For a while the scowling barbarian contemplated Campian from under his
shaggy brows. Then he gave an order to his followers. There stepped
forward a man. This fellow had a villainous cast of countenance and a
squint. He was of mixed blood, being a cross between Baluch and
Punjabi. He had been at one time a _chuprassi_ in a Government office,
and talked English fairly well.
"Chief say--you know who he is?" he began.
"Can't say I do."
"Chief say--you ever see him before?"
"Can't be sure of that either. Yet, I have an idea I saw him once while
having a friendly talk with the Sirdar Yar Hussain Khan."
At mention of the Sirdar's name, a faint show of interest seemed to come
into the saturnine features of those around. Then the interpreter went
on:
"Dis chief--he Umar Khan."
The interest wherewith he would have received this announcement was
dashed with a feeling as of the last glimmer of hope extinguished. It
was bad enough to know that he was in the power of a revengeful
barbarian with every motive for nourishing a deadly grudge against
himself, but that this man should turn out to be the famous outlaw,
whose savage and cruel nature was a matter of notoriety--well, he felt
as good as dead already.
Now he recognised that Umar Khan's object in leading the Ghazi outbreak
was not merely that of indiscriminate bloodshed, or even plunder. It
was to get possession of himself--for the purpose of wreaking some
deadly vengeance which he shuddered to contemplate--and well he might.
"Tell Umar Khan," he said, "that the money we have promised him will be
punctually paid--and that when I am back among my friends again in
Shalalai I will add to it another two thousand rupees."
The outlaw chief received the rendering of this with a contemptuous
grunt, and continued to glare none the less vindictively upon his
prisoner. Then he gave certain orders, in the result of which those who
had horses prepared to mount them, the remainder following on foot; for
those Marris who had been surprised into participating in the massacre
had now decided to cast in their lot with Umar Khan. A steed was also
provided for Campian, but over and above being an inferior beast, a
check rein, held by one of his custodians, was passed through the bit.
Before they set forth, however, the leader issued another order, and in
the result there stepped out from the stationmaster's house two men. To
his surprise the hostage recognised in these Bhallu Khan and the other
forest guard. So these were the traitors? These had brought this crew
of cut-throat murderers down upon them--and would share in the spoil.
Such was his first thought, but he had never made a greater mistake in
his life; the fact being that the two foresters were as innocent of
complicity as he himself. They had been squatting outside the station
after bidding farewell to their official superior. As fellow countrymen
and fellow believers, the Ghazis had refrained from putting them to the
sword, but had ordered them to remain within the outbuilding while the
work of blood and plunder proceeded--and neither to come forth nor to
look forth on pain of death. Now they were released. But first Umar
Khan treated them to a long harangue, to which they listened with
profound attention.
Campian--hailing the man who had acted as interpreter--told him to ask
the chief if he might write a line to the Colonel Sahib and send it by
the foresters. A curt refusal was returned, and he was ordered to
mount.
As the band receded over the plain, from its midst he could see the
white figures of the two foresters moving along the platform--but no
others. Yes--he could. He could make out Vivien's figure. He thought
he knew what was in her mind as she strained her glance over that amount
of space, if haply she might distinguish him in that throng of
retreating forms--and it seemed to him that their very souls went forth
to each other and met in blissful reconciliation. Then all was shut
from his gaze. The band was entering the black portal of a great
_tangi_.
The sight of its smooth rock walls brought back the recollection of that
other day, and the result was, on the whole, a cheering one. Then how
sore had been his strait. He had come through it, however. Why not
again?
At sundown they halted, and spreading their chuddas and putting off
their shoes, the whole band proceeded to perform their devotions in most
approved fashion. Behind them lay the mangled remains of their
unoffending and defenceless victims, slaughtered in cold blood; but then
these were heathens and infidels, and to slay such was a meritorious
act. So these sons of the desert and the mountain prayed in the
direction of Mecca with enhanced faith and fervour.
