Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

But his comrade groaned and staggered. Jaim Ali's cloth was about his throat. The knot was drawn tight.

  The girl gave a startled gasp, and was pulled from her mule by strong hands. A rumal passed over her slender throat, and the Muslim strangler watched until her frail, twisted features had frozen into quietude. The thags gave no heed to the escaped Punjabi.

  But presently Dhurum Khan, who was watching, saw two of his comrades slip from the shadows at the side of the road and bury their knives in the body of the fugitive.

  This done the slayers stepped aside and burial thags took their places. The three bodies were carried quickly to the newly dug grave. There they were stabbed under the armpits to make certain of their death. Skillfully the earth was piled over them.

  Some coolies, passing by the spot presently, saw a group of jovial merchants seated about a fire, some asleep, others sorting out the contents of the packs of the mules with them. The coolies went on, not suspecting that the bodies of the three Punjabis were under the ashes of the fire.

  When they had gone the throng came to Jaim Ali and bent before him. He stood proudly beside Bhawani Bukta.

  “He is a slayer!” they cried. “He has done well.”

  Unstinted admiration was in the words. Dhurum Khan smiled.

  “We will eat gur,” he proclaimed, “in honor of my son.”

  They partook solemnly of the rich and heady sugar, which is doctored highly by the thags. It was in one a food, a sweet and a stimulant. But the brow of the jemadar was not altogether clear. He was gratified by his son's success, no less than by the omens. But he still doubted because of the forbidden slaying of the woman. Perhaps he should have kept her to be the wife of his son.

  “A shadow lies over us,” he announced gravely.

  “Perchance,” admitted Bhawani Bukta, “for no other good omens have appeared since to indicate the approval of Kali.”

  “It is an evil thing,” said Dhurum Khan.

  A heavy silence fell upon the group who looked at their two leaders. The jemadar lifted his head in decision.

  “My share of the spoil,” he announced, “I will give to the Brahmans. But more we must do to avert the shadow. Else must we return to the village, and that is not wonted.”

  They waited expectantly. They had committed the murders with the dreadful skill of which they were masters. They considered that they had but done what was fated, that the gods were pleased.

  “Six days will we pray,” said Dhurum Khan, “and the place we will pray will be the presence of one who is high in our faith. We will go just beyond the mouth of the Ghar and rest there. Thus we will pray and lighten the shadow. For my doubt is heavy.”

  Thus it happened that Khlit and Abdul Dost, riding fast along Ghar Pass, found the way free of slayers, nor did they set eyes upon a thief, because the slaying of the woman had led the gang back toward Pawundur.

  III

  The shrine of Naga is covered with weeds. It is hidden in the forest. The passersby see it not. Other shrines have they built and worshipped.

  Many have cried, “Naga is dead!"

  Does a god die? Nay. For the passerby, parting the leaves of the forest, will see the stones of the shrine and one who watches thereon.

  The wind of the foothills of the Siwaliks whistled up the Ghar Pass, stirring the ferns that clung to the giant oaks and sounding a strange tune as it pierced the tall, fragile bamboos.

  Quivering, the delicate stems of the bamboos bent and nodded to the wind. The sound grew to a melodious, multitudinous whistle. For many hands had made holes in the bamboo stalks cunningly, leaving round apertures for the passage of the wind. Its coming was heralded up the pass as it bore the heavy scent of decaying lush grass and the odor of dying dahlias and jasmine.

  Vividly the sun etched the shadows of the bamboo leaves and touched the moss on the piles of stone about the tower foot. A man, squatting against a stone, lifted his face to the sun and sighed.

  His form was like that of a bamboo, lean so that the bones of his shoulders, ribs and arms showed through his gleaming brown skin. A turban of immaculate white muslin bound his head tightly. His beard grew low on his naked chest. His dark face was stamped with weariness.

  “Little Kehru,” he chanted gravely, “I hear you. You are coming through the sirki grass, walking like a panther upon your four limbs. You are holding your breath, and just now you gave the hiss of a contented cobra.”

  The man's eyes were closed but he pointed directly at a clump of grass, tall as an elephant's back, which was waving strangely in the wind.

