Captain Armand Jacot of the Foreign Legion sat upon anoutspread saddle blanket at the foot of a stunted palm tree.His broad shoulders and his close-cropped head rested inluxurious ease against the rough bole of the palm. His longlegs were stretched straight before him overlapping the meagerblanket, his spurs buried in the sandy soil of the littledesert oasis. The captain was taking his ease after a longday of weary riding across the shifting sands of the desert.

Lazily he puffed upon his cigarette and watched his orderlywho was preparing his evening meal. Captain Armand Jacot waswell satisfied with himself and the world. A little to his rightrose the noisy activity of his troop of sun-tanned veterans,released for the time from the irksome trammels of discipline,relaxing tired muscles, laughing, joking, and smoking as they,too, prepared to eat after a twelve-hour fast. Among them, silentand taciturn, squatted five white-robed Arabs, securely boundand under heavy guard.

It was the sight of these that filled Captain Armand Jacot withthe pleasurable satisfaction of a duty well-performed. For along, hot, gaunt month he and his little troop had scoured theplaces of the desert waste in search of a band of marauders tothe sin-stained account of which were charged innumerable theftsof camels, horses, and goats, as well as murders enough to havesent the whole unsavory gang to the guillotine several times over.

A week before, he had come upon them. In the ensuing battlehe had lost two of his own men, but the punishment inflictedupon the marauders had been severe almost to extinction. A halfdozen, perhaps, had escaped; but the balance, with the exceptionof the five prisoners, had expiated their crimes before the nickeljacketed bullets of the legionaries. And, best of all, the ringleader, Achmet ben Houdin, was among the prisoners.

From the prisoners Captain Jacot permitted his mind to traversethe remaining miles of sand to the little garrison post where,upon the morrow, he should find awaiting him with eager welcomehis wife and little daughter. His eyes softened to the memoryof them, as they always did. Even now he could see the beautyof the mother reflected in the childish lines of little Jeanne'sface, and both those faces would be smiling up into his as heswung from his tired mount late the following afternoon.Already he could feel a soft cheek pressed close to each ofhis--velvet against leather.

His reverie was broken in upon by the voice of a sentry summoninga non-commissioned officer. Captain Jacot raised his eyes. The sun had not yet set; but the shadows of the few treeshuddled about the water hole and of his men and their horsesstretched far away into the east across the now golden sand. The sentry was pointing in this direction, and the corporal,through narrowed lids, was searching the distance. Captain Jacotrose to his feet. He was not a man content to see through the eyesof others. He must see for himself. Usually he saw things longbefore others were aware that there was anything to see--a traitthat had won for him the sobriquet of Hawk. Now he saw, justbeyond the long shadows, a dozen specks rising and fallingamong the sands. They disappeared and reappeared, but alwaysthey grew larger. Jacot recognized them immediately. They werehorsemen--horsemen of the desert. Already a sergeant was runningtoward him. The entire camp was straining its eyes into the distance. Jacot gave a few terse orders to the sergeant who saluted, turnedupon his heel and returned to the men. Here he gathered a dozenwho saddled their horses, mounted and rode out to meet the strangers. The remaining men disposed themselves in readiness for instant action. It was not entirely beyond the range of possibilities that thehorsemen riding thus swiftly toward the camp might be friends ofthe prisoners bent upon the release of their kinsmen by asudden attack. Jacot doubted this, however, since the strangerswere evidently making no attempt to conceal their presence. They were galloping rapidly toward the camp in plain viewof all. There might be treachery lurking beneath their fairappearance; but none who knew The Hawk would be so gullible asto hope to trap him thus.

The sergeant with his detail met the Arabs two hundred yardsfrom the camp. Jacot could see him in conversation with atall, white-robed figure--evidently the leader of the band. Presently the sergeant and this Arab rode side by side toward camp. Jacot awaited them. The two reined in and dismounted before him.

"Sheik Amor ben Khatour," announced the sergeant by wayof introduction.

Captain Jacot eyed the newcomer. He was acquainted with nearlyevery principal Arab within a radius of several hundred miles. This man he never had seen. He was a tall, weather beaten, sourlooking man of sixty or more. His eyes were narrow and evil. Captain Jacot did not relish his appearance.

"Well?" he asked, tentatively.

The Arab came directly to the point.

"Achmet ben Houdin is my sister's son," he said. "If youwill give him into my keeping I will see that he sins no moreagainst the laws of the French."

Jacot shook his head. "That cannot be," he replied. "I musttake him back with me. He will be properly and fairly tried bya civil court. If he is innocent he will be released."

"And if he is not innocent?" asked the Arab.

