CHAPTER I
“India is rich. Let her buy peace!”
THEY kept this out of the papers at the time, there being a fine-meshed censorship. Enough months have elapsed since, and enough events have happened to smoke screen this one as effectually as if Julius Cæsar and the Gauls had played the lead ing parts. The prince went home alive. India resumed worrying about the price of homespun cotton, the next monsoon, and whether rupee-paper was likely to rise or fall. The Pioneer found front-page space for an account of spooks in a planter's bungalow. They even resumed printing the divorce news. All was well again.
“Set it down, why don't you?” King said; and Grim nodded.
I demurred. Either King or Grim could have told the story better. But as they sat on the end of my bed in the little white-washed ward, the one cleaning spurs and the other re-splicing the wire-woven handle of a Persian simitar, it was small use arguing with them.
King's excuse, that he had sore fingers and could not punch a typewriter, was possibly half-valid. It was why he was cleaning spurs, for instance, instead of playing polo to get fit for the next adventure fate might hold in store for him. Grim's argument, that he should not write the account because he had a hand in the affair, was even more ridiculous but just as useful, since it cloaked his incurable delight in doing lots and saying less than nothing. What he does say usually adds to his obscurity.
“Write it, and omit me,” Grim suggested. But you might as well omit Hamlet from the play.
Well: here I am, with a month of convalescence still ahead, sore from head to foot, sick of reading, and more sick of the Peshawar climate, hospital diet, the squeak of a punkah, and the view of Allah's “Slag-heap” from the window. So they've set a table in a corner where the flap of the punkah won't scatter the paper all over the place. My jaw being bandaged, the sweat in all likelihood won't drop down and make the ink run. Lord knows there's paper enough; the genial sawbones who runs this outfit—between bouts of preaching to wounded border-thieves—seems to think I propose to rewrite the Encyclopædia—or one of his sermons. He has lent me his dictionary, and a big jar of tobacco. Here begins—
JOAN ANGELA came to India. That's the prelude to anything whatever except commonplace. I believe she is twenty-six. I will bet she has twenty-six hundred admirers, including me, who would like to act Herod and kill off eligibles, to destroy beforehand the inevitable lucky, as yet unknown, blade who will someday persuade here to marry. And I dare say twenty-six million dollars would look rather small beside her fortune since they brought in oil on her land in California. Not that that matters; she would be Joan Angela Leich if she had only twenty-six cents.
She came because the prince's visit was spectacular, and when we're young most of us will go a long way to see a circus. But it soon palled. The home papers got wind of it, too, and drew conclusions, the prince being a bachelor about her age. So she cut the round of visits and started to see India for herself, without so much as a by-your-leave or a hint to the Indian Government, which was a great deal too busy to notice much that wasn't obviously dangerous.
In such times Governments fall back on odds and ends of stray resources. Undesirables get short shrift, with apologies in the proper quarter later on—if called for. Men whose courses up and down the earth will bear investigation find surprizing details forced on them, without much explanation and no insurance. You carry unexpected overloads at your own expense and [meet?] with no more reward than any decent fellow gets, who likes not to grudge the gift of manliness and muscle.
So Athelstan King, James Schuyler Grim and I—an Englishman and two Americans—with Narayan Singh, who is a Sikh and was a sepoy once, were under canvas by the left bank of Jhelum River, swatting flies, smoking more than was wholesome, and wishing the prince were in care of Scotland Yard.
There was a brigade of Indian cavalry camped on our left hand, about two miles away; we could hear the horses neighing, as bored as we felt. On our right, two miles away again, was a regiment of Bombay infantry. And there was a rumor to the effect that the cavalry were there as much to watch the infantry as to keep a sharp eye on the border. But rumors are rife, and the fact that a Bombay regiment had been ordered north was no proof that its ranks had been corrupted. The men had their rifles. There was ammunition. The officers looked more or less at ease, with long legs sticking out from under home newspapers beneath the awnings, and all routine as usual.