Throughout half the night they travelled onward. Onward and upward, for
they seemed to be ascending higher and higher among the jagged mountain
crests. The wind blew piercingly cold, and Campian shivered. They
threw him an old poshteen or fur-lined coat, and this he was glad to
pull round him in spite of qualms lest it should already be more or less
thickly populated. Soon after midnight they halted, and building a
large fire under an overhanging rock, lay down beside it. Campian, worn
out with fatigue and the reaction after the day's excitement, went into
a heavy dreamless sleep.
He was awakened by a push. It seemed as though he had been asleep but
five minutes, whereas in point of fact it must have been nearly midday,
so high in the heavens was the sun. He looked forth. Piles of
mountains in chaotic masses heaved up around; all stones and slag; no
trees, no herbage worthy of the name. One of the Baluchis handed him a
bowl of rice, cold and insipid, and a chunk of mahogany looking
substance, which smelt abominably rancid--and which he turned from with
loathing. It was in fact a hunk of dried and salted goat flesh. Having
got outside the first article of diet, he remembered ruefully how he had
been cheerful over the prospect of seeing something of the inner life of
the lively Baluchi, but this, as a beginning, was decidedly
discouraging.
This appeared to be a favourite halting place, judging from the old
marks of fires everywhere around, and a better hiding place it seemed
hard to imagine, such an eyrie was it, perched up here out of reach,
where one might pass below again and again and never suspect its
existence. The band seemed in no hurry, resting there the entire day.
Part of this the hostage turned to account by trying to win over the
good offices of the squint-eyed cross-breed.
This worthy, who rejoiced in the name of Buktiar Khan, was not
indisposed to talk. He too was promised a largesse when the prisoner
should be set at liberty.
"What you do to dis chief?" he said, in reply to this.
"Eh? I don't quite follow."
"Dis chief, he hate you very much. What you do to him?"
"Oh, I see," and the prisoner's heart sank. His chances of escaping
death--and that in some ghastly and barbarous form--looked slighter and
slighter. "I never harmed him, that I know of for certain. I never
harmed anyone except in fair fight. If he has suffered any injury from
me it must be in that way. Tell him, Buktiar, if you get the
opportunity, and if you don't, make the opportunity--that a man with the
name for bravery and dash that he has made does not bear a grudge over
injuries received in fair and open fight. You understand?"
"I un'stand--when you slow speak. Baluchi, he very cross man. You
strike him, he strike you. You kill him, his one brother, two brother,
kill you, if not dis year, then next year."
A rude interruption there and then occurred to bear out the other's
words. Campian, who was seated on the ground at the time, felt himself
seized from behind and flung violently on his back. Half-a-dozen sinewy
ruffians had laid hold of him, and he was powerless to move. Bending
over him was the savage face of Umar Khan, stamped with the same
expression of diabolical malignity as it had worn when he had first
beheld it.
"O dog," began the outlaw, pushing his now helpless prisoner with his
foot, "dost guess what I am going to do with thee?"
"Put an end to me, I suppose," answered Campian wearily, when this had
been rendered. "But it doesn't seem fair. I yielded myself up on the
understanding that I should only be detained until the five thousand
rupees were paid. And now I have promised you two thousand more. What
do you gain by my death?"
Buktiar duly translated this, and the Baluchi answered:
"What do I gain? Revenge--blood for blood. But hearken. I had
intended to strike off thy head, but thou shalt have thy life. Yet if
Umar Khan must walk lame for the remainder of his life, why should the
dog whose bite rendered him lame walk straight? Answer that, dog--pig--
answer that," growled the barbarian, grinding his teeth, and working
himself up into a frenzy of vindictive rage. "Tell him what I said just
now, Buktiar--that a brave man never bears malice for wounds received in
fair fight," was the answer.
But this appeal was lost on Umar Khan. He spat contemptuously and went
on.
"I had meant to strike off thy head, thou pig, but will be merciful. As
I walk lame, thou shalt walk lame. I will strike off both thy feet
instead."