"He is charged with many murders. For any one of these, ifhe is proved guilty, he will have to die."

The Arab's left hand was hidden beneath his burnous. Now hewithdrew it disclosing a large goatskin purse, bulging andheavy with coins. He opened the mouth of the purse and let ahandful of the contents trickle into the palm of his right hand--all were pieces of good French gold. From the size of the purseand its bulging proportions Captain Jacot concluded that it mustcontain a small fortune. Sheik Amor ben Khatour dropped thespilled gold pieces one by one back into the purse. Jacot waseyeing him narrowly. They were alone. The sergeant, havingintroduced the visitor, had withdrawn to some little distance--his back was toward them. Now the sheik, having returned allthe gold pieces, held the bulging purse outward upon his openpalm toward Captain Jacot.

"Achmet ben Houdin, my sister's son, MIGHT escape tonight,"he said. "Eh?"

Captain Armand Jacot flushed to the roots of his close-cropped hair. Then he went very white and took a half-step toward the Arab. His fists were clenched. Suddenly he thought better of whateverimpulse was moving him.

"Sergeant!" he called. The non-commissioned officer hurried towardhim, saluting as his heels clicked together before his superior.

"Take this black dog back to his people," he ordered. "See thatthey leave at once. Shoot the first man who comes within rangeof camp tonight."

Sheik Amor ben Khatour drew himself up to his full height.His evil eyes narrowed. He raised the bag of gold level with theeyes of the French officer.

"You will pay more than this for the life of Achmet ben Houdin,my sister's son," he said. "And as much again for the name thatyou have called me and a hundred fold in sorrow in the bargain."

"Get out of here!" growled Captain Armand Jacot, "beforeI kick you out."

All of this happened some three years before the opening of this tale. The trail of Achmet ben Houdin and his accomplices is a matter ofrecord--you may verify it if you care to. He met the death hedeserved, and he met it with the stoicism of the Arab.

A month later little Jeanne Jacot, the seven-year-old daughterof Captain Armand Jacot, mysteriously disappeared. Neither thewealth of her father and mother, or all the powerful resourcesof the great republic were able to wrest the secret of herwhereabouts from the inscrutable desert that had swallowed herand her abductor.

A reward of such enormous proportions was offered that manyadventurers were attracted to the hunt. This was no case for themodern detective of civilization, yet several of these threwthemselves into the search--the bones of some are alreadybleaching beneath the African sun upon the silent sands ofthe Sahara.

Two Swedes, Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn, after three years offollowing false leads at last gave up the search far to the southof the Sahara to turn their attention to the more profitablebusiness of ivory poaching. In a great district they were alreadyknown for their relentless cruelty and their greed for ivory. The natives feared and hated them. The European governments inwhose possessions they worked had long sought them; but,working their way slowly out of the north they had learned manythings in the no-man's-land south of the Sahara which gave themimmunity from capture through easy avenues of escape that wereunknown to those who pursued them. Their raids were suddenand swift. They seized ivory and retreated into the tracklesswastes of the north before the guardians of the territory theyraped could be made aware of their presence. Relentlessly theyslaughtered elephants themselves as well as stealing ivory fromthe natives. Their following consisted of a hundred or morerenegade Arabs and Negro slaves--a fierce, relentless band ofcut-throats. Remember them--Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn,yellow-bearded, Swedish giants--for you will meet them later.

In the heart of the jungle, hidden away upon the banks of asmall unexplored tributary of a large river that empties into theAtlantic not so far from the equator, lay a small, heavilypalisaded village. Twenty palm-thatched, beehive huts shelteredits black population, while a half-dozen goat skin tents in thecenter of the clearing housed the score of Arabs who found shelterhere while, by trading and raiding, they collected the cargoes whichtheir ships of the desert bore northward twice each year to themarket of Timbuktu.

Playing before one of the Arab tents was a little girl of ten--ablack-haired, black-eyed little girl who, with her nut-brown skinand graceful carriage looked every inch a daughter of the desert. Her little fingers were busily engaged in fashioning a skirt ofgrasses for a much-disheveled doll which a kindly disposed slavehad made for her a year or two before. The head of the doll wasrudely chipped from ivory, while the body was a rat skin stuffedwith grass. The arms and legs were bits of wood, perforated atone end and sewn to the rat skin torso. The doll was quitehideous and altogether disreputable and soiled, but Meriemthought it the most beautiful and adorable thing in the wholeworld, which is not so strange in view of the fact that it wasthe only object within that world upon which she might bestowher confidence and her love.