  “Little Kehru,” he said mildly, “our friends, the sweet bamboo stalks which we cook and eat, you and I, they also are making a hiss. But the sound of a snake is not like to the rustle of the grass. And the sound of your coming is like the trot of a fat pig. I hear you.”

  The clump of grass was still a moment, then a child burst from it, laughing. He was naked except for a clean breech-clout. In a basket slung to his back he carried some mangoes.

  “You were awaiting me, Ram Gholab,” he accused. “Soon I will deceive you, O grandsire, and I will pounce upon you like a falcon that has marked a sparrow in the thicket. O, I am clever. I am wise. Grrh-uugh! I will pounce upon you someday and then you will laugh. Now you never laugh.”

  The lad reached his grandfather's knee and laid down the fruit. Ram Gholab reached forward and felt of it approvingly. Kehru might have been ten years of age. Probably he had no reckoning of the years. In his estimation he was already growing to the stature of a warrior. Was he not sole master, with of course Ram Gholab, of the upper Ghar?

  “What saw you, O Kehru?”

  “I saw that the kites have left the thicket far, far down where they flew to feast during the last moon—the thicket by the jumna bank. I saw no fishermen in the upper river. There were no feet marks in the upper trail, save those of sleek agni.”

  “No horses have passed upward?”

  “Nay. Only, I saw the white crane of Saravasti and harkened to the talk of the bandur.”

  “Were the bandur clamorous or slothful?”

  “Aye—they called to me lazily, as if their bellies were full. All is well, they said, though not in words. They would have liked me to climb the trees, but I was running.”

  Kehru stretched himself proudly. “How well I run!” he said reflectively. “Soon I will keep pace with the antelope of the plain. But I would rather ride a horse. Why have not you a pony, Ram Gholab?”

  “I have no silver. How could I have silver, O one-of-small-reason?”

  “There is plenty in the inner cavern where—”

  “That is forbidden.” A stern note crept into the mild voice of the old man. “It is kept for our master.”

  “The fat ameer?”

  Curiosity was mirrored in the boy's changing face. He was fathoming new depths. Ram Gholab talked little.

  “Nay. Who is the Muslim but a slave of a slave? The master I named is Lord of Lords. He also is a Muslim by prayer, yet his mother was a Hindu and we of Pawundur serve him because of this.”

  “I have no mother. I am a free man.” Thus Kehru soliloquized while Ram Gholab listened gravely. “The Lord of Lords is the Mogul. That is true. I know. He never goes forth except upon a picked elephant, and when he sets foot to ground the earth quakes. He has warriors as many as the ants in the sand-heaps. I have seen some riding through the villages when I climbed the trees of the lower forest. They had plumes on their turbans and the sun shone on their mail. Why have not you a bright scimitar, grandsire?”

  “It is not lawful. My caste bears not weapons.”

  “But I do not want to play upon a pipe. I would like a horse between my legs and a good sword to cut off the heads of my enemies.”

  Ram Gholab's eyes puckered. He had not once opened them. The sadness deepened in his face.

  “It is in the blood,” he murmured. “Yet how may I who am blind teach the use of sword?” He took up a reed-like instrument and set it to his lips. “Eat, Kehr
u,” he said. “I have brought grapes.”

  While the boy munched the fruit, Ram Gholab played upon his pipe. One at a time from various crevices in the stones issued cobras. They moved slowly toward the two, their beautiful brown and purple-green forms twisting lazily.

  “Is the milk set for their eating?” questioned the master of the snakes.

  “Aye,” responded the child from a full mouth.

  A hooded cobra had crept across his foot. Kehru lifted it partially between his toes with a slow, caressing motion and set it down farther away. The shrill, sweet notes of the pipe went on.

  Suddenly Ram Gholab ceased, and at the same instant Kehru lifted his shaggy head. The ears of each were equally keen, but the hearing of the elder was more significant, from the experience of years. Some of the snakes moved away.

  “Horses—several,” mused Ram Gholab. “Two by their gait bear riders.”

  The boy had wriggled away, carefully stepping over the snakes, and darted to the clump of grass from which he had recently emerged. This point gave on the half-overgrown trail to Ghar Tower.

  “Two strange warriors,” he called softly, “and two led horses.” The snake charmer nodded.

