NONE BUT THE BRAVE.
“Really, Mab,” said Dick irritably, “your horses are more bother
than they are worth. Why don’t you set up a motor-car?”
“How horrid you are, Dick! Any one would think it was my fault that
all these things happen. How could I help one of the other horses’
kicking Majnûn as they were coming back from watering? I am sure it
was that wretched Bayard of yours--cross old thing! At any rate, the
syce declares it’s impossible for Majnûn to go out to-day, and I can
see it myself. You can go round and look at the state his leg is in.”
“Oh, all right; I’ll take your word for it. But what are you going to
do?”
“The syce’s sole idea is to send down to Mr Anstruther’s for Laili,
but I don’t care to ride her again just yet.”
“No, I certainly won’t have you mount her until Anstruther can give a
better report of her proceedings. Well, you had better take Georgie’s
old Simorgh, as she and I are to do Darby and Joan in the dog-cart.”
“He’s so horribly and aggressively meek. I don’t want a horse whose
sole title to distinction is that in prehistoric days he carried his
mistress to Kubbet-ul-Haj and back without once running away. I am
going to ride Roy, Dick.”
“My dear Mabel, pray have some regard for appearances. Will nothing
but a mighty war-horse satisfy your aspiring mind?”
“That’s just it. He’s so big that it must feel like riding on an
elephant. I should love to ride him, and you know it’s perfectly safe.
A child could manage him--you said so yourself.”
“No, really, Mab. An appreciative country doesn’t provide me with
chargers merely to furnish a mount for you.”
“Then I shall borrow a horse from somebody. Mr Burgrave would lend me
anything he possesses in the way of horseflesh--he said so,” declared
Mabel vindictively.
“I daresay, and rejoice when it came to grief, so that he might nobly
refuse any compensation. Oh, take Roy, and Bayard too, if you like,
and make the whole show into a circus, but don’t put me under an
obligation to Burgrave.”
Mabel retired triumphant, as she had intended to do. It was the last
day of the Christmas holidays, and the Alibad festivities were to
close, as usual, with a picnic organised by Major and Mrs North.
Georgia had been up long before dawn, superintending the packing of
provisions in the carts, which must set out as soon as it was light,
and she was now resting in her own room. Without troubling to ask
herself why, Mabel felt relieved by her absence. She would not have
cared to employ the argument with which she had vanquished Dick, had
his wife been at hand, but she had no fear of his bearing malice or
alluding to the matter afterwards. Perhaps he thought she was
sufficiently punished already, for when she was perched upon the back
of the great roan charger, she found that her victory was its own sole
reward. Roy was almost as uncomfortable to ride as a camel, and to
Mabel, accustomed to her docile ponies, he seemed to have no mouth at
all. She was thankful to receive a hint or two on managing him from
his forgiving master, and thus forearmed, she would not own herself
defeated. Her mount excited a good deal of surprise among her
fellow-guests, and Mr Hardy asked her benevolently if she would not
have preferred an elephant, while Mr Burgrave reminded her in
reproachful tones of his offer of the loan of any of his horses. To
this she replied promptly that she preferred a military mount as more
trustworthy, an answer which bred great, if somewhat causeless elation
in the minds of several young officers who heard it.
The scene of the picnic was a spur of the mountains about a dozen
miles to the north-east, where there were curious caves to be seen,
and also the ruins of an ancient fortress, among which fragments, or
even whole specimens, of old glazed tiles, very highly prized by those
learned in such things, were sometimes found. On this occasion
everything was done in the orthodox way. The caves were duly explored
and the ruins examined, with suitable precautions against finding
scorpions instead of tiles, and a few rather disappointing sherds were
discovered, and entrusted to the servants to take home. Mabel and
Flora Graham chose to climb to the highest point of the ruins,
escorted and assisted by all the younger men of the party, but when
there they confessed that, but for being able to say they had achieved
the ascent, they had gained nothing that was not equally obtainable
down below. However, the provisions were excellent, and nothing
material to their consumption had been forgotten, so that the guests
all agreed that it had been a most successful picnic, and Georgia
heaved a sigh of satisfaction as she watched the servants piling the
last of the empty baskets on the carts.