To our rear, ten miles away, was a fairly strong contingent of the Air Force, with cavalry and infantry to guard them from prowling border-thieves. Their planes were growling constantly in search of a reported lashkar[1] a potential spy for either side across the border—had brought word that the tribes were concentrating and admiring the notion of a row. The mullahs were said to be haranguing them, and the women were carrying about a month's supply of food and fuel.
However, the airmen kept reporting they could see nothing, their cameras told the same tale; and that meant either one of several probabilities—or all combined.
It was possible the spies were deliberately arousing false expectations of a raid in that quarter, in order to cover extensive preparations elsewhere. Or, the tribes might have learned how to conceal themselves from the airmen, which should not be very difficult among those rocks and gorges, or even in the open, where the harsh grass in the distance resembled sea with wind across the tide.
The other probability lay in the rear. Raids from over that Northwest Frontier have been so frequent for a thousand years that an incursion was no more unlikely than rain is in some lands. It would be good strategy for folk who contemplated an uprising on the Indian side of the border to broadcast rumors of Pathan activity and so keep the military alert in the wrong quarter.
However, danger of an uprising, and especially of concerted action between the Tribes and the disaffected Punjab, presupposes leadership and some lines of communication; which was how we came to be there. Athelstan King, who was a colonel until recently, is supposed to understand that border better than the fiends do, who built it, and the fiends' offspring, who brew there.
Jim Grim knows Arabs better, but has made himself a name in India too. I am their friend, which sufficiently accounts for me; they rang me in on it. Narayan Singh would rather risk his neck in Grim's company than be a maharaja.
We looked peaceful and innocent enough. In fact we were a baited trap. Our servants, knowing no better, told the world at large I was leader of a party contemplating an expedition into Persia—untruth sufficient to account for trade-goods lying loose in process of repacking, and for our incessant inquiries about camels, interpreters, guides, and what not else.
Great hairy ruffians oiled themselves and crept along the streams of mist at night to steal those trade-goods. One by one we caught them; for we had pitched camp by a deep, narrow nullah up which they were certain to come; barbed-wire, broken glass, some dogs, and two acetylene searchlights made any other approach almost impossible. We noosed some, clubbed others, and caught a round half-dozen in a blunted bear-trap. Narayan Singh was fertile in new expedients; but as to the outcome, we treated all alike.
As soon as they recovered from the usually necessary man-handling we set them on their hunkers in a tent and talked the situation over, offering them liberty, and promising reward if they would put us in communication with a certain Kangra Khan.
“We're Americans,” King would explain, telling two thirds of the truth, which was plenty. “We don't want our business known.” That was absolutely true, and also plenty, since whatever we had said our real business was they would not have believed us. “We have a proposal that will interest Kangra Khan. If he will come to us here, with no more than a two-man escort we will guarantee his personal safety.”
They believed the last implicitly. That part of the game has always been played straight by the men who hold the border line, and generally, too, by the wind-weaned rascals whose profitable sport it is to violate line, life, women and most promises when ever possible. A verbal safe-conduct is as good as a Chinaman's acceptance—flood, fire and act of God alone excepted from the guarantee.
So on the eleventh night after we pitched camp the dogs barked furiously, as they would not have done if there had been a miscreant sneaking up the nullah. This was some one taking chances from the west, where by day we used to open a gap in the barbed-wire tangle. We turned a spotlight on, and after a curt exchange of challenge and reply we saw him rise like a bear, dripping wet, out of a wisp of gray mist. His boat must have upset crossing the river.
Narayan Singh opened a gap in the wire, and he strode in with a British service-rifle in one hand and the other held over his eyes because the light dazzled him. A fine, upstanding man he was, and I like that sort. His dripping sheepskin jacket increased an air of cavalierly independence; but it stank like the deuce, and King invited him to take it off and hang it on a stick in front of the fire to dry. He did that, but remained standing with his back to ward the river, so I motioned him toward a chair on the other side of the fire, between Grim and me.