  “Perhaps, Kehru,” he assented, “they have come—whom we awaited. Hide until I am certain of this thing. Are they armed?” “Both. They have swords as big as my leg.”

  Kehru hid himself instantly in the grass. A crashing of bamboo stems, a quick thud-thud of tired horses spurring up a slope, and Khlit and Abdul Dost drew rein before the watchman of Ghar.

  “Ho!” cried the Muslim, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “This is an evil place to find. We were not told that Ghar was a ruin and veiled in the forest.”

  He was about to swing down from his horse, but hesitated. “By the face of the Prophet! Never have I seen so many snakes!” “Soon they will go,” said Ram Gholab calmly. “But speak your names and your mission in Ghar.”

  Abdul Dost did so in broken Hindustani, eyeing the snakes alertly. Khlit glanced curiously over the tumble-down tower and the stone-heaps.

  “The ameer,” grumbled Abdul Dost, “warned of certain slayers in the forest. Bismillah! We have slept in our saddles and crossed the river thrice to escape pursuit, but not a thief has shown his evil face.”

  “It is well you did so. They are afoot. Throw me the letter.” Abdul Dost did so. Ram Gholab felt toward the sound of the paper striking the earth and picked it up. He felt of the seal.

  “He is blind,” observed Khlit.

  “A strange watchman!”

  Ram Gholab smiled under his beard.

  “I have other eyes,” he said. “Kehru! Come, light a fire before me.”

  The boy emerged from his nook, staring round-eyed at the tall warriors. He fetched dried sticks, leaves and a flint-stone. This he struck skillfully until the spark caught in the leaves.

  When a small flame was flickering brightly, Ram Gholab extended the blank letter Abdul Dost had given him over the fire. He waited until it had become alight. It burned slowly in his fingers, and the two horsemen smelled a strong odor, strange to them, that resembled musk.

  Then the Hindu withdrew careful from a knot in his own girdle a similar sheet of white parchment. He burned this also, sniffing at the odor. Apparently he was content.

  “It is well,” he said. “You have come from the fat slave of the Mogul.”

  Khlit mused upon the unusual method of identification and realized its advantages. As the ameer had said, no one seizing upon the missive would know for what it was intended. And certainly, despite his blindness, Ram Gholab was not easily to be deceived. He did not know, however, that a further precaution had been adopted.

  “Dismount,” instructed the snake charmer, “and tether your horses in the grove at the rear of the tower. There they will be less likely to step upon the snakes.”

  “The snakes!” cried Abdul Dost. “You mean the horses will be safer there.”

  “Nay. What I have said is the truth. Here the cobras are worshipers at the shrine within the tower. It is the shrine of Nagi. Molest them not. And likewise beware of them for your own sake.”

  He picked up a great, mottled cobra and showed its poison fangs intact.

  “By allah!” muttered Abdul Dost to himself. “If one moves toward me Nagi will lack a worshiper.”

  He was beginning to understand why the tower of Ghar was safe from intruders.

  “Come, O watchman of the snakes, our bellies yearn and we are weary of dried meal cakes. Give us food.”

  Ram Gholab rose and moved back to the tower in the manner of one who well knew his way. Khlit and his comrade followed, after seeing to the comfort of their horses.

  The tower itself, although in ruinous condition, was of more recent building than the shrine it surmounted. Khlit scrambled over the stone-heaps—not without a wary eye for the cobras despite the stout, yak-hide boots he wore—into the rear postern gate. Here he found Kehru busied in preparation of porridge, milk, curried rice and mangoes.

  Wide-eyed, the boy gazed on the tall warrior, noting Khlit's broad leather belt and smooth, leather boots, his black sheepskin hat, and the gold chasing on his scabbard. He marked the swagger of the Cossack—the walk of a man better accustomed to a saddle than the earth. And he drew in his breath with a hiss of admiration.

  Khlit gazed at the framework of the tower. A broad aperture opened into the older shrine of Nagi. The shrine was of stained marble, without window or light of any kind. A rough flight of granite steps led up to the second story of the tower where Abdul Dost, doubtless mindful of the worshipers of Nagi, had persuaded Ram Gholab that the two warriors would prefer to spread their saddlecloths for sleep.