These carts, with the three or four carriages which had conveyed the
elder members of the party, were obliged to return home by the track
across the plain, but it was possible for the riders to take a short
cut through the hills for the first part of the way. While a
discussion was going on as to the path to be chosen, Flora Graham
moved close to Mabel.
“Oh, Mab,” she murmured hastily, “do you think you could get Mr
Brendon to ride with you? He persists in sticking to me, and I know
Fred won’t like it when he hears. He’s a little inclined to be
jealous, you know, because once, before we were engaged, he thought I
liked Mr Brendon. Besides, I want to ride with Mr Milton, and talk to
him about Fred.”
Milton, the youth who was Fred Haycraft’s comrade at Fort Shah Nawaz,
had cheerfully put up with the fag-end of the holidays that his senior
might enjoy as much of Miss Graham’s society as possible. He was
delighted with the proposed arrangement, and Mabel had little
difficulty in attaching Mr Brendon to herself when he found that the
post he coveted was already bespoken. It was obvious, however, to
keen-eyed observers that Mr Burgrave and Fitz Anstruther had both been
promising themselves the pleasure of riding with Mabel, and the sudden
blankness of their faces when they found themselves forestalled by
this outsider was much appreciated. Finally, either moved by a certain
vague fellow-feeling, or each impelled by the determination to see
that the other played fair, they fell in together behind Mabel and her
cavalier, riding rather in advance of the rest.
As for Mabel, she felt it distinctly hard to be obliged to sacrifice
herself in this way for Flora’s benefit. Mr Brendon, of the Public
Works Department, was a most estimable young man, but he suffered from
a plethora of useful knowledge. To ask him a question was like pulling
the string of a shower-bath, which let loose a flood of information on
the head of the unwary questioner. Mabel had intended to let him prose
as he liked, while she thought about other things, and jerked the
string, so to speak, at the requisite intervals, but he was far too
polite to monopolise the conversation. He paused for her replies or
invited her opinion so often, while clearly ready to supply the needed
answer himself, that she had not a moment for meditation, and found
the ride almost unendurable. She had just succeeded in hiding an
irrepressible yawn when a happy idea came to her as she was
approaching a state of desperation.
“Oh, here is quite a nice level piece of ground! Let us race, Mr
Brendon.”
He could not well refuse, and for all too short a time Roy pounded
gallantly through the sand. Brendon’s lighter steed won easily, and
when Mabel reached the end of the course, she found him waiting for
her. At this point their road entered a narrow ravine, leading down to
the open desert, and the high rocks on either side looked black and
threatening against the glowing sunset sky, a glimpse of which at the
farther end of the gorge dazzled the eyes.
“I think you had better let me pilot you here, Miss North,” said
Brendon. “The ground is strewn with loose boulders, and it is
difficult to distinguish them in this light. You might get a nasty
fall.”
It was desirable that Brendon should ride anywhere rather than beside
her, and Mabel accepted the position he assigned to her with something
more than resignation. He took the lead as they entered the ravine,
his pony picking its way with infinite caution, and Roy followed
securely enough.
“What a delightful Dürer engraving we should make!” exclaimed Mabel
suddenly, “creeping along between these dark cliffs under such a
gorgeous red sky. But it’s contrary to all symbolism that you should
be riding first.”
“The colour of the sky would scarcely tell in an engraving,” answered
Brendon, with a perceptible accent of reproof. “But the idea would
work out well in black and white.”
“Oh dear, no!” persisted Mabel. “The sky is everything. It gives such
a threatening touch. I feel quite weird myself, don’t----”
“Don’t you?” she was going to say, but the words were cut short, for a
shot was fired among the rocks on the left, close beside her. Roy,
accustomed to such sounds, merely started slightly and pricked up his
ears, but the pony shied violently, and received a cut from its rider.
“Abominable carelessness!” shouted Brendon to Mabel, looking round as
the animal dashed forward. “I’m coming back to hunt that fellow out.