Everyone else with whom Meriem came in contact was, almostwithout exception, either indifferent to her or cruel. There was,for example, the old black hag who looked after her, Mabunu--toothless, filthy and ill tempered. She lost no opportunityto cuff the little girl, or even inflict minor tortures upon her,such as pinching, or, as she had twice done, searing the tenderflesh with hot coals. And there was The Sheik, her father. She feared him more than she did Mabunu. He often scolded herfor nothing, quite habitually terminating his tirades by cruellybeating her, until her little body was black and blue.

But when she was alone she was happy, playing with Geeka, ordecking her hair with wild flowers, or making ropes of grasses. She was always busy and always singing--when they left her alone. No amount of cruelty appeared sufficient to crush the innatehappiness and sweetness from her full little heart. Only whenThe Sheik was near was she quiet and subdued. Him she fearedwith a fear that was at times almost hysterical terror. She fearedthe gloomy jungle too--the cruel jungle that surrounded the littlevillage with chattering monkeys and screaming birds by day and theroaring and coughing and moaning of the carnivora by night. Yes, she feared the jungle; but so much more did she fear The Sheikthat many times it was in her childish head to run away, out intothe terrible jungle forever rather than longer to face the everpresent terror of her father.

As she sat there this day before The Sheik's goatskin tent,fashioning a skirt of grasses for Geeka, The Sheik appearedsuddenly approaching. Instantly the look of happiness fadedfrom the child's face. She shrunk aside in an attempt to scramblefrom the path of the leathern-faced old Arab; but she was notquick enough. With a brutal kick the man sent her sprawlingupon her face, where she lay quite still, tearless but trembling.Then, with an oath at her, the man passed into the tent. The old,black hag shook with appreciative laughter, disclosing an occasionaland lonesome yellow fang.

When she was sure The Sheik had gone, the little girl crawledto the shady side of the tent, where she lay quite still, huggingGeeka close to her breast, her little form racked at long intervalswith choking sobs. She dared not cry aloud, since that wouldhave brought The Sheik upon her again. The anguish in her littleheart was not alone the anguish of physical pain; but thatinfinitely more pathetic anguish--of love denied a childish heartthat yearns for love.

Little Meriem could scarce recall any other existence than thatof the stern cruelty of The Sheik and Mabunu. Dimly, in theback of her childish memory there lurked a blurred recollectionof a gentle mother; but Meriem was not sure but that even thiswas but a dream picture induced by her own desire for the caressesshe never received, but which she lavished upon the much loved Geeka. Never was such a spoiled child as Geeka. Its little mother,far from fashioning her own conduct after the example set her byher father and nurse, went to the extreme of indulgence. Geeka waskissed a thousand times a day. There was play in which Geeka wasnaughty; but the little mother never punished. Instead, shecaressed and fondled; her attitude influenced solely by her ownpathetic desire for love.

Now, as she pressed Geeka close to her, her sobs lessenedgradually, until she was able to control her voice, and pourout her misery into the ivory ear of her only confidante.

"Geeka loves Meriem," she whispered. "Why does The Sheik,my father, not love me, too? Am I so naughty? I try tobe good; but I never know why he strikes me, so I cannot tellwhat I have done which displeases him. Just now he kicked meand hurt me so, Geeka; but I was only sitting before the tentmaking a skirt for you. That must be wicked, or he would nothave kicked me for it. But why is it wicked, Geeka? Oh dear! I do not know, I do not know. I wish, Geeka, that I were dead.Yesterday the hunters brought in the body of El Adrea.El Adrea was quite dead. No more will he slink silentlyupon his unsuspecting prey. No more will his great head andhis maned shoulders strike terror to the hearts of the grasseaters at the drinking ford by night. No more will histhundering roar shake the ground. El Adrea is dead. They beat his body terribly when it was brought into the village;but El Adrea did not mind. He did not feel the blows, for hewas dead. When I am dead, Geeka, neither shall I feel the blowsof Mabunu, or the kicks of The Sheik, my father. Then shall Ibe happy. Oh, Geeka, how I wish that I were dead!"

If Geeka contemplated a remonstrance it was cut short by soundsof altercation beyond the village gates. Meriem listened.With the curiosity of childhood she would have liked to have rundown there and learn what it was that caused the men to talkso loudly. Others of the village were already trooping in thedirection of the noise. But Meriem did not dare. The Sheik wouldbe there, doubtless, and if he saw her it would be but anotheropportunity to abuse her, so Meriem lay still and listened.

