by Talbot Mundy
Who stays to watch trouble woos trouble!
But lo!
They trotted together to hunt one doe,
Eyeing each other with ears laid back.
When King awoke he lay on a comfortable bed in a cave he had never yet seen, but there was no trace of Yasmini, nor of the men who must have carried him to it. Barbaric splendor and splendor that was not by any means barbaric lay all about — tiger skins, ivory-legged chairs, graven bronze vases, and a yak-hair shawl worth a rajah’s ransom.
The cave was spacious and not gloomy, for there was a wide door, apparently unguarded, and another square opening cut in the rock to serve as a window. Through both openings light streamed in like taut threads of Yasmini’s golden hair — strings of a golden zither, on which his own heart’s promptings played a tune.
He had no idea how long he had slept, but judged from memory of his former need of sleep and recogntion of his present freshness — and from the fact that it was a morning sun that shone through the openings — that he must have slept the clock round.
It did not matter. He knew it did not matter in the least. He had no more plan than a mathematician has who starts to solve a problem, knowing that twice two is four in infinite combination. Like the mathematician, he knew that he must win.
No man ever won a battle or conceived a stroke of statesmanship, no great deed was ever accomplished without a first taste of the triumphant foreknowledge, such as comes only to men who have digged hard, hewing to the line, loyal to first principles. King had been loyal all his life.
The difference between first principles and the other thing could hardly be better illustrated than by comparing Yasmini’s position with his. From her point of view he had no ground to stand on, unless he should choose to come and stand on hers. She had men, ammunition, information. He had what he stood in, and his only information had been poured into his ears for her ends.
Yet his heart sang inside him now; and he trusted it because that singing never had deceived him. He did not believe she would have left him alone at that state of affairs unless through over-confidence. It is one of the absolute laws that over-confidence begets blindness and mistakes.
She had staked on what seemed to her the certainty of India’s rising at the first signal of a holy war. She believed from close acquaintance that India was utterly disloyal, having made a study of disloyalty. And having read history she knew that many a conqueror has staked on such cards as hers, to win for lack of a better man to take the other side.
But King had studied loyalty all his life, and he knew that besides being the home of money-lenders, thugs, and murderers, India is the very motherland of chivalry; that besides sedition she breeds gentlemen with stout hearts; that in addition to what one Christian Book calls “whoring after strange gods” India strives after purity. He knew that India’s ideals are all imperishable, and her crimes but a kaleidoscopic phase.
Not that he was analyzing thoughts just then. He was listening to the still small voice that told him half of his purpose was accomplished. He had probed Khinjan Caves, and knew the whole purpose for which the lawless thousands had been gathering and were gathering still. Remained, to thwart that purpose. And he had no more doubt of there being a means to thwart it than a mathematician has of the result of two times two, applied.
Like a mathematician, he did not waste time and confuse issues by casting too far ahead, but began to devote himself steadily to the figures nearest. Knots are not untied by wholesale, but are conquered strand by strand. He began at the beginning, where he stood.
He became conscious of human life near by and tip-toed to the door to look. A six-foot ledge of smooth rock ended just at the door and sloped in the other direction sharply downward toward another opening in the cliff side, three or four hundred yards away and two hundred feet lower down.
Behind him in a corner at the back of the cave was a narrow fissure, hung with a leather curtain, that was doubtless the door into Khinjan’s heart; but the only way to the outer air was along that ledge above a dizzying precipice, so high that the huge waterfall looked like a little stream below. He was in a very eagle’s aerie; the upper rim of Khinian’s gorge seemed not more than a quarter of a mile above him.
Round the corner, ten feet from the entrance, stood a guard, armed to the teeth, with a rifle, a sword, two pistols and a long curved Khyber knife stuck handy in his girdle. He spoke to the man and received no answer. He picked up a splinter of rock and threw it. The fellow looked at him then. He spoke again. The man transferred his rifle to the other hand and made signs with his free fingers. King looked puzzled. The man opened his mouth and showed that his tongue was missing. He had been made dumb, as pegs are made to fit square holes. King went in again, to wait on events and shudder.
