King--of the Khyber Rifles: A Romance of Adventure

  The only things which can not be explained are facts. So, use 'em. A riddle is proof there is a key to it. Nor is it a riddle when you've got the key. Life is as simple as all that.--Cocker

  Delhi boasts a round half-dozen railway stations, all of them designedwith regard to war, so that to King there was nothing unexpected in thefact that the train had brought him to an unexpected station. Heplunged into its crowd much as a man in the mood might plunge into awhirlpool,--laughing as he plunged, for it was the most intoxicatingsplurge of color, din and smell that even India, the many-peopled--evenDelhi, mother of dynasties--ever had, evolved.

  The station echoed--reverberated--hummed. A roar went up of humanvoices, babbling in twenty tongues, and above that rose in differingdegrees the ear-splitting shriek of locomotives, the blare of bugles,the neigh of led horses, the bray of mules, the jingle of gun-chains andthe thundering cadence of drilled feet.

  At one minute the whole building shook to the thunder of a grinningregiment; an instant later it clattered to the wrought-steel hammer of athousand hoofs, as led troop-horses danced into formation to invade thewaiting trucks. Loaded trucks banged into one another and thunderclappedtheir way into the sidings. And soldiers of nearly every Indian militarycaste stood about everywhere, in what was picturesque confusion to theuninitiated, yet like the letters of an index to a man who knew. AndKing knew. Down the back of each platform Tommy Atkins stood in longstraight lines, talking or munching great sandwiches or smoking.

  The heat smelt and felt of another world. The din was from the samesphere. Yet everywhere was hope and geniality and by-your-leave as ifweddings were in the wind and not the overture to death.

  Threading his way in and out among the motley swarm with agreat black cheroot between his teeth and sweat running intohis eyes from his helmet-band, Athelstan King strode at ease--athome--intent--amused--awake--and almost awfully happy. He was not in theleast less happy because perfectly aware that a native was following himat a distance, although he did wonder how the native had contrived topass within the lines.

  The general at Peshawur had compressed about a ton of miscellaneousinformation into fifteen hurried minutes, but mostly he had given himleave and orders to inform himself; so the fun was under way of winningexact knowledge in spite of officers, not one of whom would not havegrown instantly suspicions at the first asked question. At the end offifteen minutes there was not a glib staff-officer there who could havedeceived him as to the numbers and destination of the force entraining.

  "Kerachi!" he told himself, chewing the butt of his cigar and keepingwell ahead of the shadowing native. Always keep a "shadow" moving untilyou're ready to deal with him is one of Cocker's very soundest rules.

  "Turkey hasn't taken a hand yet--the general said so. No holy war yet.These'll be held in readiness to cross to Basra in case the Turksbegin. While they wait for that at Kerachi the tribes won't dare beginanything. One or two spies are sure to break North and tell them whatthis force is for--but the tribes won't believe. They'll wait until theforce has moved to Basra before they take chances. Good! That means noespecial hurry for me!"

  He did not have to return salutes, because he did not look for them.Very few people noticed him at all, although he was recognized onceor twice by former messmates, and one officer stopped him with anout-stretched hand.

  "Shake hands, you old tramp! Where are you bound for next? Tibet by anychance--or is it Samarkand this time?"

  "Oh, hullo, Carmichel!" he answered, beaming instant good-fellowship."Where are you bound for?" And the other did not notice that his ownquestion had not been answered.

  "Bombay! Bombay--Marseilles--Brussels--Berlin!"

  "Wish you luck!" laughed King, passing on. Every living man there, withthe exception of a few staff-officers, believed himself en route forEurope; their faces said as much. Yet King took another look at thepiles of stores and at the kits the men carried.

  "Who'd take all that stuff to Europe, where they make it?" he reflected."And what 'u'd they use camel harness for in France?"

  At his leisure--in his own way, that was devious and like a string ofmiracles--he filtered toward the telegraph office. The native who hadfollowed him all this time drew closer, but he did not let himself betroubled by that.

  He whispered proof of his identity to the telegraph clerk, who was aRoyal Engineer, new to that job that morning, and a sealed telegram washanded to him at once. The "shadow" came very close indeed, presumablyto try and read over his shoulder from behind, but he side-stepped intoa corner and read the telegram with his back to the wall.

  It was in English, no doubt to escape suspicion and because it waswar-time, and the censorship had closed on India like a throttlingstring, it was not in code. So the wording, all things considered, hadto be ingenious, for the Mirza Ali, of the Fort, Bombay, to whom itwas addressed, could scarcely be expected to read more than between thelines. The lines had to be there to read between.

  "Cattle intended for slaughter," it ran, "despatched Bombay on Fourteendown. Meet train. Will be inspected en route, but should be dealt withcarefully, on arrival. Cattle inclined to stampede owing to bad scarereceived to North of Delhi. Take all precautions and notify Abdul." Itwas signed "Suliman."

  "Good!" he chuckled. "Let's hope we get Abdul too. I wonder who he is!"

  Still uninterested in the man who shadowed him, he walked back to theoffice window and wrote two telegrams; one to Bombay, ordering thearrest of Ali Mirza of the Fort, with an urgent admonition to discoverwho his man Abdul might be, and to seize him as soon as found; the otherto the station in the north, insisting on dose confinement for Suliman.

  "Don't let him out on any terms at all!" he wired.