A cold perspiration broke out from every pore as this was translated to
the unfortunate man. Even if he survived the shock and agony of this
frightful mutilation, the prospect of going through life maimed and
helpless, and all that it involved--Oh, it was too terrible.
"I would rather die at once," he said. "It will come to that, for I
shall bleed to death in any case."
"Bleed to death? No, no. Fire is a good _hakim_," [Physician], replied
the Baluchi, with the laugh of a fiend. "Turn thy head and look."
Campian was just able to do this, though otherwise powerless to move.
Now he noticed that the fire near which they had been sitting had been
blown into a glow, and an old sword blade which had been thrust in it
was now red hot. The perspiration streamed from every pore at the
prospect of the appalling torment to which they were about to subject
him. Not even the thought that this was part of the forfeit he had to
pay for the saving of Vivien availed to strengthen him. Unheroic as it
may sound, there was no room for other emotion in his mind than that of
horror and shrinking fear. The ring of savage, turbaned countenances
thrust forward to witness his agony were to him at that moment as the
faces of devils in hell.
Umar Khan drew his tulwar and laid its keen edge against one of the
helpless man's ankles.
"Which foot shall come off first?" he snarled. "You, Mohammed, have the
hot iron ready."
He swung the great curved blade aloft, then down it came with a swish.
Was his foot really cut off? thought the sufferer. It had been done so
painlessly. Ah, but the shock had dulled the agony! That would follow
immediately.
Again the curved blade swung aloft. This time it was quietly lowered.
"Let him rise now," said Umar Khan, with a devilish expression of
countenance which was something between a grin and a scowl.
Those who held him down sprang off. In a dazed sort of way Campian rose
to a sitting posture and stared stupidly at his feet. No mutilated
stump spouting blood met his gaze. The vindictive savage had been
playing horribly upon his fears. He was unharmed.
"I have another thought," said Umar Khan, returning his sword to its
scabbard. "I will leave thee the use of thy feet until to-morrow
morning. Then thou shalt walk no more."
The prospect of a surgical amputation, even when carried out with all
the accessories of scientific skill, is not conducive to a placid frame
of mind, by any means. What then must be that of a cruel mutilation,
with all the accompaniments of sickening torture, for no other purpose
than to gratify the vindictive spite of a barbarian? The reaction from
the acute mental agony he had undergone had rendered Campian strangely
helpless. It was a weariful feeling, as though he would fain have done
with life, and in his desperation he glanced furtively around to see if
it would not be possible to snatch a weapon and die, fighting hard. A
desire for revenge upon the ruffian who had subjected him to such
outrage then came uppermost. Could he but seize a tulwar, Umar Khan
should be his first victim, even though he himself were cut to pieces
the next moment. But he had no opportunity. The Baluchis guarded their
weapons too carefully.
"Does that devil really mean what he says, Buktiar?" he took occasion to
ask, "or is he only trying to scare me?"
"He mean it," replied the cross-breed, somewhat gloomily, for were the
prisoner injured the prospect of his own reward seemed to vanish. "Once
he cut off one man's feet--and hands too--and leave him on the mountain.
Plenty wolf that part--dey eat him."
This was cheering. How desperate was his strait, here, in the power of
these cruel savages--in the heart of a ghastly mountain waste that a
month or two ago he had never heard of--even now he did not know where
he was. Their route the day before had been so tortuous that he could
not guess how near or how far they had travelled from any locality known
to him.
"I will give you a thousand rupees, Buktiar, if you help me to escape,"
he said. "If you can't help me, but do nothing to prevent me, I'll give
you five hundred."
The cross-breed squinted diabolically as he strove to puzzle out how he
was to earn this reward. Like most Asiatics he was acquisitive and
money loving, and to be promised a rich reward, and yet see no prospect
of being able to earn it, was tantalising to the last degree. He shook
his head in his perplexity.
"Money good, life better," he said. "Dey see me help you--then I dead.
What I do?"
