THE PASSING OF THE CARAVAN
It was high midday when a tired American gentleman clad in a long black
coat, riding breeches, and a flapping sombrero pushed his horse up the
valleys toward the height where a mounted guide conducted him, followed
by a string of impatient Garhwalis of whom only those with the best
horses were able to keep near them.
Beside him Major Fraser-Carnie was unnaturally cheerful, keeping at the
same time an eye upon a faint column of smoke that rose through the
trees in front of them and inwardly cursing the reticence of the native
guide who had joined them that morning and whose vocabulary, whether
by linguistic limitations or personal inclination, was confined to the
words:
"Dono-van Khan sent me," and "Missy _khanum_."
Even the optimism and doggedness of the worthy major that had enabled
them to journey from Kashmir to Kashgar on Monsey's heels suffered
when the guide disappeared as if by magic, swallowed up in the
underbrush. He glanced back at the half dozen mounted riflemen in their
green tunics who were lashing wearied beasts in the dread of being
left behind the sahibs should the fighting--for which they had come
expectantly half a thousand miles--be near at hand.
"Damn your ambuscades!" swore Arthur Rand.
"My girl is up there on the hill where we saw the fire last night."
He rode very well, this lean American father with the white hair and
the slow drawl. He spurred on into a green ravine and the English
major, armed only with a valued riding crop, followed, in absolute
defiance of all rules of tactics for a small mounted patrol in hostile
country.
"Damned if I'll let you lead," he responded irritably.
So the two came bridle to bridle to the bed of a small brook and
simultaneously reined in their mounts at sight of Donovan and Edith
cooking lunch very carefully over a tiny camp fire, while Aravang
stretched his sheepskin-clad body beside them. One by one, the best
mounted troopers--all volunteers picked from a native regiment--trotted
up with carbines in hand and eyes alert for the treachery which long
experience taught them was apt to follow close upon the heels of
foolhardy sahibs who rode, with no regard for the danger of mountain
muskets.
These veteran border warriors--and to tell the truth, their leader
also--were astonished to see a tall _mem_-sahib with hair much like
spun gold and eyes that gleamed like jewels from a smoke-stained face
rise and fly toward the horse of the American who had led them from
Kashgar.
"Daddy!"
"My girl!"
Arthur Rand swung from his saddle with an ease beyond his years and
took Edith into his arms. Major Fraser-Carnie said "My word!" and
coughed. Then he brought his horse up, to interview the tall man in
very soiled flannels who waited beside the fire.
"So you had a hand in this, my young rascal!" he accused.
Donovan smiled, without taking his eyes from Edith and her father.
"Not as much as you might think, Major," he said. "Remember, you said
at Gilghit I was heading into trouble in the Hills. Well, what are you
doing here yourself with an armed force on native soil?"
Fraser-Carnie looked guilty and muttered something about old ties, and
all that sort of thing. "Besides, you see, Captain Donovan, I couldn't
let that blooming American--confoundedly game, you know--come up here
on his own, of course. Dashed if I could. Wouldn't have been a sporting
thing, what?"
"I see." Donovan's eyes twinkled, although he spoke gravely. "I fancy
I overstayed the leave given me to go into the Hills. I had to make a
bargain with the tribes, and keep it----"
The major nodded gravely, "An agreement, eh? Why didn't you 'fess up,
that night at my bungalow? Can I help a bit?"
"Thanks, no. It's ended to-day. I'm free to leave, with Miss Rand,
provided we don't reveal certain pet secrets of the tribes----"
Whereupon Edith tripped up to them to demand whether the British army
had lunch sufficient for three men and, oh, such a hungry girl. (And to
bear Donovan off to her father, while Fraser-Carnie hastened to order
up his emergency rations and detail a man from the troopers' mess to
cook.)
Before sitting down to the lunch spread on white cloths by the brook,
nothing would content the major but an observation patrol sent in the
direction of the still smoldering tower. When his men reported nothing
at the _Kurgan_ except the embers of fires and some camels feeding near
by and scattered cartridge shells, the only signs of the recent fight,
he was palpably downcast.
"My Garhwalis will never forgive me, quite. I promised them _pukka_
fighting, and all we do, my dear chap, is to drop in on you for tiffin.
You might at least tell us the whole story."
Donovan looked into Edith's eyes, over the camp fire.
"It might better keep," he said.
Fraser-Carnie surveyed a teacup. "Until the Viceroy hears it, of
course. And that means we'll never have a whiff of it. Edith, my dear,
you at least will enlighten us as to what happened here."
"M-mh," said Edith, a jelly spoon in her mouth. Flushed and happy and
utterly worn out, she sat with her father's hand in hers. "Captain
Donovan says I talk too much."
The major shook his head sadly.
"Rand," he observed, balancing a cigarette between two fingers, "do
you realize we are snubbed? By our hosts, too. Deuced bad form, _I_
call it. A cavalry officer--is it cavalry, Captain Donovan?--goes off
hunting in the Himalayas after a confidential chat with the Viceroy of
India, mind you. Just before war breaks. And the Central Asian tribes,
that we fellows in India expected down on our backs momentarily, by
some astounding miracle do not side against us. Then, after this same
officer on his utterly foolish hunting trip, which, it seems, was with
the Viceroy's consent, is mentioned for promotion he vanishes for a
couple of years, to bob up with your daughter--and we are to ask no
questions!"
