"BETTER THAN NOTHING."
"What has happened?" said Hilda, quickly, gazing from one to the other,
and then at the dead man who lay a little way off.
"Our camp has been rushed by Ghazis, and they are in possession."
"But--has there been a fight? Have they killed anybody?"
"They had killed some of the servants when that poor fellow broke away
to warn us. He was one of Mehrab Khan's tribesmen. But our people were
alive, he says."
"But we can't leave them, Mr Raynier."
"That is not spoken with your usual sense. Are we going to walk
straight into the jaws of the enemy and say, `Here we are'? No. I am
responsible for your safety, Miss Clive, and you may be sure I shall do
the uttermost in my power to secure it."
Even while he had been speaking his mind had rapidly reviewed the
situation, and it was one that filled him with the gravest misgiving and
concern. He knew that a _jihad_, or fanatical rising, was being
fomented among the tribes further along the border, but that the
Gularzai could by any possibility take part in it he had reckoned as
clean out of the question. He had trusted Mushim Khan thoroughly, had
reckoned the Nawab as no more likely to take up arms against the
Government than he himself. But that a bold outrage on a large scale
could thus take place here right under the nose of the Nawab without the
knowledge and therefore sanction of that potentate, he could not
believe. What a fool he had been, and how utterly blind not to have
seen some sign or warning of the dangerous unrest having spread. Well,
this was no time for regrets, but for action--and to this end he would
consult Mehrab Khan.
But what then? Would the Baluchi be true to his salt? All these border
tribes were akin. Ties of friendship, of gratitude, of honour, of
self-interest even, all were swept aside when they made common cause
together against the Feringhi and the infidel--and the acquaintance
between himself and Mehrab Khan was of the shortest.
But the latter, even at that moment, was giving some indication of what
line he was going to take in the crisis. For the other Levy Sowar had
been gradually edging away. These two Feringhis would soon be found and
cut to pieces, _Sirkar_ or not, argued this man, and he had no intention
of identifying himself with them any further, and thus sharing their
fate; wherefore he resolved, while there was yet time, to effect his own
escape. But Mehrab Khan, who knew the workings of his mind, was equally
resolved that he should not.
To this end Mehrab Khan dismounted, and levelling his rifle called upon
him to stop. The result of this order was to cause the defaulter to ram
his spurs into his horse's flanks, and start off along the hillside at a
gallop. Now Mehrab Khan was an old and practised stalker of markhor and
wild sheep, consequently now, when, without further warning, he pressed
the trigger, the runaway toppled heavily from his saddle, and lay
without a kick.
"He would have betrayed us, _Huzoor_," said the Baluchi, laconically, as
he slipped a fresh cartridge into his piece. "Now he will not."
To Raynier's plan of returning straight to Sarbaland Khan's village, and
not only placing themselves under the protection of that chief, but even
ordering him, by virtue of his own office as representative of the
Government, to collect a strong force and safeguard those in the camp,
if any were left there, or pursue the aggressors if they were not,
Mehrab Khan was strongly opposed. He was somewhat mysterious on the
point; mysterious but emphatic. On no account must they go there,
indeed, he had been glad to get out of the place when they were there
before.
Was Sarbaland Khan disaffected then? That he could not say exactly.
But the _Huzoor_ must trust him. He had seen signs which might have
meant much or little. By the light of what had happened he now knew
they meant much. The _Huzoor_ knew his people, and he, Mehrab Khan,
knew his. The gist of all of which was that they must go at once into
hiding, and the sooner the better.
All this, however, took far quicker to decide than it has taken to
narrate, and now, Mehrab Khan taking the lead, they moved, under his
guidance, down into the valley, turning their backs on the site of the
camp altogether.
"I shall never forgive myself for getting you into this fix, Miss
Clive," said Raynier, with great concern, as he thought on the hardships
the coming night would entail upon her, even if it were not the first of
many such nights.
"There is no necessity for you to do anything of the sort," she
answered. "You could not help it. You could not have foreseen things."
"But that is just what I ought to have done," he answered bitterly. "I
have simply acted like a fool, and have made an utter mess of the whole
situation."
"No--no. I am sure you have not. Things may not be so bad as you
think--and if they are, you are not to blame."
What was this? He looked at her strangely. There was not so much in
the words--but the tone, the soothing sympathy of it, as if she
realised, even as he did, that, apart from their imminent and common
danger, the result for him would be something like official ruin. The
colour had returned to her face--for she had gone rather white as she
witnessed Mehrab Khan's grimly successful shot--and there was a look in
her eyes which, combined with the tone of her voice, went far to
compensate for all. It struck him, too, that she showed no alarm, no
anxiety whatever on her own account. Afterwards it was to occur to him
how easily she was reassured as to the safety of those they had left in
the camp.
Darker and darker it grew, as they threaded their way behind their guide
through those lonely defiles, for now the sky was black and overcast,
and a lurid flash or two lit their way--and the accompanying boom
rolled, deep voiced, among the cliffs and chasms.
