Mehriab station, on the Shalalai line of railway, was situated amid
about as wild, desolate and depressing surroundings as the human mind
could possibly conceive.
A narrow treeless plain--along which the track lay, straight as a wall--
shut in by towering arid mountains, rising to a great height, cleft here
and there by a chasm overhung by beetling cliffs--black, frowning and
forbidding. At the lower end of the plain rose sad-hued mud humps,
streaked with gypsum. There was nothing to relieve the eye, no speck of
vivid green standing out from the parched aridity prevailing; but on the
other hand all was on a vast scale, and the little station and
rest-house looked but a tiny toy planted there beneath the stupendous
sweep of those towering hills.
In the latter of the buildings aforesaid, a tolerably lively party was
assembled, discussing tiffin, or rather having just finished discussion
of the same. It had been done picnic fashion, and the room was littered
with plates, and knives and forks, and lunch baskets, and paper, and all
the accompaniments of an itinerant repast.
"Have another `peg,' Campian," Upward was saying. "No? Sure? You
will, Colonel? That's right. We've plenty of time. No hurry whatever.
Hazel, don't kick up such a row, or you'll have to go outside. Miss
Wymer, don't let them bother you. What was I saying just now?"
He took up the thread of what he had been saying, and in a moment he and
the Colonel were deep in reminiscences of _shikar_. Vivien and Nesta
had risen and were strolling outside, and there Campian joined them.
The _dak_ bungalow extended its accommodation to travelling natives, for
whom there was a department opposite. Camels--some standing, some
kneeling, but all snarling--filled the open space in front of this, and
wild looking Baluchis in their great white turbans and loose garments
were squatting around in groups, placidly chatting, or standing alone in
melancholy silence.
"Look at this!" said Campian. "It makes quite a picture, taken against
the background of that loop-holed mud wall, with the great sweep of
mountain rising behind."
Several camels, some ready laden, some not, were kneeling. On one a man
was adjusting its load. He was a tall, shaggy, hook-nosed black bearded
ruffian, who from time to time cast a sidelong, malevolent glance at the
lookers on as he continued his work. In business-like manner he
proceeded to adjust each bale and package, then when all was complete,
he lifted from the ground a Snider carbine and hung it by its ring to a
hook on the high wooden pack saddle. Then he took up his curved sword;
but this he secured to the broad sabretache over his shoulder.
"Isn't that a picture in itself?" went on Campian. "Why, adequately
reproduced it would bring back the whole scene--the roaring of the
camels, the midday glow, the burning heat of this arid hole. I wonder
who they are by the way"--for others who had similarly accoutred their
camels were jerking the animals up, and preparing for the start.
Vivien turned to Bhallu Khan who was just behind, and translated his
answer.
"He says they are Brahuis from the Bolan side, going further in."
"Why are they all armed like that? Don't they trust their own people?"
"He says they may have heard that Umar Khan is on the warpath, and they
are not of his tribe. Nobody knows who anybody is who is not of his
tribe--meaning that he doesn't trust them."
It was something of a contrast to turn from these scowling, brigandish
looking wayfarers, to the beaming, benevolent, handsome countenance of
the old forest guard. They strolled around a little more, then voted it
too hot, and returned to the welcome coolness of the _dak_ bungalow.
Campian, always analytical, was conscious of a change, or rather was it
a development? Now that they were together--in a crowd--as he put it to
himself, there was a certain feeling of proprietary right that seemed to
assert itself in his relations with Vivien. It was something akin to
the feeling which was over him in the old time when they moved about
together. And yet, why? Well, the close intimate intercourse of the
last ten days or so had not been without its effect. Not without an
inward thrill either, could he recognise that this intercourse had but
begun. They were returning together, and to be candid with himself that
hot stifling arid afternoon here on one of the wildest spots on earth's
surface, he could not but recognise that this elation was very real,
very exhilarating indeed.
"I think we'd better stroll quietly up to the station," said Upward, as
they re-entered. "We may as well have plenty of time to get all this
luggage weighed and put right." Then relapsing into the vernacular:
"Khola, you know what goes in and what has to be weighed."
"_Ha, Huzoor_," assented the bearer.
"Then get away on ahead and do it."
The rest-house was about half a mile distant from the station. On the
way to the latter Campian found himself riding beside Nesta Cheriton.
