Not without reasons of his own had Campian made such careful and minute
inquiries as to the traditions and legends of the strange, wild country
in which his lot was temporarily cast, and the key to those reasons was
supplied in a closely-written sheet of paper which he was intently
studying on the morning after the above conversation. It was, in fact,
a letter.
Not for the first or second time was he studying this. It had reached
him just after his arrival in the country, and the writer thereof was
his father.
The latter had been a great traveller in his younger days, and was
brimful of Eastern experience; full too, of reminiscence, looking back
to perilous years passed among fierce, fanatical races, every day of
which represented just so many hours of carrying his life in his hand.
Now he was spending the evening of life in peace and quiet. This was
the passage which Campian was now studying:
"It came to me quite as a surprise to hear you were in Afghanistan; had
I known you thought of going, there are a few things we might have
talked over together. I don't suppose the country is much changed.
Oriental countries never do change, any more than their people.
"You remember that affair we have often talked about, when I saved the
life of the Durani emir, Dost Hussain, and the story of the hiding of
the ruby sword. It--together with the remainder of the treasure--was
buried in a cave in a long narrow valley called Kachin, running almost
due east and west. The mountain on the north side is pierced by a very
remarkable _tangi_, the walls of which, could they be closed, would fit
like the teeth of a steel trap. I never saw the place myself, but Dost
Hussain often used to tell me about it when he promised me half of the
buried valuables. I was not particular to go into the subject with him
in those days, for I had a strong repugnance to the idea of being paid
for saving a man's life; indeed I used to tell him repeatedly I did not
need so costly a gift. But he would not hear of my objections,
declaring that when he was able to return for his property half of it
should be mine, and I fully believe he would have kept his word, for he
was a splendid fellow--more like an Arab that an Asiatic. But Dost
Hussain was killed by the Brahuis, and, so far as I was concerned, the
secret of the hidden valuables died with him. The only man I know of
who shared it was his brother, the Syyed Ain Asraf, but he is probably
dead, or, at any rate must have recovered it long ago. The sword alone
would have been of immense value. I saw it once. Both hilt and
scabbard were encrusted with splendid rubies and other stones, but
mostly rubies--and there were other valuables.
"It occurs to me that all this must have been hidden somewhere about
where you are now, and, if so, you might make a few inquiries. I would
like to know whether the sword was ever found or not. Find out if Ain
Asraf is still alive. If so, he must be very old now. It would be
interesting to me to hear how that affair ended, and would give an
additional object to your travels..." Then the letter went on to touch
upon other matters, and concluded.
As we have said, it was not the first time Campian had pondered over
these words, but every time he did so something in them seemed to strike
him in a fresh light. Well he remembered hearing his father tell the
story by word of mouth, but at such time it had interested him _as_ a
story and no more. Now, however, that he was in the very scene of its
enactment, it seemed to gain tenfold interest. What if this buried
treasure had never been recovered, had lain hidden all these years. The
affair dated back to the forties. Afghanistan his father had called
it--but this was Afghanistan then. In those days it owned allegiance to
the Amir of Kabul.
A long, narrow valley running almost due east and west! There were many
such valleys. And the _tangi_? Why the very _tangi_ at whose mouth
their camp was pitched was the only one cleaving the mountain range on
the northern side, and its configuration was exactly that of the one
described in his father's letter. He could not resist a thrill of the
pulses. What if this splendid treasure were in reality right under his
hand--if he only knew where to lay his hand upon it? There came the
rub. The mountain sides here and there were simply honeycombed with
caves. To strike the right one without some clue would be a forlorn
quest indeed; and he could talk neither Baluch nor Hindustani. The very
wildness of the possibility availed to quell any rising excitement to
which he might have felt inclined upon the subject; besides, was it
likely that this treasure--probably of double value, both on account of
its own worth, and constituting a sort of heirloom--would have been
allowed to lie buried for forty years or so, and eventually have been
forgotten? Somebody or other must have known its hiding place. No; any
possibility to the contrary must be simply chimerical.
Just then the "chik" was lifted, and Upward's head appeared within the
tent.