He might have shot one of us.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the pony reared
suddenly and then fell forward, throwing him over its head. At the
same moment Mabel heard the sound of another horse’s feet behind her,
and before she could look round some one dealt Roy a smart blow on the
flank. She felt him rise for a leap, and was conscious that his heels
touched something as he went over. It seemed a miracle that he did not
land upon his head, but as it was, the shock, when his hoofs clattered
down amongst the stones, nearly unseated Mabel, and before she could
collect her scattered senses three mounted men appeared, as if by
magic, from among the rocks on either hand. Before she had time to do
more than realise that they wore turbans, a fourth man pushed up from
behind, and seizing her bridle, forced Roy into a canter. She had a
momentary vision of Brendon, his face streaming with blood, flinging
himself between her horse and her captor’s, and trying to wrest the
bridle from him; she saw the sweep of steel in the red light as one of
the other men turned round; saw Brendon cut down by a murderous blow
from a tulwar. It was all over in a moment, and before she could even
scream, she and her captors were out of the gorge and riding swiftly
to the right, away from Alibad and safety. From the fatal spot they
had left there came faintly to her ears the sound of several shots.
The sound reached other ears as well as Mabel’s. Mr Burgrave and Fitz,
riding leisurely, as they had been when Mabel and her cavalier left
them behind in their race, started when they heard it, and put spurs
to their horses. Entering the gorge they could see nothing but dark
rocks and lurid sky. No! what was that?--a bright flash, followed by
another report, coming from a spot close to the ground at the farther
end. Riding headlong down the ravine, regardless of the shifting
boulders, they distinguished at last the form of Brendon, his light
clothes dyed with blood. He was dragging himself painfully towards
them, holding his discharged revolver in his left hand.
“They’ve got Miss North!” he gasped, as they neared him.
With a sharp exclamation Mr Burgrave dug his spurs deeper and dashed
on, but Fitz, catching the look of agony on Brendon’s face, drew rein
for a moment.
[image: images/img_078.jpg
caption: “FITZ CAUGHT THE LOOK OF AGONY IN BRENDON’S FACE”]
“She’s riding--a troop-horse. Yell to him--to ‘Halt!’” came in broken
sentences. “And look out. There’s a--rope.”
Even as he sank down exhausted from loss of blood, there was a crash
in front. The Commissioner and his horse had gone down in a heap,
marking only too accurately the position of the rope. Fitz galloped
forward, his pony taking the obstacle like a bird.
“Ride on, for Heaven’s sake! Never mind me!” came in a despairing
shout from the man who lay helpless under the struggling horse, and
Fitz obeyed. He was out of the gorge now, and could see far away to
the right the dark moving mass which represented the object of his
pursuit. Ramming in his spurs, he followed at breakneck speed, his
whole soul absorbed in the savage determination to catch up the
robbers and their prey. Whether he and Sheikh lived or died, they must
reach that goal. Thundering on, his eyes fixed upon his quarry, he
perceived presently, with a fierce joy, that it was becoming clearer
to his view. He was gaining! Now he could distinguish the forms of the
men and their horses, and presently he was able to assure himself that
the wiry little native steeds were undoubtedly handicapped by the
necessity of accommodating their pace to that of the heavier Roy. That
the robbers he was pursuing were four to one did not occur to Fitz,
even in face of the ominous fact that they made no attempt to
interfere with him, too confident in their superior numbers to take
the trouble to separate and cut him off. The moment that he felt sure
of his advantage, his plan was ready, formed complete in his mind, and
without any volition of his own, his revolver was in his hand, cocked,
the moment after. As he diminished the distance between himself and
the robbers, he saw that they were no longer in a compact body. The
three unencumbered riders were leading, and Mabel and the man who held
her bridle came after. Mabel had recovered her presence of mind by
this time. She was striking furiously with her whip at the hand which
gripped her rein, in the hope of forcing the robber to loose his hold,
but in vain. He could not spare a hand to snatch away the whip, but
his grasp upon the bridle never relaxed. Suddenly a voice sounded in
her ears. Standing in his stirrups, Fitz put all the power of his
lungs into the one word, “Halt!” and at the well-known shout Roy
stopped dead, his feet firmly planted together. The shock dragged the
robber from his saddle, and his own horse, terrified, continued its
headlong career. Still grasping Mabel’s bridle with his left hand, he
drew his tulwar and sprang at Fitz. A bullet from the ready revolver
met him as he came, and he fell forward, the tulwar dropping harmless
from his fingers, which gripped for a moment convulsively at the sand
under Sheikh’s hoofs.
