. But in the camel markets they are not prevalent.”

  Whitman Fitzgerald said, “Gentlemen, the animal is yours. If you refuse the gift, an international incident could ensue.” He turned and walked away. Two steps later he stopped. “By the way—the man there,” he said, pointing at the handler, who was as richly adorned as his charge, “is Ibrahim. He comes with the camel.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  * * *

  Back aboard the USS Cordwood, the officers and sailors gathered round to hear of Rawhide Robinson’s latest exploits with the camels. But it was not of himself the cowboy spoke, it was of the girl he called Hurry.

  “I’ll tell you, boys, that girl Hurry is really something. She measures a full sixteen hands high and she’s brass plated. She knows camels inside and out and is as brave as any man I’ve ever seen and would put most to shame in the courage department. Where I come from, we say ‘she’d do to ride the river with.’ I reckon she’ll do to cross the sea with, too—and if Major Wayne don’t bring her along to help with them camels, he’ll have me to deal with. I swear, Hurry’s way with them critters is something to behold. Her kind of knowing is as rare as rocking horse manure.”

  The sailors murmured and mumbled, groused and griped, groaned and moaned, bellyached and babbled at the prospect of a young girl aboard ship, but the cowboy did not back down. “Boys,” he said, “Once you see that girl in action, you’ll be as surprised as I am. You’ll plumb forget she ain’t but a bit of a girl when you come to know her pluck.”

  Seeing his audience remained unconvinced, Rawhide Robinson related the story of her leaping from the haystack onto the back of Balaban, likely saving her uncle’s life. “Boys, she rode that strappin’ feller like he was a salty bronc. He spun and he lunged but he couldn’t no more buck her off than an Irish girl can than throw the freckles off her nose!”

  He told how she put a stop—and a sudden one at that—to the giant’s attempted escape. “Whilst all us men was still bouncin’ and rollin’ around on the ground from bein’ upset by ol’ Balaban, Hurry was after him. She ran him down like a rope horse and tripped him up like he was a bunch-quittin’
beef. She handled that lariat like a regular ranahan, I tell you. You couldn’t trip a steer no more neat with a stout horse and a saddle horn to dally to than that girl tripped that brawny ol’ bull Balaban, barehanded and barefooted.”

  Still sensing skepticism in the crowd, the cowboy articulated her courage in the face of gunplay, her valor in drawing fire away from the camels, her haste in escaping harm, her audacity in attacking the oversized aggressor with a swift kick in the shin, her quickness in dodging bullets, her speed in evading hot lead.

  “I’ll tell you, boys, you’d have to see it to believe it. In all my born days, I ain’t seen nothing to compare to that girl Hurry. The only thing I ever saw that fast was a horse I owned once.”

  For a moment, Rawhide Robinson was lost in reminiscence, recalling said steed.

  “Say, did I ever tell you boys about the time I found myself dodging bullets on that horse?”

  A chorus of “no” rang out from the crowd, and immediately the men settled in for a tale.

  “Here’s how it happened. And I swear, every word of it’s true.

  “We had delivered a herd of Texas cattle to Dodge City and me being the trail boss, I had saddlebags full of gold and the responsibility of carrying it to the owners back down in Texas. Somewheres out in Indian Territory, I sensed someone was following me. So I hid out in a little stand of cottonwoods along a creek to see if them hairs was standin’ up on the back of my neck for a reason.

  “Soon enough, four fellers rode over the rise and from the look of them I could see they was up to no good. They was packin’ more iron than Sherman’s army, what with long guns hanging from their saddle strings and revolvers holstered to their saddle forks and hanging from their waists. And when I seen that each of them had a pistol in hand, with hammers cocked and fingers on the trigger, it didn’t take no Isaac Newton to calculate what they was up to.

  “They rode on down to where they wasn’t skylined—a sure sign they knew their business—then reined up to look things over. They knowed I was there, but couldn’t be sure where so they watched and waited.