Nor did he have long to wait. There came a sound of grunting, up the rock path. Then footsteps. Then a hoarse voice, growling orders. He went out again to look, and beheld a little procession of women, led by a man. The man was armed, but the women were burdened with his own belongings — the medicine chest — his saddle and bridle — his unrifled mule-pack — and, wonder of wonders! the presents Khinjan’s sick had given him, including money and weapons. They came past the dumb man on guard and laid them all at King’s feet just inside the cave.
He smiled, with that genial, face-transforming smile of his that has so often melted a road for him through sullen crowds. But the man in charge of the women did not grin. He was suffering. He growled at the women, and they went away like obedient animals, to sit half-way down the ledge and await further orders. He himself made as if to follow them, and the dumb man on guard did not pay much attention; he let women and man pass behind him, stepping one pace forward toward the edge to make more room. That was his last entirely voluntary act in this world.
With a suddenness that disarmed all opposition the other humped himself against the wall and bucked into the dumb man’s back, sending him, weapons and all, hurtling over the precipice. With a wild effort to recover, and avenge himself, and do his duty, the victim fired his rifle, that was ready cocked. The bullet struck the rock above and either split or shook a great fragment loose, that hurtled down after him, so that he and the stone made a race of it for the waterfall and the caverns into which the water tumbled thousands of feet away. The other ruffian spat after him, and then walked back to where King stood.
“Now heal me my boils!” he said, grinning at last, doubtless from pleasure at the prospect. He was the same man who had stood on guard at the “guest-cave” when Ismail led King out to see the Cavern of Earth’s Drink.
The temptation was to fling the brute after his victim. The temptation always is to do the wrong thing — to cap wrath with wrath, injustice with vengeance. That way wars begin and are never ended. King beckoned him into the cave, and bent over the chest of medical supplies. Then, finding the light better for his purpose at the entrance, he called the man back and made him sit down on the box.
The business of lancing boils is not especially edifying in itself; but that particular minor operation probably saved India. But for hope of it the man with boils would never have stood two turns on guard hand running and let the relief sleep on; so he would not have been on duty when the message came to carry King’s belongings to his new cave of residence. There would have been no object in killing the dumb man and so there would have been an expert with a loaded rifle to keep Muhammad Anim lurking down the trail.
Muhammad Anim came — like the devil to scotch King’s faith. He had followed the women with the loads. He stood now, like a big bear on a mountain track, swaying his head from side to side six feet away from King, watching the boils succumb to treatment. He grunted when the job was finished, and King jumped, nearly driving the lance into a new place in his patient’s neck.
“Let him go!” growled Muhammad Anim. “Go thou! Stand guard over the women until I come!”
The mullah turned a rifle this way and that in his paws, like a great bear dancing.
The Mahsudi with a sore neck could have shot him perhaps, but there are men with whom only the bravest dare try conclusions. In cold gray dawn it would have needed a martinet to make a firing squad do execution on Muhammad Anim, even with his hands tied and his back against a wall. A man whose boils had just been lanced was no match for him at all, even in broad daylight. The Hillman slunk away and did as he was told.
“What meant thy message?” growled the mullah. “There came a Pathan to me in the Cavern of Earth’s Drink with word that yonder sits a hakim. What of it?”
King had almost forgotten the message he had sent to Muhammad Anim in the Cavern of Earth’s Drink. But that was not why his eyes looked past the mullah’s now, nor why he did not answer. The mullah did not look round, for he knew what was happening.
The very Orakzai Pathan who had sat next King in the Cavern of Earth’s Drink, and who had carried the message for him, was creeping up behind the women and already had his rifle leveled at the man with boils.
“Aye!” said the mullah, watching King’s eyes. “He has done well, and the road is clear!”