"Can I come in, old chap? Look here, we are all going on a little
expedition, so you roll out and come along. There's a bit of new
enclosed forest I want to look at and report on, so we are going to make
a picnic of it. There's a high _kotal_ between cliffs, which gives one
a splendid view; then we can go down into the valley, and home again
round another way, through a fine _tangi_ which is well worth seeing."
"I'm right on, Upward. I'll roll out. Do you mind sending Khola in
with the bath?"
"That's it. We are going to have breakfast a little earlier, and start
immediately afterwards. Will that suit you?"
"To a hair!"
The start was duly made, and Lily and Hazel found immense fun in
watching the efforts of the two knights of the sabre to secure the
privilege of riding beside Nesta, with the result that, as neither would
give way, the path, when it began to narrow, became inconveniently
crowded. The girl was looking very pretty in a light blouse and habit
skirt; her blue eyes dancing with mischievous mirth over the
recollection of the wild rush they had made to assist her to mount; and
how she, having accorded that privilege to Fleming, the other had
promptly taken advantage of it by manoeuvring his steed to the side of
hers, thus, for the time being, effectually "riding out" the much
disgusted Fleming.
"What's the real name of this place, Upward?" said Campian, when they
were fairly under way.
"Chirria Bach," said Lily. "We told you before. It was named after
you."
"Not of thee did I humbly crave information, mine angelic Lil. I record
the fact more in sorrow than in anger," he answered.
"It's called that on the Government maps," said Upward. "I think it has
another name--Kachin, I believe they call it--don't they, Bhallu Khan?"
"_Ha, Huzoor_, Kachin," assented the forester, who was riding just
behind.
"Is it the whole district, or only just this valley?" went on Campian.
"Only just this valley," translated Upward, who had put the question to
the old Pathan.
"Strange now--that I should be here, isn't it? I've heard my father
speak of this place. You know he was out here a lot--years ago--I
suppose there isn't another of the same name, is there?"
"He says, nowhere near this part of the country," said Upward, rendering
Bhallu Khan's reply. "But what made your father mention this place in
particular? Was he in any row here?"
"Perhaps he `missed birds' here, too," cut in the irrepressible Lily.
"I know. It was named after him--not you."
"That's it. Of course it was. Now, I never thought of that before,"
assented Campian, with a stare of mock amazement. "I believe, however,
Upward, that as a matter of fact, he remembered the rather remarkable
formation of that _tangi_ behind the camp."
Then he dropped out of the conversation, and thought over what he had
just heard. Truly this thing was becoming interesting. He had located
the very place. There could be no mistake about that. He had been on
the point of asking if Bhallu Khan had heard the story of the flight of
the Durani chief, or of Syyed Ain Asraf, but decided to let that alone
for the present.
"Who is that bounder, Campian?" Bracebrydge was saying. "Does anyone
know?"
"He isn't a `bounder,'" returned Nesta shortly. "He's awfully nice."
"Oh, awfully nice--ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered Bracebrydge, with his
vacuous laugh. "Very sorry. Didn't know he was such a friend of
yours."
"But he is."
"Pity he goes about looking such a slouch then, isn't it?"
"It would be--if he did. But then everybody doesn't see the sense of
knocking about among rocks and stones got up as if he was just turned
out of a band box, Major Bracebrydge," she returned, quite angrily.
"Oh. Sorry I spoke--ah--ha--ha!" he retorted, recognising a shaft
levelled at his own immaculate turnout. Fleming came to the rescue.
"Don't know what's wrong with this fellow, Miss Cheriton. He's been so
crusty the last day or two. He ought to be invalided. Bracebrydge, old
man, buck up."
A couple of hours of easy riding, and the whole party gained the
_kotal_, to which we heard Upward make reference, and his eulogy of the
view afforded therefrom was in no sense undeserved. Right in front the
ground fell abruptly, well nigh precipitously, to a great depth; and in
the valley, or basin beneath, here and there a plot of flat land under
cultivation stood out green among the rolling furrows of grey rock and
sombre vegetation. Opposite rose a mighty mass of mountain, piled up
tier upon tier of great cliffs, and beyond this, far away to the left, a
lofty range dark with juniper, swept round to meet the heights which
shut in the amphitheatre from that side. Down into this the bridle path
over the _kotal_ wound, looking like a mere crack in a wall. A great
crag towered right overhead, its jutting pinnacles and ledges standing
defiantly forth against the sky.