"Here we should halt, Mehrab Khan," said Raynier, at last, as two or
three great drops splashed down upon them. "The Miss Sahib will get wet
through if we go further, and here under this rock is shelter."
But the Baluchi shook his head.
"See there, _Huzoor_," pointing upward.
"We are in a sort of _tangi_, only it is closed at one end. If it
should rain here, and rain hard, the water would roll off the smooth
rock slopes above, and sweep us out of this like wisps of dried grass.
We cannot rest here. We must go on and upward."
The horses were needing rest badly, yet on they struggled. It was quite
dark now, but their way was lit by the red flashes. Rain had begun to
fall, hard, heavy rain, as, stumbling over the slippery stones, they
held on their wet and weary way. And through it all Raynier did not
fail to notice that from the girl at his side there came no word of
complaint, no sigh of weariness--whereat he marvelled.
He himself was feeling the strain: but with him the strain was as much a
mental as a physical one. He felt weighed down with responsibility. If
this rising took large and destructive proportions he it was who should
have foreseen and coped with it, yet he had gone off, easily and
carelessly, upon a pleasure trip, and that right into the heart of the
very peril itself. And now the safety of this girl beside him was in
his hands; and by way of a beginning to the adventure she would have to
spend the livelong night, wet and cold and hungry, lying out among the
rocks, for, of course, they had not taken a food supply when starting
upon an afternoon ride. And what a contrast it was. The highest
official of the district, with, but a few hours ago, servants and armed
sowars at his beck and call, surrounded by every comfort and not a few
luxuries, was now a fugitive in the heart of a hostile land, soaked by a
drenching rain, with no prospect of either food or shelter at the end of
it all. It was a contrast, but he was hard and could worry through it--
but what of his companion in adversity? She was not inured to rude
hardships of this kind. She was not even representative of the stalwart
type of her sex, who could scull a boat or play golf all day. She was
high couraged and cool of nerve; he had seen enough to convince him of
that, yet, physically, she did not look altogether strong. But still no
word of complaint escaped her as, stumbling onward and upward through
the darkness and the rain, they held on their way.
"Here we will rest, _Huzoor_," said Mehrab Khan at last.
They must be among the mountain tops now, Raynier reckoned. The air
blew raw and piercing, and tall slimy rocks glistened around in the red
glare of the now more distant lightning. Dismounting, with stiffened
limbs, he aided Hilda Clive from her saddle. To his surprise she slid
off as lightly as though returning from an ordinary ride.
"I believe you are more tired than I am," she said, with something like
a laugh, as she let her hand rest just a moment in his after he had
assisted her down. "Tell me. Did you ever have fever?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. Only you are very wet. Shall we be able to make a fire?"
"I'm afraid not. There's nothing to make it with."
"That's a pity. You ought to get dry. Let me think it out."
Raynier marvelled, and well he might. What sort of a woman was this?
Any other woman who had ever come within his experience would not have
behaved like this. She would probably have begun by abusing him roundly
for ever bringing her into such a hobble at all. Once in it, she would
have grumbled and whined, or hysterically howled. She would have been
full of herself and her own miserable plight, and what _she_ should do,
and what would become of _her_, and so forth. But this one--her chief
thought seemed to be for him. She didn't seem to think of herself at
all.
"Great Heavens, Miss Clive!" he burst forth, "what does it matter
whether _I_ am dry or wet. It is of you I am thinking--of you, who have
to get through this abominable night somehow. Why, it is nothing to
me--but what about you?"
"But I have never had fever."
The answer came so equably, so matter-of-fact in tone, yet Raynier's
quick ear thought to detect something further. He turned straightway
and began vehemently haranguing Mehrab Khan.
The place to which the latter had brought them afforded shelter from the
rain, though little or none from the piercing wind. A great slab of
rock overhung, yawning outward like an open mouth. Now Mehrab Khan
astonished them still further, for, from a cleft at the back of the
hole, he produced some billets of dry juniper wood. It would burn
wretchedly, he explained apologetically, but was better than nothing.
The place had been an old resort of mountain herdsmen, and the wood had
been kept ready stored for emergencies. And then, still further
amazement followed, for Mehrab Khan produced--this time from his own
store--a little rice and corn meal tied up in a rag. Would the _Huzoor_
deign to accept it for himself and the Miss Sahib? he said. It was poor
fare, but it might be better than nothing.
This, then, was the man for whose good faith he had feared, thought
Raynier, inwardly ashamed, and then again came the whimsical thought of
contrast, and the highest official in the district becoming dependent on
the Levy Sowar's humble store, yet not for himself. But Hilda Clive
looked at it, then beamed on the giver.
"What will he do?" she asked. "It is all he has."
"What then? Let the Miss Sahib take what Allah provides through His
slave and praise Him. More can be provided, and will be," was the
answer of the follower of the Prophet to the follower of the Redeemer.
Said the latter,--
"The blessings of Allah be upon you, Mehrab Khan, and that of His
Prophet."
And Raynier again translating, the fine face of the Baluchi beamed in
turn.