Complete works of talbot.., p.577
Complete Works of Talbot Mundy, page 577
“Would you mind telling me a reason why I should avoid Glint?”
Rahman looked another way a moment. Allah loves hunters of men, but it is seldom wise to let the hunted see the laughter in the eyes of him whom Allah loves. Then presently:
“He is an enemy, who never in his life forgave what he reckoned to be an insult. And being mean, he measures insults with a silversmith’s scale, weighing grams. Where you and I would scratch ourselves, as at a flea-bite, he feels the rust of a murderer’s dagger in his veins. Such as might stagger you or me, Huzoor, because a great man meant it, would pass him by because he is too mean to understand. Your Honor insulted him. If it were my own tamasha [mix-up] I would avoid him as I do a leper.”
“Suit yourself,” Gup answered. “If you see him coming you can escape, if that’s what troubles you. Swap horses, if you wish. If you think he has it in for you for anything, he might recognize this stallion as yours and seize him.”
Rahman looked aside again to recover control of his eyes. Behind the silent laughter of those men of the North there is always gratitude, and though they are few who understand that, they are many who can see it and become suspicious. It is safer to look greedy.
“I am your Honor’s escort,” he answered after a moment, with quiet dignity.
Thereafter for a while they rode in silence, Gup not troubling about direction, leaving that to Rahman; only he made note of it, observing that Dera Ismail Khan was almost on their right hand. He supposed his tents and other belongings had been hidden in the bottom of some nullah and that Rahman would lead him straight to them unless Glint should show up. It would be difficult for Glint to cross that open country unseen, and as the hours wore on he began to believe that the whole Glint business was a false alarm. The man was only a mean busybody. Why waste thought on him?
So he thought of Lottie Carstairs, the ex-Ranee of Jullunder, sitting with a naked sword across her knees and offering him high command of an army that he supposed existed still in her imagination. Not that he doubted she could raise an army; given money and imagination — and the moment — almost any one can do that, but he doubted she could do it without the fact being known. If she already had an army it was beyond belief that she could restrain it — not an army of Hillmen raised for the purpose of upsetting boundaries and trampling on established law. It would have been up to the eyes in plunder long ago, and long ago defeated by the massed gas-batteries and aeroplanes. No, she had no army yet. She had offered to make him commander-in-chief of a dream, with the job on his hands of materializing dream into reality. He wondered what man she would find for the job. Too bad he had not suggested Glint to her! He almost laughed at his own lame cynicism. Then:
“Have a care!” said Rahman. “Rein him in, Huzoor, he takes a rough descent like this too eagerly.” So Gup McLeod let Rahman lead down a goat-track to the bottom of a dry ravine, where scrubby tamarisks rose head-high of a man on horseback and the kites in a clearing were picking a dead sheep’s bones. There was no room to have turned; where Rahman halted there were rocks on either hand, and Gup could just see over Rahman’s shoulder, between tamarisks, the yellow pony beside which Glint was standing with the reins looped over his arm. Then Glint’s voice, nasty with the ring of triumph:
“Mis-ter McLeod, I think! I have a summons for you. You may come, too, Rahman. I arrest you without warrant.”
“Pull aside!” Gup ordered. “Let me through!”
He spurred the stallion, making him plunge into the tamarisks, forcing his way between them and Rahman’s horse. He almost rode Glint down. He forced him backward into a circular wide patch of naked gravel where Glint’s servants waited — three men on native ponies, unarmed. Glint had a revolver but he made no bluff at using it.
“What sort of paper have you?” Gup demanded. “Simply a summons to begin with. There will be something more serious later, unless you see the error of your ways. I went to the personal trouble of serving this on you, first, to give you opportunity to apologize to me for last night’s insult; second, to give you a talking to, for your own good.”
“What’s the summons for?” Gup asked him.
“For assault — for a vicious assault — and on my servant as it happens.”
“When?”
“Last night, of course. You know that without asking.”
“You mean, you accuse me of having struck your servant?”
“Yes.”
“Any witnesses? Who?”
“The servant, myself and another.”