"You don't seem elated over the prospect of returning to Shalalai," he
said. "Five thousand of the British Army--horse, foot, and artillery!
Just think what that represents in the shape of its heroic leaders,
Nessita--and yet you are just as _chup_ as if you were coming away from
it all."
"Oh, don't bother--just at the last, too," retorted the girl, almost
petulantly. "Besides--that joke is becoming rather stale."
"Is it? So it is. So sorry. What about that other joke--is it stale
too? The one time you ever took anybody seriously. Won't you tell me
now, Nessie?"
"No, I won't," she said, this time quite petulantly. "Come along. We
are a long way behind."
"Then you will tell me when next we meet, in Shalalai in a week or two."
"No, I won't. And look here--I don't want to hear any more about it."
Then, with apparent inconsequence--"It was mean of you to desert us like
that. You might just as well have put off your stay up there until
now."
They had reached the station and were in the crowd again by now. And
there was somewhat of a crowd on the platform. Long-haired Baluchis,
all wearing their curved swords, stood about in threes and fours;
chattering Hindus with their womenkind, squatting around upon their
bundles and packages; a native policeman in Khaki uniform armed with a
Snider rifle--with which he probably could not have hit the traditional
haystack--and the joint party with their servants and two or three of
the forest guard, constituted quite a crowd on the ordinarily deserted
platform; for the arrival of the train--of which there was but one daily
each way--was something of an event.
Having arranged for the luggage and tickets, Upward was chatting with
the stationmaster--a particularly civil, but very ugly Babu from down
country--as to the state of the country. The man grinned all over his
pockmarked countenance. What would the Sahib have? A Government berth
was not one to throw up because it was now and then dangerous, and so
many only too eager to jump into it. Umar Khan was not likely to
trouble him. Why should he? No defences? No. There was an iron door
to the waiting room, loop-holed, but the policeman was the only man
armed. Upward proceeded to inspect the said iron door.
"Look at this, Colonel," he said. "Just look, and tell me if ever you
saw anything more idiotic in all your life. Here's a thick iron door,
carefully set up for an emergency, loop-holed and all, but the window is
utterly unprotected. Just look at it. And there's no one armed enough
to fire through either, except one policeman, who'd be cut down on the
first outbreak of disturbance."
"You're right, Upward. Why, the window is as open as any English
drawing room window. There's a loft though, and an iron ladder. Well,
you'd be hard put to it if you were reduced to that."
"Rather. That's how we British do things. I'll answer for it the
Russians wouldn't. Why, every one of these stations ought to be a young
fort in itself. It would be if the Russians had this line. And they'll
have it too, one of these days at this rate."
And now a vehement ringing of the bell announced the train. On it came,
looking, as it slowed down, like a long black centipede, in contrast to
the open vastness of Nature; the engine with its cup shaped chimney,
vomiting white smoke, its pointed cow-catcher seeming as a living head
of the monster. The chattering Hindus were loading up their bundles and
hastening to follow; heads of all sorts and colours protruded from the
windows, but Mehriab was not a station where passengers often alighted,
so none got out now. The Upwards were busy looking after their
multifold luggage--and good-byes were being exchanged.
"Now, Ernest, get in," called out Mrs Upward. "We are just off."
"No hurry. Where's Tinkles? Got her on board?"
"Yes, here she is," answered Hazel--hoisting up the little terrier to
the window, from which point of vantage it proceeded to snarl valorously
at a wretched pariah cur, slinking along the platform.
"All right. Well, good-bye, Colonel. Good-bye, Miss Wymer. Campian,
old chap, I suppose we'll see you at Shalalai in a week or two. Ta-ta."
The train rumbled slowly away, quickening its pace. Our trio stood
looking after it, Vivien responding to the frantic waving of
handkerchiefs from Lily and Hazel.
The train had just disappeared within a deep rift which cut it off from
the Mehriab valley like a door. The station master had retired within
his office. The Colonel and his niece were in the waiting room
collecting their things. Campian, standing outside on the platform, was
shielding a match to light a cheroot, when--Heavens! What did this
mean?
A band of savage looking horsemen came clattering up--ten or a dozen,
perhaps--advancing from the open country the other side of the line.