“By Allah,” he answered, opening a great gap of a grin in the midst of his black beard, “if my men should lose sight of me I might die with you, and I have business elsewhere! It is not so easy aiming in the dark.”
So I set the chair where his men could see him in the firelight; and the first thing he demanded when he sat down—awkwardly, unused to canvas chairs—was a rag and some oil for his wet rifle.
Narayan Singh, next on his left, offered to dry the rifle for him.
“I will leave my life in a Sikh's hands when I have no more use for it!” Kangra Khan answered, and then waited, saying nothing, until Grim fetched him oil and rags.
Thereafter he cleaned while he talked, squinting down the barrel at the firelight. I judged him a man of forethought and determination, to be trusted unconditionally in some ways, not at all in others, the latter perhaps predominating.
He was nearly as heavy as I am. And he was handsome, for his nose was not so hooked, nor his eye so cunning as is usual along that frontier. The edge of a coil of black hair showed beneath his turban. His forehead was a thinker's, broad and level, with two heavy lines across it. First and last, there was nothing about him that suggested cowardice or even respect for heavy odds.
“They said, you have a tale for me. And so, by Allah, I am here. I listen,” he said simply, all eyes for me.
They like big men where he came from, and I wore a beard at that time, which was another point in my favor. However, King took up the argument—since argument there must be in the North, whatever else happens.
“The tale is this,” he said, leaning for ward to knock the ashes out of his pipe; and with his dark skin and Roman nose he looked in the firelight like one of Julius Cæsar's men, “that you, Kangra Khan, are planning a raid while the prince is in this part of India; and that I am told off to prevent you.”
He sat back, and filled his pipe again. He might have just remarked it was a fine night.
“Then by Allah's Prophet, thou and I are well met!” the Hillman answered, showing his yellow teeth again.
King struck a match.
“So now we understand each other,” he said, puffing away at the pipe.
“Maybe. But it is Allah who prevents!” said Kangra Khan, with his eye on my servant, who was bringing out whisky from the tent.
I poured him a straight tumbler-full, and he tossed it off at a gulp.
“The river was wet, and not warm,” he remarked by way of thanks, offering no apology for drinking in defiance of the Koran; for which I liked him.
Apology and explanation are due to one you may have injured; otherwise they are indecent. He said nothing about how he had managed to swim the hurrying Jhelum, rifle in hand.
“Why should you choose this particular time?” King demanded, sailing as close to the eye of the wind as he could carry way.
“It is a good time,” the Hillman answered simply.
Neither seemed inclined to ease his helm. They were coming at each other head on, so at a whisper from Grim I strode among the shadows and ordered the servants out of ear-shot.
“It is the worst time you could choose,” King assured him.
“The eagle's opportunity—the hare's disadvantage—are one!” said Kangra Khan.
“You are not dealing with hares,” King retorted. “You are blind if you think the eagles are not on our side.”
“Aye, I have seen them. They have buzzed above us now for half a month.”
“They lay eggs on the wing, those birds!” King suggested meaningly. “There is cavalry and infantry to right and left of us; and guns at the rear.”
“Aye, but this is women's talk. I know the chances,” Kangra Khan answered.
“Talk like a man then!” growled Narayan Singh.
It seemed to me that that was what the Hillman had done, but the Sikh knew what he was doing.
“Meet me across the border, and I will show thee how a man fights!” the other retorted.
Narayan Singh was about to answer, but Grim interrupted him.
“None will talk if the time for fighting comes. Talk like a man first,” he advised him, and Kangra Khan nodded.
“My men are restless. They lost too much in the fighting of a year ago. The crops have been poor. There will be a hard winter unless we rape a town or two. They look to me to lead them.”
“Why not tell the whole truth?” King demanded. “Some one has promised if you lead a raid, the Punjabis will rise simultaneously. Isn't that so?”
