The Air Patrol: A Story of the North-west Frontier
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INTRODUCTORY
A summer afternoon was dwindling to night over a wild solitude among theborderlands of Northern India. The sun had already left the deepspacious valley, wherein, as the light waned, the greens changed tobrowns, the browns deepened to black, and the broad silver band thatdenoted a stream flowing along the bottom was dulled to the hue of lead.On the west, the harsh and rugged features of the mountains, towering toincalculable heights, were softened by the increasing shade; while thesnowy summits, flushed by the declining rays, were scarcelydistinguishable from the roseate clouds. Away to the east, where thesunlight still lingered, the huge mountain barrier showed everygradation of tone, from the greenish-black of the pine forest at thefoot, through varieties of purple and grey, to the mingled pink and goldof the topmost crests. Every knob and fissure on the scarred face wasdefined and accentuated, until, as the curtain of shadow stole graduallyhigher, outlines were blurred, and the warm tints faded into drabs andgreys.
Along the front of the mountains on the west there was a road--a track,rather, which might have seemed to the fancy to be desperately clingingto the rugged surface, lest it were hurled into the precipitous valleybeneath. It followed every jut and indentation of the rock, herebroadening, narrowing there until it was no more than a shelf; withtwists and bends so abrupt and frequent that it would have been hard tofind a stretch of fifty yards that could have been called straight.
Three horsemen were riding slowly northward along this mountain road,picking their way heedfully over its inequalities, edging nearer to thewall of rock on their left hand as they came to spots where a false stepwould have carried them into the abyss. To a distant observer it wouldhave appeared as though they were moving without support on the veryface of the mountain. They wore European garments, and the briefestinspection of their features would have sufficed to tell that they wereEnglishmen. Behind them, at some little distance, rode eight or tenbearded men of swarthy hue, whose turbans, tunics, and long bootsproclaimed them as sowars of a regiment of Border cavalry. Stillfarther behind, in a long straggling line, came a caravan of ladenmules, each in charge of a half-naked Astori. The tail of this singularprocession, perhaps a mile behind the head, consisted of two nativetroopers like those who preceded them.
It was now nearly dark. Presently the three Englishmen halted, and theeldest of them, turning in his saddle, addressed a few words in Urdu tothe dafadar of the sowars behind. The riders, English and native alike,dismounted, and led their horses up a slight ascent to the left, haltingagain when they reached a stretch of level ground which the leader hadmarked as a suitable camping place. A thin rill trickled musically downat the edge of this convenient plateau, forming a small quagmire in itspassage across the track, and plunging over the brink to merge in thebroader stream, now obliterated by the night, hundreds of feet below.The three Englishmen tethered their horses to some young pines thatbounded the level space, then sat themselves upon a neighbouring rock,lit their pipes, and looked on in silence as the dusky troopers removedtheir saddle-bags and stood in patient expectancy.
By and by the head of the mule train appeared along the winding track.They came up one by one, and now the evening stillness was broken as themuleteers stripped their loads from the weary beasts, and with shrilland voluble chatter spread about the impedimenta of the camp. Quickly atent was pitched, cooking pots were set up; and the Englishmen felt thatcomfortable glow which envelops travellers at the near prospect ofsupper after a long and toilsome march. The meal was almost ready whenthe end of the caravan arrived, and the two rearmost sowars rejoinedtheir comrades, with no other sound than a guttural grunt ofsatisfaction.
The Englishmen were eating their food, too hungry and fatigued to talk,when one of them, looking southward along the track, suddenly pointed toa figure approaching on foot, scarcely discernible in the fast-gatheringdarkness. On this lonely road, which they had ridden the whole day longwithout meeting a single human being, the appearance of the stranger hadfor them something of the curious interest which one passing ship hasfor another in the ocean solitudes. They watched the figure as it grewmore distinct--a tall gaunt man, naked save for a strip of cloth abouthis loins, long hair flowing wild over his shoulders, no staff in hishand, neither pack nor wallet upon his back. There was something weirdand fascinating about this solitary figure, as it stalked on rapidlywith long even stride, the head turning neither to left nor right. Thenewly-pitched camp was fully in his view, but the pedestrian gave it noheed. He came below it on the track, but neither altered his pace norlooked up when one of the muleteers shouted a salutation. Even when theeldest of the Englishmen, in the tone of one accustomed to be obeyed,challenged him sharply in the native tongue, and demanded whither he wasgoing, the man did not turn his head or slacken speed, but merely liftedhis lean right arm and pointed ahead, where the path disappeared in thegloom.
"What is your business?" asked the Englishman again.
And the reply came faintly back from the man, who had already passed by,and spoke without checking his step.
"I AM A SHARPENER OF SWORDS!"
And he vanished into the night.