"Not a bad spot for a picnic, is it?" said Upward complacently, as,
having dismounted, they stood taking in the view.
"By Jove, no," said Fleming. "Phew! what an idea of depth it conveys,
looking right down into that hole. Look Miss Cheriton. There are some
people moving down there. They seem about as big as flies."
"How big are flies? I always thought flies were small?" cut in Lily,
the irrepressible.
"Not always. Depends upon the fly," murmured Campian.
"Well, I shall have to leave you people for a while," said Upward.
"There's a new plantation up the hill I want to look at. Sha'n't be
more than an hour, and we can have tiffin then. It's quite early yet."
"I'll go with you, Upward," said Campian. And the two started, attended
by Bhallu Khan, mounted on his wiry Baluch pony.
"I'm getting deadly sick of that fellow Bracebrydge," began Upward. "I
wish to heaven he'd clear. He always wants to boss the whole show as if
it belonged to him. Did you hear him trying to dictate where we were to
pitch the tiffin camp?"
"Yes."
"He always does that sort of thing, or tries to be funny at somebody
else's expense. I'm getting jolly sick of it."
He was still more sick of it, when, on returning, he found that
Bracebrydge had carried his point, and actually had caused a removal of
the said site. However, Upward was of an easy going disposition, though
addicted to occasional fidgety fits, so he came to the conclusion that
it couldn't be helped now, and didn't really matter after all, and the
tiffin was plenteous and good, and the soda water well cooled. So they
fed, and chatted, and had a good time generally.
"I say, Upward. Can't someone throw a few bottles at that brute?"
remarked Bracebrydge, as, cheroots having been lit, the male element
stretched at full length on the ground, was lazily puffing at the same.
"He'll crack the drum of one's blessed ears directly, the howling
lunatic."
The noise complained of was a soft, melancholy, wailing sound, something
between a flute and a concertina, and it proceeded from one of the
forest guard, who was tootling into some instrument of native make.
"Does it _dik_ you, old chap?" replied Upward good naturedly. "I can
shut him up, but we rather like it. Bulbul Khan swears he invented that
instrument himself, and is immensely proud of it. We look upon him as
our Court minstrel of sorts. He's always tuning up when we go out
anywhere. Never without his pipes."
"What did you say the _soor's_ name was?" growled Bracebrydge.
"Bulbul Khan. That's my name for him," laughed Upward. "His real
name's Babul Han, but I christened him Bulbul Khan, because he's always
making melody. Not bad, eh?"
"Oh yes--beastly funny--Ah--ha--ha--ha!" sneered Bracebrydge.
Now the trampling of horse hoofs arrested the attention of the party,
and about a dozen mounted Baluchis, riding at a foot's pace, emerged
from the juniper forest. They made a picturesque group enough in their
white flowing garments and great turbans.
"Why, who can these be?" said Nesta, gazing upon the new arrivals with
some interest. "Who are they, Mrs Upward?"
"I'll ask Bhallu Khan." Then--"He says it is a sirdar of the Marris,
who has been up to Gushki to see the Political Agent, and is on his way
home."
"So?" said Campian, interested. "Wonder if he'd stop and have a talk.
Upward, roll up, old man. I want you to interview this very big swell."
"We don't want to be `dikked' by a lot of niggers," grunted Bracebrydge,
in an audible aside.
The cavalcade had halted some threescore yards away, and one of the men
now came forward to ask if the "jungle-wallah sahib" was there, because
the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan would be glad to have a talk with him on an
official matter.
"Yar Hussain Khan?" repeated Upward, choking back a yawn. "I say,
Campian, you'd better take a good look at this fellow. He's no end of a
big chief among the Marris, though he's really of Afghan descent. Come
along with me and meet him." Then, turning to the Baluchi, he gave the
necessary answer.
All the party were armed with the inevitable tulwar--four of their
number, who were in immediate attendance on the chief, with Martini
rifles as well. These, however, they laid down, as, having dismounted,
they advanced to meet Upward.