“By Allah, little sahib, you know too much,” the Hillman answered, laughing.
“I think I know the name of the man who made you that offer, but never mind,” King continued. “What did he offer you?”
“He talked like a plainsman, deceiving none but himself. He offered me the prince! He promised we may take him and hold him for ransom, after they have burned his camp and done the capturing. He said, with truth, although the fat pig lied nine other ways, that to keep the prince hidden in the Punjab would be impossible, whereas among our mountains”
“Why talk nonsense?” King interrupted. “He's trying to use you for catspaw!”
“Truly. But he who uses fire may just as well be burnt, and I like Punjab money,” said Kangra Khan.
“The prince will be well guarded,” King said.
“Aye—inshallah![2] The British are not so mad as to leave the boy unprotected. However, he comes Northward for a hundred days—days of trouble, unless I am well paid to keep still.”
Well: that was frank enough. There was not so much cupidity as calm appreciation in the Hillman's eye. He seemed willing enough to barter his advantage for a fair price. As he finished cleaning his rifle, and laid it across his knees with the sort of affectionate slap a man bestows on a dog or a horse, he looked at least as worthy to be dealt with as any of those diplomatists who play the international game with marked cards.
“How much do you want?” King asked him.
“A crore, and no less,” he said instantly.
A crore of rupees is a third of a million dollars and King laughed.
“That would pay for quite a nice campaign,” he answered. “You Hillmen are like children when money is mentioned.”
“India is rich. Let her buy peace!”
“You won't get as much as a lakh[3] You won't get anything, unless you give proof,” King assured him. “Call this raid off. Tell the Punjabis you'll give them no assistance. Give me your word of honor. Then I'll get you money from the Government. I don't know how much. You'll have to trust me to do my best.”
“Aye, King sahib. None doubts your izzat[4] but what of mine? The fat Punjabi is a pig, but I will not betray him. By Allah, if he comes to talk with me and the troops pounce on him, what then?”
“He shall have safe conduct.”
“Aye, but after, you will know who he is, and”
“I know already!”
“If thou art not a liar, name him!”
“He is no Punjabi. His name is Ali Babul,” King answered promptly. “Isn't that so?”
Kangra Khan said nothing. In the ensuing silence Grim leaned sideways, better to study the Hillman's face. It was Narayan Singh who took up the argument, opening and shutting his right hand so that the knuckles cracked almost like a pistol-shot.
“I, too, know Ali Babul. As thou sayest, he is fat. Caution him, Hillman! For if I make a feud with a man he will die. By my Guru's[5] honor, he shall not live; his fat shall feed crows—unless thy wisdom forewarns him! I have made the prince's life my personal affair.”
“I have heard words. They are principally wind, smelling of onions,” said the Hillman.
He was well aware that we would not sit there offering him terms, if there had been any easier or less expensive course open to the Government just then, only business acumen prevented him from insulting the Sikh beyond recall, and even that element of self-control was weakening, as the Sikh had foreseen. He prodded if further. “The truth is, you are afraid to refuse Ali Babul,” he asserted, with an air of absolute conviction.
“At least I am not afraid of thee, thou”
“Shame that such a hairy man should fear a shaven, swag-bellied bunnia!"
“Allah!”
“See him then, and warn him, if you aren't afraid to,” King suggested, intervening.
There could hardly have been bloodshed there before our fire; but the border laws of guest and host do not preclude commencement of hostilities the minute the threshold is left behind. Sikh and Hillman love each other as dog and jackal do—not much.
“There have first to be promises.”
The Hillman looked in King's eyes, reading there good faith, but not much else; for there was little King might promise without referring to headquarters.
“I will do my best about the money for you,” King said.
“I, too, then about Ali Babul. And how much is that? Bring the brute here. Give us both safe conduct. I will talk with him tomorrow night, at this hour, before this fire in the Huzoor's presence. But if the Government were not afraid for its skin it would have scoughed up Ali Babul long ago,” the Hillman added.