Presently she heard the crowd moving up the street towardThe Sheik's tent. Cautiously she stuck her little head aroundthe edge of the tent. She could not resist the temptation,for the sameness of the village life was monotonous, and shecraved diversion. What she saw was two strangers--white men. They were alone, but as they approached she learned from thetalk of the natives that surrounded them that they possessed aconsiderable following that was camped outside the village. They were coming to palaver with The Sheik.

The old Arab met them at the entrance to his tent. His eyesnarrowed wickedly when they had appraised the newcomers.They stopped before him, exchanging greetings. They had cometo trade for ivory they said. The Sheik grunted. He had no ivory.Meriem gasped. She knew that in a near-by hut the great tuskswere piled almost to the roof. She poked her little head furtherforward to get a better view of the strangers. How white their skins! How yellow their great beards!

Suddenly one of them turned his eyes in her direction. She triedto dodge back out of sight, for she feared all men; but he saw her. Meriem noticed the look of almost shocked surprise that crossedhis face. The Sheik saw it too, and guessed the cause of it.

"I have no ivory," he repeated. "I do not wish to trade. Go away. Go now."

He stepped from his tent and almost pushed the strangersabout in the direction of the gates. They demurred, and thenThe Sheik threatened. It would have been suicide to havedisobeyed, so the two men turned and left the village, makingtheir way immediately to their own camp.

The Sheik returned to his tent; but he did not enter it. Instead hewalked to the side where little Meriem lay close to the goat skinwall, very frightened. The Sheik stooped and clutched her bythe arm. Viciously he jerked her to her feet, dragged her tothe entrance of the tent, and shoved her viciously within. Following her he again seized her, beating her ruthlessly.

"Stay within!" he growled. "Never let the strangers see thy face. Next time you show yourself to strangers I shall kill you!"

With a final vicious cuff he knocked the child into a far cornerof the tent, where she lay stifling her moans, while The Sheikpaced to and fro muttering to himself. At the entrance sat Mabunu,muttering and chuckling.

In the camp of the strangers one was speaking rapidly to the other.

"There is no doubt of it, Malbihn," he was saying. "Not theslightest; but why the old scoundrel hasn't claimed the rewardlong since is what puzzles me."

"There are some things dearer to an Arab, Jenssen, thanmoney," returned the first speaker--"revenge is one of them."

"Anyhow it will not harm to try the power of gold," replied Jenssen.

Malbihn shrugged.

"Not on The Sheik," he said. "We might try it on one of hispeople; but The Sheik will not part with his revenge for gold. To offer it to him would only confirm his suspicions that we musthave awakened when we were talking to him before his tent. If wegot away with our lives, then, we should be fortunate."

"Well, try bribery, then," assented Jenssen.

But bribery failed--grewsomely. The tool they selected aftera stay of several days in their camp outside the village was atall, old headman of The Sheik's native contingent. He fell tothe lure of the shining metal, for he had lived upon the coastand knew the power of gold. He promised to bring them what theycraved, late that night.

Immediately after dark the two white men commenced to makearrangements to break camp. By midnight all was prepared. The porters lay beside their loads, ready to swing themaloft at a moment's notice. The armed askaris loiteredbetween the balance of the safari and the Arab village,ready to form a rear guard for the retreat that was to beginthe moment that the head man brought that which the whitemasters awaited.

Presently there came the sound of footsteps along the path fromthe village. Instantly the askaris and the whites were onthe alert. More than a single man was approaching. Jenssen steppedforward and challenged the newcomers in a low whisper.

"Who comes?" he queried.

"Mbeeda," came the reply.

Mbeeda was the name of the traitorous head man. Jenssen wassatisfied, though he wondered why Mbeeda had brought otherswith him. Presently he understood. The thing they fetchedlay upon a litter borne by two men. Jenssen cursed beneathhis breath. Could the fool be bringing them a corpse? They had paid for a living prize!

The bearers came to a halt before the white men.

"This has your gold purchased," said one of the two. They setthe litter down, turned and vanished into the darkness towardthe village. Malbihn looked at Jenssen, a crooked smile twistinghis lips. The thing upon the litter was covered with a piece of cloth.

"Well?" queried the latter. "Raise the covering and see whatyou have bought. Much money shall we realize on a corpse--especially after the six months beneath the burning sun that willbe consumed in carrying it to its destination!"

"The fool should have known that we desired her alive,"grumbled Malbihn, grasping a corner of the cloth and jerkingthe cover from the thing that lay upon the litter.

At sight of what lay beneath both men stepped back--involuntary oaths upon their lips--for there before themlay the dead body of Mbeeda, the faithless head man.

Five minutes later the safari of Jenssen and Malbihnwas forcing its way rapidly toward the west, nervous askarisguarding the rear from the attack they momentarily expected.