“So. You saw me do it? You propose to swear to that?”
Gup stared at the three native servants, wondering why Glint had brought no troopers with him — no police — no armed men. He knew Glint was not a fighter of the sort who faces enemies lone-handed. Was there an ambush — constables in hiding, ready to make an arrest when Glint provoked an attempt at violence? That would be Glint’s way. But the voice of Rahman, who had ridden up knee to knee with him, whispered: “Pepul Das has seen that there are no policemen near.”
Glint heard whispering, but not the words. “You may consider it clever to whisper secrets to an Afghan horse-thief in my presence, but the apology you owe me would be better manners and far safer for yourself,” he sneered. He was a man who could not keep his venom blanketed. The scorn in Gup McLeod’s eyes, being genuine, aroused all Glint’s hatred of a man more honorable than himself.
Then Rahman laughed, and Glint, who hated to be laughed at more than to be detected cheating, said one word too much for anybody’s peace. But McLeod began it, choosing his words because of dim suspicion now that Rahman, with the aid of Pepul Das, had staged this meeting. Rahman was too unself-conscious in appearance to be altogether innocent of guile.
“I did not whip your servant,” Gup said simply. “Why lie about it?” Glint asked. “Try that on the court if you have witnesses to back you up.”
“Do you intend to swear you saw me do it?”
“Certainly.”
Gup passed his reins to Rahman. He had no whip, but Glint had. He leaped from the saddle and seized that whip. He took Glint by the tunic collar and began to thrash him mercilessly. Glint shouted something about the King’s name, but Gup’s heel was grinding the King’s summons into the gravel-bed and he had no respect that moment for any law except the oldest one of personal chastisement, nor any thought except that he would not hurt the man too much, since he was after all only a rotter. But the mounted servants tried to interfere, and Rahman held them at bay with voice and riding-whip. Then Glint made an incredible mistake. He tried to shoot. He pulled his Colt out of the holster and had it cocked before McLeod saw what was happening. Then the whip came down on the back of Glint’s hand with a blow like the smack of a meat-seller’s ax. The revolver hit the gravel; McLeod kicked it in among the tamarisks, and thereafter he laid on the whip without one thought other than that Glint should know he had been whipped — and what for.
“You abominable reptile! This is for spying and lying and then attempting murder!”
Men like Glint, who have lived by treachery, think inevitably of a threat when weapons fail. And being desperate they load their threat with the deepest secret slug they had held in reserve.
“You’d better stop! By God, I’ll get you for it! Ow! Help, somebody! Damn you, I know your doings! You’re in league with the ex-Ranee of Jullunder! You’ve been with her all night! I’ll jail you — I’ll break you — I’ll hang you for it. You’re killing me, you—”
“You have done enough,” said Rahman. “Slay a louse, but let that vermin live. He has his uses.”
Gup wondered why an Afghan should recommend mercy. The race is not notorious for mercy or restraint in anger. But he let Glint fall on to the gravel and lie sobbing — let Glint’s three servants come and offer clumsy first-aid. Then he saw the crumpled summons that his heel had ground into the gravel. Then he looked at Glint’s torn uniform, and at those three witnesses who had seen the thrashing — doubtless all three ready to swear that he had thrashed Glint’s other servant under the fly of the tent the night before. Then he looked into Rahman’s eyes — and understood, in part at any rate.
“This is your doing!”
“By Allah, no, Huzoor. I am not so good at an intrigue. But we are outlaws, you and I!”
“You — and Pepul Das—”
“Huzoor, that fellow owns no cunning that could—”
“By whose orders? Did the Ranee of Jullunder order this?”
“By Allah, none knows that woman’s secrets. But I know that your Honor stands high in her favor. She is also an outlaw. Better follow me, Huzoor, to where an outlaw’s trail is easy but pursuit is hard!”
Gup glared at him. The trap had grown obvious. He was almost in a panic. Rahman read him like a book.
“It is very seldom wise to run away, by God. And why run from a woman?”
“You may tell that woman to go to hell!” Gup answered.