There were elements of truth in that suggestion, and the only plausible retort would have been a boast, which in turn might have cut short negotiations.
“Would Ali Babul come?” Grim asked.
“Aye! For I will bring him!” said Narayan Singh.
King nodded. Whatever Narayan Singh might undertake to do would be carried out unless he died in the attempt, and not even Kangra Khan questioned that outcome. But I was watching the Hillman's face, questioning that, and I noticed Grim did the same thing. There was deep, unspoken thought there, and his eyes were too bright to mean anything but mischief.
“Hadn't we better define things more exactly?” I proposed in English.
So we tried, but the uselessness was fairly evident at once. It was like bargaining with a tricky lawyer; we could not possibly foresee all the quirks and side-steps that would certainly occur to him, and our apparent doubt of his good faith only served to increase his trickiness. It would have been better if I had held my tongue.
“Enough!” King said finally with a gesture that wiped out the last five minutes at a stroke. “This is between thee and me, Kangra Khan. The undertaking stands thus: Here, by this fire, tomorrow night, thou and Ali Babul are to meet and talk before us. Both to have safe conduct. Nothing that shall be said tomorrow night by this fire shall be held against thee or him, unless we all reach agreement.”
“That is the promise,” the Hillman answered; and he rose with his right hand on the hilt of his knife to give the oath solemnity.
When he had met the eyes of each of us in turn King shook hands with him, and he turned, and strode out of the camp with more assurance in his gait than I was altogether glad to see. There is nothing finer than the sight of independence with its face against the world but there are times, and seasons.
“Somehow, before tomorrow night, he means to put one over on us,” I said, and Grim nodded assent.
But King and Narayan Singh were both of the opinion that the Hillman would keep the peace strictly until after the next conference, at any rate. They had the right to know best.
There was peace next morning sure enough—kites wheeling lazily, the smoke of breakfast fires rising spirally from the camps to either hand, and a subaltern with two mounted troopers riding an errand, who laughed as he tossed us the news:
“No shootin' last night! First time for a month! We're wonderin' what Allah's cookin'! You fellows notice anythin' worth mentionin'?”
We reported all well, and no shots fired.
“ presently, I'll bet you!” he said laughing, and rode on.
It was a reasonably safe bet that he offered. Quiet along that border usually presages coming bloodshed. But we had reason to believe there would be at least one more quiet night, and wished we had betted, just to dampen down his cockiness.
THEN, two hours after breakfast, there came a mounted messenger with a white envelope tucked in his turban. He halted as if it were mounted baseball and he sliding for the home plate. But that was merely swagger; he had trotted until he came within a hundred yards of us. King held his hand out, but the fellow jumped to the ground and stood examining us each in turn.
“Ram-mis-den sahib?” he asked, staring at me.
So I took the envelope and broke the seal, aware of mixed emotions, for I knew the handwriting—as strong and downright as a man's, but flowing, with large spaces between the words.
“Joan Angela!” I said, not understanding why I was not pleased; for I would rather see her than a sunrise. Intuition sums up the near future in a flash, giving you the total and no details; but so does Joan Angela's correspondence.
Hello there, Jeff! (she had written.) Don't pretend this isn't a surprize. I'm with the Farquharsons, but they're off on leave today, and I've a date for dinner with the Something-or-other Bengal Lancers. Might see you sooner. Having lots of fun. So long. J. A. L.
The “Something-or-other” Bengal Lancers were presumably the outfit camped over on our left hand. The Farquharsons, I think, belong to the Civil Service; but whoever they are, they ought to have been hanged for turning Joan Angela loose on that countryside. I passed the note in turn to King and Grim, and they waited for the explanation.
“One of my countrywomen. Youth, brains, ability, good looks, heaps of money, and a sense of humor,” I said, and King looked at me steadily, reading on my face what I dare say was alarm. I did not try to diagnose it.