“Quick! Get behind me! Crouch between the horses!” cried Fitz to
Mabel, urging the panting Sheikh in front of Roy. The three men in
front had faced round, and seemed to be meditating a charge, but they
were without firearms, and Fitz, standing behind his pony, had them
covered if they should approach. Left to themselves, they might have
distracted his attention by coming at him from different directions,
and taken him in the rear, but the other members of the party had now
emerged from the gorge, and were riding down on them with shouts.
Prudent counsels prevailed, and they turned their horses’ heads again,
and rode off into the gathering darkness, leaving the victorious Fitz
with two trembling, sweating horses, and Mabel, crouched on the sand,
clutching wildly at his feet. She tried to speak as she looked up at
him, but no words would come, and only a hoarse scream issued from her
lips. The sight of her utter prostration almost unmanned him.
“Don’t, don’t, Miss North!” he entreated, trying to lift her up.
“You’re safe now, and the others will be here in a minute. Don’t let
them see you like this.”
She swayed to and fro as he raised her, and staggering to Roy’s side
buried her face in his mane. Fitz turned away. It would be taking an
unfair advantage, he felt, to speak to her in this forlorn state, and
he began to pat Sheikh, and praise his gallant efforts in a low tone.
Many a time afterwards did he curse himself as a fool for this
backwardness of his, but at the moment it was impossible to him to
take her in his arms and comfort her, as his heart urged him to do.
She had been saved from death or worse by his means, and he could not
presume upon the service he had rendered her.
The moment’s constraint was quickly ended by the eager questions of
the men who came galloping up. Fitz stepped forward to meet them.
“Look out!” he said hastily, jerking his head in Mabel’s direction,
“Miss North is awfully knocked up. Leave her to herself for a moment.
Is Tighe here?”
“He stopped at the nullah. It’s a bad job there. Brendon’s gone, poor
old chap! and the Commissioner’s pretty extensively damaged. Jolly
good job the doctor was able to ride out this afternoon.”
“I say, look here,” said Fitz, “we mustn’t let her know about this.
Can’t we get her straight home?”
“Must go back to the nullah. The Colonel and one or two more whose
horses were no good stayed with Tighe to help him dig out the
Commissioner. He had managed to shoot his horse, lest it should kick
his brains out, but it was lying right across him. They’ll want help
in getting him home, and poor Brendon too.”
“Well, say nothing to Miss North, and we’ll try to keep it dark.
There, she’s coming. Can’t you say something ordinary?”
Milton, to whom the request--or rather command--was addressed, gasped
helplessly. The circumstances seemed to preclude him from saying
anything at all, but as Mabel came towards them, her face still white
and her lips trembling, a happy thought seized two of the other men
simultaneously.
“We’ve never even looked at the rascal you potted!” they cried to
Fitz. “Here, come along. Who’s got a match?”
Mabel shuddered, and caught at Fitz’s arm, but a dreadful fascination
seemed to draw her to the place where the dead robber lay. Some one
produced a box of matches, and kneeling down, struck a light close to
the face of the corpse. Fitz knew as well as Mabel what face she
expected to see, and he could hardly keep himself from echoing her cry
of surprise and relief when they realised that a stranger lay before
them.
“Wait a minute, though,” said one of the officers, pressing forward.
“Lend us another match, old man. Yes, I thought so! It’s Mumtaz
Mohammed, the sowar who deserted five or six weeks ago. See, he has
his carbine on his back.”
“Then it was only a common or garden raid, and not a planned thing,”
said another. “I know it was said he had got away to those fellows who
broke out of prison at Kharrakpur.”
“No,” said Mabel suddenly; “it was a plot.”
“Why, Miss North--how do you know?” they asked, astonished.
“Because my syce was in it. He told me this morning my pony could not
be ridden, and wanted me to send for Laili, whom Mr Anstruther is
training for me. She bolts at the sound of a shot. It was a shot fired
in the nullah that began this--this----”
“And you didn’t ride Laili after all?”
“No, I would ride Roy. I asked for him just to see what Dick would
say, and when he didn’t want me to have him, I persisted, simply to
tease him. And it has saved my life!” she cried hysterically.