“Heaven and hell,” said Rahman, “are the province of the Most High. It is only on earth, Huzoor, that we have our say — in unimportant matters.”
But Rahman perceived he must use subtler argument and summon subtler forces to his aid — make magic, as the unbelievers call it, who know no magic. (They who do know use a less polluted word, with a swift glance over their own right shoulder.) He eased the black stallion’s rein, and with a toe that Gup could not see he touched the sleek flank. The stallion moved in a half-circle, so that he stood behind Gup with his head toward Rahman. In a moment he was lipping at Gup’s hair, breathing on his neck. Gup’s hand rose to stroke the velvety muzzle, almost unconsciously answering the touch of confidence. “There is none except yourself, Huzoor, who can restrain that woman on the road she takes,” said Rahman.
The stallion snorted friendship into Gup’s ear, stuff such as only horses have, so only they can give to men. Pride and price are not in it, nor sentiment in any ordinary sense; there is something wordless that a horse knows, which men do not know, but which horses can stir out of slumber in a man’s subconscious mind, so that he reacts a little differently to circumstances than he might do otherwise, which is why a man on horseback is a different creature from the same man on the ground. It is also a reason why they say Mohammed rode to heaven on a horse.
“Let her drive to her own damnation,” Gup retorted. “Why should I interfere?” But words did not satisfy him. Impulse nagged at him to mount the stallion and ride him beyond the sky-line — anywhither. But the stallion was not his, it was the woman’s. He did not propose to be beholden to her for anything.
“The police come,” Rahman murmured.
“Let ’em!” said Gup.
“And if they take you, they will take me also.”
“Your funeral. I didn’t ask for this.”
“And it may be, we shall both be hanged for seditious practises. That fellow Glint is a marvelous liar. It would be a pity to give him so much satisfaction. Moreover, why run from Allah’s jesting? Is it not better to see the end of Allah’s jest? Is Glint a friend of God that you await his good pleasure concerning you? Does he who is beset by dogs get on his knees and bite them for the sake of dignity? Why not escape and fight Glint with a better weapon, at the right time, after Allah’s jest is finished and the opportunity appears? Do you intend to let that dog bark triumph over both of us?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let Glint put us in prison.”
“Nevertheless, the police come.”
It was true — or perhaps it was true. There was a distant sound of horses galloping, and Glint, not willing to appear less than brutally beaten and helpless, sent one of his servants to the top of the far bank of the ravine to make signals. Where his tunic was torn, he tore it more. Where there was blood, he smeared it. He could simulate extreme pain with a realism due to enjoyment of mental and physical pain of other people. He groaned, and restrained the groaning with artistic heroism.
“Find my horses and tents,” said Gup.
He never knew exactly why he reached that sudden decision. He knew, the moment he made it, what it meant. He had chosen between the indignity and injustice of arrest and trial with perjured evidence against him, and at least a temporary state of outlawry, with not more than a remote chance even so of being able to clear himself of Glint’s charges. He knew Glint would use every malicious means imaginable to compass his ruin, and that flight would be interpreted as confession of guilt.
“I am probably riding to death,” he remarked to himself as he mounted Iskander. “Well, the sooner the better.” But he had no intention of doing death’s work. Let death defeat him if it could. He would give death a run for its money. “Lead on to where you think my horses are,” he ordered.
Rahman needed no second invitation. He led at full gallop along the ravine, that wound on its course like a snake, until they reached a track up which they rode to the level land above. And there they had the advantage of a long, low, rounded ridge between them and where Glint lay, so that they could gallop unseen, extended to the limit of their horses’ speed. Gup never once looked behind him. There was nothing to look back to, that he cared about. He was abandoning his good name; Glint would presently abolish that from off the earth. He must make a new reputation somehow — how would presently transpire, perhaps. Riding that splendid horse, restraining him not to outdistance Rahman’s horse, let him forget anxiety.
But as they rode a strange uneasiness crept over him, that at first he made no attempt to analyze, since he suspected it of being fear and he was habitually merciless with himself whenever he thought fear was getting in the thin end of its wedge. Like all men who have turned and faced fear many times, he had learned to spot it swiftly and to kill it in its early stages. So, from familiarity with that enemy, he discovered that this mood was not even fear in disguise. And when he knew what it was, he felt bewildered more than ever.