“She'll be safe enough with the Lancers, but I'm surprized they should ask her to dinner out here. I suppose there's nothing about that in the regulations, but there's such a thing as common-sense,” he answered after a long pause.
“She's pretty sure to get them to ask us to dinner too, tonight,” I said.
“Well, we can't go. At least, you can, of coarse, but Grim and I must stay here.”
That was true. Narayan Singh had ridden off on his quest of Ali Babul, and even if it had been likely that the Sikh would return before night, it would have been out of the question to leave him there alone to manage the conference.
“Where is she now?” I asked the messenger.
The man did not know. He said he was the son of a thalukdar[6], and had been asked as a favor to carry the message by Farquharson sahib, whom he had met on his way to the railway station. He had not even seen Joan Angela. Did not know who she was, or pretended not to, and dropped a rather strong hint that, as some one on that countryside, he set a good example by minding his own business. He said he had come simply to oblige Farquharson sahib, and would ride back home as soon as his horse was rested.
So I offered to ride part of the way with him, and he agreed. He seemed rather glad to have company. Even in broad daylight that is no safe border for a solitary horse man, whose equipment is worth powder and shot; belated prowlers lie up until the next night affords opportunity to sneak back with their plunder to the hills, and in their eyes it is sin and shame to overlook a chance that Allah sends.
My purpose was to turn Joan Angela back from the border, even at the risk of a quarrel. As King said, she would be quite safe with the Lancers; but neither he, nor I, nor they, nor she, nor any one could guess how long she would remain with them. She acts on the spur of any moment, with assurance that would make an oil-stock salesman green with envy, and the fact that her astounding luck had never yet deserted her was no proof there would be no end to it.
I rode away presently in search of her, turning over in mind a hundred arguments I might use, well aware that she would flout them all and laugh at me. I would have to make a personal appeal to her; I knew that, and I hated it. For friendship she will often do what no argument of safety or convention will induce her to consider; but I dislike dealing on those terms. Friendship is nothing to bargain with, but a thing apart, like a man's religion or his nationality, to be held unaffected by circumstances. Nevertheless, I was willing to sacrifice that friendship, if by doing so I might steer her out of danger.
However, whatever her luck might be, mine was out that morning. I drew the Farquharson's bungalow blank; nobody home, not even a caretaker; not so much as a hanger-on to answer questions. The European quarter there was a straggling line of beastly official bungalows, and I rode to every one of them, without result. Nobody had heard of Joan Angela. I gathered, without being told so, that the Farquharsons had made themselves disliked and had applied for leave in consequence.
But I stuck to it, and the Thalukdar stayed by to help. Failing all trace of Joan Angela herself, we begged a change of horses and galloped all the way to Dera Ghazi Khan, where I saw the commandant and warned him. He was indignant, and swore he would twist the Lancers' tails for daring to ask a woman to dinner so close to the border. I overheard his instructions. Joan Angela Leich was to be found and taken to Peshawar, where the authorities might deal with her as they should see fit.
That suited me. It was after four o'clock then, and I calculated I had just about time to reach the Lancers' camp before dark. That was the last card up my sleeve, and a trump of sorts. I meant to tell them what the commandant had said, after which it was fairly safe to wager they would keep Joan Angela at least well-guarded until definite orders came.
So the Thalukdar's son and I parted company, and I begged still another change of mounts, for my weight is no joke even for an army remount used to carrying all the paraphernalia a soldier lugs around with him. That last horse was a good one, and I made him prove it, galloping like until we reached the Jhelum and then following the bank, with only a short pause to let him breathe, until I could see the lights of the Lancers' camp beginning to blink in the distance in descending dusk.
They were still several miles away, but it was not time yet for the border-thieves to take chances, so I reined in to a walk for the horse's sake, conscious for the first time that I had no weapon but not especially nervous on that account. I was very likely safer at slow speed than if I hurried, since a lurking enemy would judge that if I did not seem afraid there was probably good reason for it. On the whole I was well enough contented, deeming my effort in Joan Angela's behalf well made and her as good as shipped away to safety.