The man with boils offered no fight. He dropped his rifle and threw his hands up. In a moment the Orakzai Pathan was in command of two rifles, holding them in one hand and nodding and making signs to King from among the women, whom he seemed to regard as his plunder too. The women appeared supremely indifferent in any event. King nodded back to him. A friend is a friend in the “Hills,” and rare is the man who spares his enemy.
“Why send that message to me?” asked Muhammad Anim.
“Why not?” asked King. “If none know where the hakim is, how shall the hakim earn a living?”
“None comes to earn a living in the Hills,” growled the mullah, swaying his head slowly and devouring King with cruel calculating eyes. “Why art thou here?”
“I slew a man,” said King.
“Thou liest! It was my men who got the head that let thee in! Speak! Why art thou here?”
But King did not answer. The mullah resumed.
“He who brought me the message yesterday says he has it from another, who had it from a third, that thou art here because she plans a simultaneous rising in India, and thou art from the Punjab where the Sikhs all wait to rise. Is that true?”
“Thy man said it,” answered King.
“What sayest thou?” the mullah asked.
“I say nothing,” said King.
“Then hear me!” said the mullah. “Listen, thou.” But he did not begin to speak yet. He tried to see past King into the cave and to peer about into the shadows.
“Where is she?” he asked. “Her man Rewa Gunga went yesterday, with three men and a letter to carry, down the Khyber. But where is she?”
So he had slept the clock round! King did not answer. He blocked the way into the cave and looked past the mullah at a sight that fascinated, as a serpent’s eyes are said to fascinate a bird. But the mullah, who knew perfectly well what must be happening, did not trouble to turn his head.
The Orakzai Pathan crouched among the women, and the women grinned. The Mahsudi, having surrendered and considering himself therefore absolved from further responsibility at least for the present, spat over the precipice and fingered gingerly the sore place where his boils had been. He yawned and dropped both hands to his side; and it was at that instant that the Pathan sprang at him.
With arms like the jaws of a vise he pinned the Mahsudi’s to his side, and lifted him from off his feet. The fellow screamed, and the Pathan shouted “Ho!” But he did no murder yet. He let his victim grow fully conscious of the fate in store for him, holding him so that his frantic kicks were squandered on thin air. He turned him slowly, until he was upside-down; and so, perpendicular, face-outward, he hove him forward like a dead log. He stood and watched his victim fall two or three thousand feet before troubling to turn and resume both rifles; and it was not until then, as if he had been mentally conscious of each move, that the mullah turned to look, and seeing only one man nodded.
“Good!” he grunted. “‘Shabash!”’ (Well done!)
Then he turned his head to stare into King’s face, with the scrutiny of a trader appraising loot. Fire leaped up behind his calculating eyes. And without a word passing between them, King knew that this man as well as Yasmini was in possession of the secret of the Sleeper. Perhaps he knew it first; perhaps she snatched the keeping of the secret from him. At all events he knew it and recognized King’s likeness to the Sleeper, for his eyes betrayed him. He began to stroke his beard monotonously with one hand. The rifle, that he pretended to be holding, really leaned against his back and with the free hand he was making signals.
King knew well he was making signals. But he knew too that in Yasmini’s power, her prisoner, he had no chance at all of interfering with her plans. Having grounded on the bottom of impotence, so to speak, any tide that would take him off must be a good tide. He pretended to be aware of nothing, and to be particularly unaware that the Pathan, with a rifle in each hand, was pretending to come casually up the path.
In a minute he was covered by a rifle. In another minute the mullah had lashed his hands. In five minutes more the women were loaded again with his belongings and they were all half-way down the track in single file, the mullah bringing up the rear, descending backward with rifle ready against surprise, as if he expected Yasmini and her men to pounce out any minute to the rescue.
They entered a tunnel and wound along it, stepping at short intervals over the bodies of three stabbed sentries. The Pathan spurned them with his heel as he passed. In the glare at the tunnel’s mouth King tripped over the body of a fourth man and fell with his chin beyond the edge of a sheer precipice.