He was homesick — not for houses — not for individuals, it takes time for that phase to appear. He was homesick for the opposite of what Glint stood for — homesick for the idea that men call flag and country, that such as Glint disgrace, and that stuffy-minded people stir the scoundrels and the jingoes to debauch. The discovery so astonished him that he almost drew rein. He had supposed himself totally free from national sentiment — had thought he fought that strangler to the death in Flanders. Now, though, he knew himself one with his country and only at war with his country’s enemies — an outlaw, who still loved his country! Suddenly he knew he loved it with a passion that had driven him half insane with anger at the fools who brought his country into disrepute. He knew now what had been the matter with him — knew it too late. Why he did not draw rein was that once more destiny appeared to him as a sordid tyranny that mocks men’s highest aspirations. What was the use of pausing? What was the use of hesitation?
“Lord God, what a lousy universe! Is it impossible to see straight and act fairly without bringing down one’s own house in ruins?”
And neither sword nor heavy-hafted spear,
Nor bow well strung with arrows straight and long
That wing their way obedient is Fear,
Whose seeming strength is weakness and its weakness strong,
In turning on the user lunge and thrust —
Himself his adversary, effort its own foil,
Trust in an untrue tool undoing Trust,
Himself the warrior and war, his Faith the spoil.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“The Jullunder woman? You believe in that mare’s nest?”
PESHAWAR is a northern stronghold where the forces fret protecting India against invasion. Take away those forces and as sudden or as gradual as their withdrawal would the inroad be of Hillmen weaned on the ancient law of survival of him who can take and get away with it. The forces fret like steam or any other concentrated power kept ready for action and held in restraint. Their sentries are now and then murdered by fleece-clad sportsmen, who creep through the midnight mist and slay for the sake of a rifle and a bandolier; a rifle is worth its weight in silver money, and the British hospital takes care of any one who gets the wrong end of the luck, so the game is played without ill-will but with a determination that would shame the sluggard ant. Protected merchants in the sanitary, well-policed bazaar exorbitantly chouse their guardians. In proof that peace is not a blind goal of deluded theorists, the cemeteries quite surround the city. And, suggesting that there may be tides of destiny as well as of oceans and emotions, Moslem minarets look down on the Buddhist ruins, and the British troops parade within sight of where Mahmud conquered Ghazni. They protect the road along which Akbar’s delegates passed to his Province of Kabul. Some of the ashes of Buddha lie in the new museum. Some of the graves surrounding the wide city are those of much more recently dead students of the art of living loyally and dying game.
The wind sweeps from the mountains, blowing southward bugle music and the skirl of Scottish pipes. Dust of a parade-ground drifts on statuary left by Alexander’s Greeks. A few unveiled, unhonored Moslem ladies sing shrill hymns in the Zenana Mission, while men from Samarkand and Kandahar, from all the ranges of the Hindu-Kush, and from the Khyber and all the Himalayan sky-high valleys eye the Hindu with a wolf-lift of the upper lip and a curious, now and then ponderous gleam of eyes that seem aware of fate and of the need to await the appointed hour.
In the midst of that, in what is known as luxury, resides a Chief Commissioner, a man of merely human zeal and only thirty or forty years’ experience, whom possibly the gods of irony applaud for wishing he had something easy on his hands like Pontius Pilate’s job. He has advisers, to increase his knowledge and to plow perplexity; telegraph wires remind him he is no more than a corner-knot in an enormous web of empire, trembling to the jerk and strain of politics at earth’s ends; he is a gentleman by dint of having earned that title, a degree from the College of Life that makes most politics seem filthy, all forgiveness easy and all drasticism difficult. He will be damned for whatever he does, damned if he does nothing, and the condition of his liver — in Peshawar in the spring — is not always a fit subject for polite discussion. Furthermore, he knows a great deal that he must not tell to any one except his equally distracted seniors, who are seldom within twenty-fours hours’ reach.