They seemed to have sprung out of the earth itself, so sudden was their
appearance. All brandished rifles. They dashed straight for the
station, springing from their horses at the end of the platform. Then
they opened fire on the armed policeman, who was immediately shot dead.
The stationmaster ran outside to see what the disturbance was about. He
received a couple of bullets the moment he showed himself, and fell,
still groaning. Three coolies walking unsuspectingly along the line
were the next. A volley laid them low. Then, with wild yells,
expressive of mingled fanaticism and blood thirst, the savage Ghazis
rushed along the platform waving their naked swords, and looking for
more victims. They slashed the wretched Babu to pieces where he lay--
and then seeing that their other victims were not quite dead--rushed
upon them, and cut and hacked until there seemed not a semblance of
humanity left. Whirling their dripping weapons on high in the bright
sun, they looked heavenward, and yelled again in sheer mania as they
tore back on to the platform.
The whole of this appalling tragedy had been enacted in a mere flash of
time; with such lightning celerity indeed, that Campian, standing
outside, could hardly realise that it had actually happened. It was a
fortunate thing that three or four tall Marris, standing together in a
group, happened to be between him and the assassins or he would have
received the first volley. Quick to profit by the circumstance, he
sprang within the waiting room.
"Back, back," he cried, meeting the other two in the doorway. "There's
a row on, of sorts, and they are shooting. Help me with the door,
Colonel."
It was a fortunate circumstance that Upward had called their attention
to this means of defence, and that they had all looked at it, and partly
tried it. Now it swung to without a hitch--and no sooner had it done so
than four of those without flung themselves against it with a savage
howl. These were the Marris who had unconsciously been the means of
saving Campian's life--and realising that fact, promptly decided to join
their Ghazi countrymen, and repair if possible the error. And, indeed,
the same held good of the others on the platform. They were there by
accident, but, being there, their innate savagery and fanaticism blazed
up in response to the maddening slogan of the Ghazis, with whom, almost
to a man, they decided to make common cause. If ever a sharp and vivid
contrast was to be witnessed it was here. The peaceful, prosaic,
commonplace railway station platform of a few moments ago, was now a
very hell of raging shaggy demons, yelling with fury and fanatical hate,
rolling their eyes around in search of more victims, as they splashed
and slipped in the blood of those they had already massacred.
Then someone brought news that there were more coolies, hiding for their
lives behind a wood pile a little way up the line. With howls of
delight, a dozen barbarians started to find some fresh victims, and the
defenceless wretches were butchered as they grovelled on the ground and
shrieked for mercy.
Those left on the platform now got an inspiration. They had killed the
Babu in charge, but there would be others. Fired with this idea, they
rushed into the station master's office. Nobody! Into an inner room.
Still nobody. They were about to turn and leave, when one, more knowing
than the rest, noticed that a large chest was standing rather far out
from the wall, and that a shower of dust was still falling from the top
of it. He looked behind. Just as he suspected. A man was crouching
there, and now quickly they hauled him forth. It was the Eurasian
telegraph and ticket clerk, who had hoped to hide away and escape. His
yellow face was pale with terror, and he shook in every limb at the
sight of those fierce faces and blood dripping tulwars. One of the
latter was about to descend upon his head, when somebody in authority
intervened, and the murderous blade was lowered.
"The money--where is it?" said this man in Hindustani. "Give us over
the rupees."
"You shall have them, Sirdar sahib. Don't let them kill me!" he
pleaded, frantic with fear. Then he began fumbling for the safe keys.
In his terror he could not find them.
"Hurry up, thou son of a pig and a dog!" urged the one who seemed to be
the leader; "else will I have thee slain inch by inch, not all at once."
The wretched Eurasian went nearly mad with fear at this threat, but just
then, by good luck, he found the keys. His hand, however, shook so much
he could hardly open the safe. When he did so, it was found to contain
less than they had expected.
"Where is the remainder, thou son of Shaitan? Quick, lest we flay thee
alive, or broil thee on red-hot coals," growled the leader.
Frantic with fear, the miserable wretch fumbled wildly everywhere. A
few loose rupees, and a bag or two containing no great sum were found,
but no more.
"And is that all, food for the Evil One? Is that all?"
"Quite all, Sirdar sahib."
"Good." And, with the word, the barbarian raised his rifle and shot the
other dead.