It was pitch dark before I grew aware of voices somewhere on ahead. One voice was a woman's—golden—not raised, and yet not undisturbed. I could not hear what she said, for my horse put his forefoot in a hole and nearly fell as I spurred him forward. I heard a man order her in English to be silent, and then I caught the answer, as distinctly as if it had been given ten yards away instead of possibly a hundred.
“You'll have to ask in a different tone of voice if you expect me to oblige you!”
“Then you die!” some one snarled—in English again.
“All right. My funeral. Nobody else need worry!”
Then I recognized her voice beyond the shadow of a doubt, but did doubt what to do. All I could see was the camp-fires and lanterns blinking in the distance; between them and me were quite immeasurable miles of black night, with the Jhelum River swirling and sucking on my left hand. The horse sensed danger, shied toward the river, and reared as he found himself too close to the rotten bank. Some one fired from fifty yards ahead of me. The horse shuddered and collapsed; a ton or two of earth gave way; earth, horse and I went plump into the river all together.
I ought to have drowned along with the wounded horse, for the Jhelum sweeps in a hurry around a curve at that point, with shallows in mid-stream that send the force of water sluicing against the bank. But there was a boat tied by the nose to a tree-stump and pressed close against the bank by the weight of the river rushing by, and my hand caught that as I struck out blindly.
In about a minute I was up on the bank again, fumbling at the rope that held the boat. But it was tangled, and my wet fingers made hard work of it in the dark; so I found my clasp-knife and opening that with my teeth cut the rope and let the boat go. It was better than nothing at all to cut off the enemy's retreat.
Then I heard Joan Angela's voice again:
“Let go! I'd rather be killed than handled by a brute like you!”
I heard a slap, as if she had struck some one with her open hand, followed by an oath that ripped the very bowels of the night apart. But she did not scream, and there was no answering blow, nor any sound of struggle. Footsteps began approaching, and I crouched behind a clump of high grass.
I had been in that position about twenty seconds when a new sound warned me I was being stalked. The enemy presumably had sent a scout to make sure that the bullet had done its work thoroughly, and I heard the fellow crawl up to the other side of the clump, within two yards of me. I heard, too, the clink of some kind of weapon that he dragged along the ground. I needed a weapon more than anything else on earth that minute.
The fellow lay still, listening and trying to peer through the dark, along the river bank. He held his breath, and let it out silently, but I could smell him and knew he wore a sweaty sheepskin jacket. Then I heard what sounded like a knife-blade striking against stone, and judged he had two weapons, of which the knife in the dark was worst.
There was nothing after that to hesitate about. When you know the worst, and know there is no alternative, the thing to do is to have it over with. I jumped, and landed with both heels on the small of the fellow's back, and maybe it was that that killed him, but 1 used the butt-end of his rifle to make sure, not being minded to have an enemy at my back as well as several in front.
1 could hear them coming fast now, and had no time to reach for the long knife. It was impossible to see, but I was trying to count the foot-falls. Joan Angela's were easily distinguishable, and there seemed to be five or six men hurrying her along. I crouched beside the dump of grass in readiness to do my utmost at close quarters.
However, they stopped again. Maybe they had heard me land on the fellow's back, although he had not cried out.
“Suliman!” called some one, twenty yards away.
I fired, and hit him, but not fatally, for he shouted to the others. Two or three of them came charging toward me, and I stopped the first one with the butt-end. Another one fired, and missed.
“Joan Angela!” I shouted.
“Who's that? Jeff? Is that you?”
I started for her; but I'm too slow on my feet to pull off any of those tip-and-run stunts. I shouldn't have tried. Before I could reach her I was knocked on the head by a blow from behind; and after that there was darkness and a very bad dream for a long time.