Then Umar Khan spoke angrily, and in the result Buktiar left the side of
the prisoner, with whom he had no further opportunity of converse that
day.
The night drew down in gusty darkness. A misty drizzle filled the air,
and it was piercingly cold. The Baluchis huddled round their fires,
having lighted two, and presently their deep-toned drowsy conversation
ceased. One by one they dropped off to sleep.
Then a desperate resolve took hold of Campian's mind. He was unbound,
and, to all appearances, unguarded--why should he not make the attempt?
Any death was preferable to the horrible prospect which morning light
would bring. He might be cut down or shot in the attempt. Equally
great was the probability of coming to a violent end among the cliffs
and chasms of this savage mountain waste. No sooner resolved upon than
he arose, and, drawing his poshteen tighter round him, walked
deliberately forth; stepping over the unconscious forms of the sleeping
Baluchis. His very boldness aided him. None moved. In a moment he was
alone in the darkness outside.
A thrill of exultation ran through his veins. Yet what was there to
exult over? He was alone upon the wild mountain side--unarmed, and
without food--in a perfectly unknown land. Every step he took fairly
bristled with peril. The wind increased in volume; the rain pattered
down harder. He could not see an inch in front of him. Any moment
might find him plunging from some dizzy height to dash himself into a
thousand fragments and Eternity. Here again his very desperation saved
him. Trusting entirely and blindly to luck, he skirted perils that
would have engulfed a more careful and less desperate man. Anything
rather than a repetition of his experience of that day.
On through the darkness--on ever. The howl of a wolf ranging the
mountain side was now and then borne to his ears upon the wind and rain:
and more than once the dislodgment of a loose stone or two, and its far
away thud, after a momentary space of silence, told that he was skirting
some vast height, whether of cliff or _tangi_--but even that failed to
chill his blood. He was moving--his energies were in action. That was
the great thing. He was no longer cold now. The exertion had warmed
him. He felt more and more exultant.
Yet with morning light his enemies would be upon his track. Here, among
their native rocks and crags, what chance had he against these
persistent, untiring hillmen? The savage hatred of Umar Khan, enhanced
by being deprived of a sure and certain prey, would strain every source
to effect his recapture. Well, he had the long night before him, and
the darkness and turbulence of the night were all in his favour.
If only he had some idea of his locality. The tidings of the outrage
would have reached Shalalai, and by now a strong military force would
have been moved up to Mehriab station to investigate the scene of the
massacre, and follow up its perpetrators. But he had no idea in which
direction Mehriab station lay, or what mountain heights might have to be
crossed before he could gain it.
Morning dawned. Weary eyed, haggard, exhausted with many hours of the
roughest kind of walking, stumbling over boulders and stones, bruised,
faint for want of food, the fugitive still held on. He was descending
into a long, deep valley, whose sides were covered with juniper forest.
Shelter, at any rate, its sparse growth might afford him. Ha! He knew
now where he was. It was the Kachin valley.
Yes, in the widening dawn every familiar feature was made more plain.
He had come over the high _kotal_ which he and Bhallu Khan had climbed
to when stalking markhor. There was the spur which shut out Chirria
Bach, and away up yonder the forest bungalow. Could he gain the latter
he could obtain food, of which he stood sorely in need, as well as arms
and ammunition. Some of the servants were still there. They would have
heard nothing of the tragedy on the railway line, and would be
momentarily expecting the return of the household. Turning to the right
he struck off straight for the house, full of renewed hope.
But that huge, practical joke entitled Life is, in its pitiless irony,
fond of dashing such. He had barely travelled half a mile when a rattle
of stones on the mountain side above arrested his attention. A score of
turbaned figures were clambering down the rocks. Spread out in a half
circle formation they were nearly upon him. There was no escape. Umar
Khan and his savage freebooters were not going back on their reputation
just yet. The fugitive's long night of peril, and labour, and
perseverance, had all gone for nothing. Several of the Ghazis were
already pointing their rifles, and in loud, harsh tones were calling on
him to halt.