“Not much doubt who stood to benefit by the plot!” muttered one of the
men who had stood behind Mabel at the Gymkhana, but Fitz nudged the
speaker fiercely.
“I don’t know what we’re all standing here for--in case our deceased
friend’s sorrowing relations like to come back and wipe us out, I
suppose. Let me mount you, Miss North. Are you fellows going to stop
out all night? Had we better bring _that_ along, do you think?”
This was added in a lower tone, as he pointed to the robber’s corpse.
After some demur it was decided to lay it across the saddle of
Brendon’s pony, which had found its way back to the rest with a pair
of broken knees, and they rode back towards the gorge, the last man
leading the laden pony, so that it might be kept out of Mabel’s sight.
As they approached the entrance to the ravine Dr Tighe came forward
hastily to meet them.
“Look here,” he said, “I want some one to ride on to Alibad at once.
The Commissioner has broken his knee-cap and a few other things, and
Major North’s is the nearest house, but Mrs North mustn’t be
frightened. Milton, your pony’s a good one, I know, so just take it
out of him. Say nothing about Miss North or Brendon or anything, but
tell Mrs North the Commissioner has had a nasty fall, and I am
bringing him to her house with a fractured patella and a pair of
smashed ribs. She can get things ready, and send on to my house for
anything she doesn’t happen to have.”
“Surely the ladies had better go back with me, Doctor?” asked Milton,
pausing as he was about to start.
“No, we don’t want any more kidnapping to-night. We must travel
slowly, all of us, but they’ll be safer than with you. Feel shaky,
Miss North? Drink this,” and he handed her a flask-cup. “Miss Graham
is waiting to weep tears of joy over you. What, aren’t you gone yet,
Milton?”
“Tell Major North to arrest the syce,” Fitz shouted after the
messenger as he disappeared in the darkness.
“Off with your coats, you young fellows!” cried Dr Tighe, as the thud
of the pony’s steps upon the sand died away. “The Commissioner has to
be carried home somehow, and there’s not so much as a stick to make a
stretcher of. We must tie the coats together by the sleeves, and
manufacture a litter in that way.”
No one dared to scoff, although no one could understand what the
doctor meant to do; but working energetically under his directions,
they succeeded in framing a sufficiently practicable litter. Six of
the party were chosen as bearers, and the others were to relieve them,
their duty in the meantime being to lead the riderless horses and keep
watch against a surprise. Mabel and Flora, who had been enjoying the
luxury of shedding a few tears together in private, were placed at the
head of the procession, and the march began. At first the litter
containing the wounded man followed close after the two girls; but
presently Fitz, who was one of the bearers, felt his arm grasped.
“Let the ladies get ahead of us, please. I--I can’t stand this very
well.”
Fitz understood. Mr Burgrave was suffering acutely in being carried
over the rough ground, and he feared lest some sound extorted from him
by the pain should acquaint Mabel with the fact. The litter and its
bearers dropped behind, and if now and then a groan was forced from
the Commissioner’s lips, his rival, at any rate, felt no contempt for
the involuntary weakness. Before half of the journey had been
accomplished, a relief party, headed by Dick, met them, and Mr
Burgrave was transferred to a charpoy carried by natives, after Dr
Tighe had made rough and ready use of the splints and strapping
Georgia had sent. A little later a detachment of the Khemistan Horse
passed at a smart trot in the direction of the gorge. It was not now
the rule, as in the early days of General Keeling’s reign, for the
regiment to sleep in its boots, but it was still supposed to be ready
day and night to trace the perpetrators of any outrage and bring them
to justice--rough justice, sometimes, but none the less impressive for
that. The sight gave Mabel a sense of safety and comfort, and she
scouted Flora’s proposal that she should come home with her for the
night.
“As if I would leave Georgie alone, with all this extra work on her
hands!” she said, as they turned in at the gate.
“Oh, Mab, is it true about the Commissioner?” cried Georgia, coming
out to meet them on the verandah.
“Yes; I am afraid he’s dreadfully hurt, poor man!”
“Was he riding with you when he fell?”
“He--he was riding after me,” said Mabel cautiously.
Georgia threw up her hands. “Oh, if you could only have hurt any other
man, or taken him to any house but this!” she cried; and Mabel thought
it both unkind and unfair, considering the circumstances.