They were on a ledge above the waterfall again, having come through a projection on the cliff’s side, for Khinjan is all rat-runs and projections, like a sponge or a hornet’s nest on a titanic scale.
The Pathan laughed and came back to gather him like a sheaf of corn. The great smelly ruffian hugged him to himself as he set him on his feet.
“Ah! Thou hakim!” he grinned. “There is no pain in my shoulder at all! Ask of me another favor when the time comes! Hey, but I am sick of Khinjan!”
He gave King a shove along the path in the general direction of the mullah. Then he seized the dead body by the legs, and hurled it like a sling shot, watching it with a grin as it fell in a wide parabola. After that he took the dead man’s rifle, and those of the three other dead men, that he had hidden in a crevice in the rock, and loaded them all on a woman in addition to King’s saddle that she carried already.
“Come!” he said. “Hurry, or Bull-with-a-beard yonder will remember us again. I love him best when he forgets!”
They soon reached another cave, at which the mullah stopped. It was a dark ill-smelling hole, but he ordered King into it and the Pathan after him on guard, after first seeing the women pile all their loads inside. Then he took the women away and went off muttering to himself, swaggering, swinging his right arm as he strode, in a way few natives do.
“Let us hope he has forgotten these!” the Pathan grinned, touching the pile of rifles. “Weight for weight in silver they will bring me a fine price! He may forget. He dreams. For a mullah he cares less for meat and money than any I ever saw. He is mad, I think. It is my opinion Allah touched him!”
“What is that, under thy shirt?” King asked.
The Pathan grinned, and undid the button. There was a second shirt underneath, and to that on the left breast were pinned two British medals.
“Oh, yes!” he laughed. “I served the raj! I was in the army eleven years.”
“Why did you leave it?” King asked, remembering that this man loved to hear his own voice.
“Oh, I had furlough, and the bastard who stood next me in the ranks was the son of a dog with whom my father had a blood-feud. The blind fool did not know me. He received his furlough on the same day as I. I would not lay finger on him that side of the border, for we ate the same salt. I knifed
him this side the border. It was no affair, of the British. But I was seen, and I fled. And having slain a man, and having no doubt a report had gone back to the regiment, I entered this place. Except for a raid now and then to cool my blood I have been here ever since. It is a devil of a place.”
Now the art of ruling India consists not in treading barefooted on scorpions — not in virtuous indignation at men who know no better — but in seeking for and making much of the gold that lies ever amid the dross. There is gold in the character of any man who once passed the grilling tests before enlistment in a British-Indian regiment. It may need experience to lay a finger on it, but it is surely there.
“I heard,” said King, “as I came toward the Khyber in great haste (for the police were at my heels)—”
“Ah, the police!” the Pathan grinned pleasantly.
The inference was that at some time or other he had left his mark on the police.
“I heard,” said King, “that men are flocking back to their old regiments.”
“Aye, but not men with a price on their heads, little hakim!”
“I could not say,” said King. To seem to know too much is as bad as to drink too much. “But I heard say that the sirkar has offered pardons to all deserters who return.”
“Hah! The sirkar must be afraid. The sirkar needs men!”
“For myself,” said King, “a whole skin in the ‘Hills’ seems better than one full of bullet holes in India.”
“Hah! But thou art a hakim, not a soldier!”
“True!” said King.
“Tell me that again! Free pardons? Free pardons for all deserters?”
“So I heard.”
“Ah! But I was seen to slay a man of my own regiment.”
“On this side the border or that?” asked King artfully.
“On this side.”
“Ah, but you were seen.”
“Ay! But that is no man’s business. In India I earned in my salt. I obeyed the law. There is no law here in the ‘Hills.’ I am minded to go back and seek that pardon! It would feel good to stand in the rank again, with a stiff-backed sahib out in front of me, and the thunder of the gun-wheels going by. The salt was good! Come thou with me!”