  Having satisfied himself that the place contained no other inmates, the Cossack yawned, stretched and seated himself upon a wooden bench by the fire. He produced his black Cossack pipe and a small sack of what passed in China for tobacco. Kehru blinked and stared.

  Khlit filled his pipe with tobacco, a rare delicacy that he husbanded with care in this land where the merits of the weed were as yet unknown. He picked a burning stick from the fire and lit the pipe, drawing into his lungs a mixture of smoking hemp, opium, and noxious weeds that would have instantly nauseated a man of less hardened constitution.

  “Aie!” cried Kehru, sitting back on the stone floor abruptly.

  “Chota hazeri!” grumbled Khlit, nodding at the food.

  He knew but a word or two of Hindustani, picked up from Abdul Dost, but his gesture was significant. Kehru resumed the stirring of the pot and twining together of plantain leaves, which were his only plates. His eyes shone. Verily, here was a man of authority who took his ease right royally and indulged in a noteworthy solace, such as a man should!

  He grinned and shook the trailing hair back from his eyes. He extended a mess of curry to Khlit who immediately fell-to with his fingers. Kehru was astonished as well as delighted. This tall warrior with the scarred face and swaggering feet had not only the bearing but the appetite of a warlike god.

  Kehru hastily added more rice to the pot. He had measured the hunger of the two riders by the slender needs of himself and old Ram Gholab. A thought came to him. Khlit had appeared ill content with the frugal fare.

  “Wait but the space that water boils,” he chattered, “and the thrice-born chieftain may taste what is more fitting to his manlike gullet.”

  Assuring himself by a crafty glance that Ram Gholab was not within hearing, Kehru flitted from the tower. He ran to a thicket and dug with his hands into a hollow covered with cypress branches. He disclosed the body of a small antelope. An arrow had transfixed the beautiful beast behind the forelegs.

  Kehru had gratified his ambition toward prowess by fashioning a slight bow with which he had become wonderfully skilled. An arrow was silent, and Ram Gholab, whose caste prohibited the taking of animal life, could not see its flight. But, alone, the boy had not dared to cook his prey. Also he would not eat meat. But the tall warrior quite evidently h
ad stronger tastes.

  Somewhat doubtfully he showed the dead antelope to the Cossack, who sniffed it appraisingly and took it readily.

  “Ha!” he muttered, well pleased, and Kehru smiled joyfully.

  In a trice Khlit had cut off a hind quarter, which he skinned with his dagger swiftly and tossed into the pot. Then impatiently he swept the whole of the boy's stock of wood upon the fire until it roared hotly and the water boiled.

  This done, be nodded in friendly fashion to Kehru and stretched himself beyond the heat of the blaze, his sword near his right hand, and was asleep in a moment. Kehru harkened to his snores and crept nearer to gaze upon the splendidly engraved curved scabbard. He touched the weapon fleetingly in admiration.

  At once Khlit was awake, his eyes hard, and the hilt of the sword close-gripped in a ready hand. Seeing only the startled boy, his tense figure relaxed and Kehru breathed again, well understanding that he had been close to death.

  When Abdul Dost climbed down to the fire, attracted by the smell of meat, he found Khlit heartily engaged upon the antelope quarter, half-cooked.

  “Ho!” remarked the Muslim. “The smell is good. How was the beast slain?”

  Khlit was well acquainted with the Mohammedan scruples as to food.

  “In fitting fashion,” he remarked dryly. “Eat.”

  Abdul Dost sniffed and sat down. He tried some of the fruit and curry, eyeing the rapidly vanishing meat enviously.

  “Ram Gholab says that peril awaits us on our return,” he observed.

  “Then will you need more strength, Abdul Dost. Eat, therefore.”

  The Muslim needed no further urging. When the food had vanished and the fire was cooling into ashes, he lay back on his cloak contentedly.

  “You and I are marked by the slayers, Khlit,” he said, “as a hare is marked by a goshawk. So says Ram Gholab. The slayers have doubtless seen us as we came hither. They have knowledge of the treasure—eh,” he broke off, “then why have they not attacked the tower, O watcher of the snakes?”

  The Hindu pointed into the dark shrine.

  “Nag guards what is there. The thag fears the cobras. Likewise, it is their custom to slay only upon a journey. If they marched against a dwelling they would fear the anger of Kali.”