Whereupon he emptied his cup with a sigh. Edith's drowsy eyes glowed
and she glanced quickly, proudly at her father. Donovan aimed a covert
kick at Fraser-Carnie which the major dodged. Only Arthur Rand remained
grave.
"Edith, I haven't told you--we have lost all our money. I am bankrupt."
He was surprised to see how calmly he could say it and how little
effect the announcement had on his daughter. Six months ago it would
have broken his heart to confess as much. Here, with Edith restored to
him and quite evidently in delighted possession of a tattered, unshaven
officer, it seemed a thing of minor importance.
And to Edith herself six months ago the news would have been the
collapse of the world about her ears and the loss of her birthright.
Now, between mouthfuls of splendid biscuit, it was a meaningless detail
of the world she had left long since.
"Yes, Edith," nodded Arthur Rand absently, "you must get away from this
inhospitable place. The major will take you and Donovan back, I reckon.
Donovan, I hear, has earned a rest on his own estates in England."
But his daughter was staring at Donovan uncomfortably.
"Estates?" She sat up accusingly. "Why--why, I thought you had no
money, like me."
Donovan glared at Fraser-Carnie; then his brow cleared.
"I haven't, Edith. Because, of course, the family holdings should go to
the wife of my brother."
"My dear chap!" the major observed. "But, of course, your uncle the
curate----"
Unperceived by Edith, Donovan's powerful hand closed upon the collar
of the major's uniform and he ceased with a cough. The girl was still
surveying him accusingly. "Are you certain," she demanded, "that you
aren't the least rich?" He smiled, without releasing his grasp on his
companion.
"Absolutely--as you can see, Edith."
"Quite so," amended the Major, adjusting his collar.
"Then, that's all right!" She nodded approvingly, and then recalled her
father's speech. "Dad! Aren't you coming with us? You are not thinking
of staying here?"
Arthur Rand's fine face hardened. "I reckon," he drawled, "I'll look
for that cur, Monsey."
Upon the gathering of these four wanderers who had come to the world
of the Hills each for sufficient reason, and just now happy at being
united, advanced a smart Garhwali carrying a rifle. He stood at
attention by Major Fraser-Carnie.
"Sahib, the camels come hither with riders."
They rose, and the major spoke a brief word to his men, seated at their
meal some distance away. The troopers took up their arms instantly. In
the silence that settled on the ravine Edith heard the _clink-clank_
of rusty camel bells and the familiar pad-pad of soft feet Through the
trees she saw the moving shapes of clumsy beasts.
Donovan touched her arm, his eyes serious.
"Come, Edith." As he led her away from the brook, he observed quietly
to Rand:
"Monsey has been found by--others."
The bells came nearer. Edith and Donovan were out of sight when a
cloaked figure came down the ravine from the _Kurgan_, leading a long
string of camels walking patiently in the wake of their conductor.
Seeing that only two men were seated on the beasts and they unarmed,
the Garhwalis drew back. The two riders who were bound tightly between
the humps of the camels, their heads bobbing with the walk of the
animals, stared stolidly before them.
"Monsey!" said Rand under his breath. "And Abbas," nodded Fraser-Carnie.
The rusty bells clanked; the beasts--indifferent as ever--passed
majestically by the watchers. Monsey and Abbas swayed in their seats.
When the last camel had passed, wending its way among the trees,
Fraser-Carnie turned to his friend:
"That was Mahmoud, the Sayak. So my Garhwalis say. Rand, these legends
of the Hills sometimes assume the form of rather ghastly reality. I'm
glad Donovan took your daughter away."
Arthur Rand replaced the revolver he had drawn. "I know a dead man when
I see one--or two, for that matter. Is it a kind of burial?"
"It is," observed the major thoughtfully, "the caravan of the dead.
It will go from hill village to hill village. It is the custom of the
Sayaks in dealing with their enemies. The tribes, of course, say it
comes from nowhere and goes--nowhere. Strange, what?"
* * * * *
On a hillock among the aspens that concealed the brook and the passing
of the caravan Edith had turned to Donovan, pausing in her walk.
"Was it Iskander with his camels?" she asked.
"The son of Tahir," he responded gravely, "is no more."
Edith made a little, sorrowing sound. Iskander had been her friend,
and she had meant to thank him for many things. Now that was
impossible. She stood on tiptoe, peering out over the trees, searching
for something she could not see among the overhanging mountain slopes.
Nothing was visible except the clear blue of the sky and the wandering,
white clouds that seemed quite close at hand.
"What, dear?" he questioned gently.
"Our house," she lifted quiet eyes, in which lurked a hint of tears.
"We shan't ever see it again, shall we?"
"Why, sweetheart," he took her face between hands that were not
altogether steady, "did you--were you happy there?"
"Too happy to tell you, Donovan Khan--if you don't know."
And her eyes, bright under the tears, smiled up at him.
The aspens at the edge of the clearing parted and an ugly, scarred face
looked out steadfastly upon the two who had eyes only for each other. A
hand was lifted in yearning salutation. Then a shaggy, limping figure
moved away from them through the trees toward the cleft in the hills
that was Yakka Arik.
Aravang had said farewell to his master and his mistress.
THE END