The sirdar himself was a man of stately presence, standing over six
feet. His strong, handsome face, with its flowing black beard, was well
set off by the great turban wound round a blue _kulla_, whose conical
peak was just visible above the snowy folds. Two jetty tresses of long
hair fell over his broad chest, almost to the hem of a rich vest of blue
velvet embroidered with gold; the only colour which relieved his white
garments. Campian, for his part, as he returned the other's handshake,
and noted the free, full fearlessness of the glance which met his,
decided that here indeed was a noble specimen of an Oriental chieftain.
The subject of the latter's official talk with Upward was of no especial
importance, relating merely to certain grazing rights in dispute between
a section of his tribesmen and the Government. Then he accepted an
invitation to sit down and smoke a cigarette. But with the remainder of
the party he did not offer to shake hands, acknowledging their presence
by a dignified salute.
Upward, talking in Hindustani, brought round the conversation to matters
semi-political. "Was there anything in the rumours that had got about,
that the tribes were becoming restless all over the country?"
"The tribes always had been restless," was Yar Hussain's reply. "The
English had taken over the country not so very long ago. Was it likely
that the people could change their nature all at once? The English
sahibs found sport in stalking markhor or tiger shooting or in other
forms of _shikar_. The Baluchis found it in raiding. It was their form
of _shikar_."
Campian, who perforce had to await Upward's interpretation, had been
carefully observing their visitors, and noted that one among the chiefs
attendants was gazing at him with a most malevolent stare. This man
never took his glance off him, and when their eyes met that glance
became truly fiendish.
"That's a first-class explanation, and a candid one," was the comment he
made on Upward's rendering. "Tell him I hope they won't take any more
potshots at me when I'm wandering about alone--like they did that night
I arrived at your camp, Upward. Tell him I rather like the look of
them, and wish I could talk, so I could go in and out among them."
A slight smile came over the dignified gravity of the sirdar's features
as this was interpreted to him, and he replied.
"He says," translated Upward, "he will be very pleased if at any time
you should visit his village. The shooting at you he knows nothing
about, but is sure it could not have been done by any of his people."
Campian, looking up, again met the hostile glance above mentioned. The
man, who was seated a little behind his chief, was regarding him with a
truly fiendish scowl, and noting it he decided upon two things--that Yar
Hussain was a very fine fellow indeed, but that if he had any more
followers of the stamp of this malignant savage, it were better for
himself or any other infidel who desired to live out his length of days
to pause ere accepting this cordially worded invitation. Then, after a
few more interchanges of civilities, the sirdar and his followers rose
to take their leave.
Now the diabolical scowl wherewith that particular Baluchi had greeted
him, Campian at first set down to the natural hatred of a more than
ordinarily fanatical Moslem for the infidel and the invader. But as the
other drew nearer, spitting forth low envenomed curses, he half expected
the Ghazi mania would prove too much for the man, even in the presence
of his chief, and his hand instinctively moved behind him to his pistol
pocket. The fellow however, seemed to think better of it.
"Fine specimen, that sirdar, isn't he?" said Upward, as they watched the
party defiling down the steep hill path into the valley beneath.
"He is. By the way, did you notice the infernal scowl that hook-nosed
brigand of his turned on for my benefit all the time you were talking?"
"I thought he wasn't looking at you very amiably when they went away.
He can see you're a stranger, I suppose, and some of these fanatical
devils hate a stranger."
"There was more in it than that, Upward. Did you happen to notice he
walked with a slight limp?"
"No; I hardly--er yes, by the way, now I think of it, I did."
"Well, what if he should turn out to be the very identical cuss I winged
that night?"
"Phew!" whistled Upward. "But then, Bhallu Khan says they were Brahuis.
These are Marris."
"There may have been both among them. What is the sirdar's name,
again?"
"Yar Hussain Khan."
"Yes. Well, Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan seems a very nice fellow, and I
should much like to see him again; but probably I sha'n't, for the
simple reason that I don't in the least want ever to behold that
particularly abominable follower of his again."
But he little thought under what circumstances he was destined to behold
both again.