  That being all the urgent business, he turned leisurely to face hisshadow, and the native met his eyes with the engaging frankness of anold friend, coming forward with outstretched hand. They did not shakehands, for King knew better than to fall into the first trap offeredhim. But the man made a signal with his fingers that is known to notmore than a dozen men in all the world, and that changed the situationaltogether.

  "Walk with me," said King, and the man fell into stride beside him.

  He was a Rangar,--which is to say a Rajput who, or whose ancestors hadturned Muhammadan. Like many Rajputs he was not a big man, but he lookedfit and wiry; his head scarcely came above the level of King's chin,although his turban distracted attention from the fact. The turban wasof silk and unusually large.

  The whitest of well-kept teeth, gleaming regularly under a little blackwaxed mustache betrayed no trace of betel-nut or other nastiness, andneither his fine features nor his eyes suggested vice of the sort thatoften undermines the character of Rajput youth.

  On second thoughts, and at the next opportunity to see them, King wasnot so sure that the eyes were brown, and he changed his opinion abouttheir color a dozen times within the hour. Once he would even have swornthey were green.

  The man was well-to-do, for his turban was of costly silk, and he wasclad in expensive jodpur riding breeches and spurred black riding boots,all perfectly immaculate. The breeches, baggy above and tight, below,suggested the clean lines of cat-like agility and strength.

  The upper part of his costume was semi-European. He was a regular Rangardandy, of the type that can be seen playing polo almost any day atMount Abu--that gets into mischief with a grace due to practise andheredity--but that does not manage its estates too well, as a rule, norpay its debts in a hurry.

  "My name is Rewa Gunga," he said in a low voice, looking up sidewise atKing a shade too guilelessly. Between Cape Comorin and the Northern Iceguile is normal, and its absence makes the wise suspicious.

  "I am Captain King."

  "I have a message for you."

  "From whom?"

  "From her!" said the Rangar, and without exactly knowing why, or beingpleased with himself, King felt excited.

  They were walking toward the station exit. King had a trunk check inhis hand, but returned i
t to pocket, not proposing just yet to let thisRangar over--hear instructions regarding the trunk's destination he wastoo good-looking and too overbrimming with personal charm to be trustedthus early in the game. Besides, there was that captured knife, thathinted at lies and treachery. Secret signs as well as loot have beenstolen before now.

  "I'd like to walk through the streets and see the crowd."

  He smiled as he said that, knowing well that the average young Rajput ofgood birth would rather fight a tiger with cold steel than walk a mileor two. He drew fire at once.

  "Why walk, King sahib? Are we animals? There is a carriage waiting--hercarriage--and a coachman whose ears were born dead. We might beoverheard in the street. Are you and I children, tossing stones into apool to watch the rings widen!"

  "Lead on, then," answered King.

  Outside the station was a luxuriously modern victoria, with C springsand rubber tires, with horses that would have done credit to a viceroy.The Rangar motioned King to get in first, and the moment they were bothseated the Rajput coachman set the horses to going like the wind. RewaGunga opened a jeweled cigarette case.

  "Will you have one?" he asked with the air of royalty entertaining ablood-equal.

  King accepted a cigarette for politeness' sake and took occasion toadmire the man's slender wrist, that was doubtless hard and strong aswoven steel, but was not much more than half the thickness of his own.

  The Rajputs as a race are proud of their wrists and hands. Their swordsare made with a hilt so small that none save a Rajput of the blood couldpossibly use one; yet there is no race in all warring India, nor anyin the world, that bears a finer record for hard fighting and sheerderring-do. One of the questions that occurred to King that minute waswhy this well-bred youngster whose age he guessed at twenty-two or sohad not turned his attention to the army.

  "My height!"

  The man had read his thoughts!

  "Not quite tall enough. Besides--you are a soldier, are you not? And doyou fight?"

  He nodded toward a dozen water-buffaloes, that slouched along the streetwith wet goatskin mussuks slung on their blue flanks.

  "They can fight," he said smiling. "So can any other fool!" Then, aftera minute of rather strained silence: "My message is from her."

  "From Yasmini?"

  "Who else?"

  King accepted the rebuke with a little inclination of the head. He spokeas little as possible, because he was puzzled. He had become consciousof a puzzled look in the Rangar's eyes--of a subtle wonderment thatmight be intentional flattery (for Art and the East are one). Wheneverthe East is doubtful, and recognizes doubt, it is as dangerous as ahillside in the rains, and it only added to his problem if the Rangarfound in him something inexplicable. The West can only get the better ofthe East when the East is too cock-sure.

  "She has jolly well gone North!" said the Rangar suddenly, and Kingshut his teeth with a snap. He sat bolt upright, and the Rangar allowedhimself to look amused.

  "When? Why?"

  "She was too jolly well excited to wait, sahib! She is of the North,you know. She loves the North, and the men of the 'Hills'; and she knowsthem because she loves them. There came a tar (telegram) from Peshawur,from a general, to say King sahib comes to Delhi; but already she hadcompleted all arrangements here. She was in a great stew, I can assureyou. Finally she said, 'Why should I wait?' Nobody could answer her."

  He spoke English well enough. Few educated foreign gentlemen could havespoken it better, although there was the tendency to use slang thatwell-bred natives insist on picking up from British officers; and as hewent on, here and there the native idiom crept through, translated. Kingsaid nothing, but listened and watched, puzzled more than he wouldhave cared to admit by the look in the Rangar's eyes. It was notsuspicion--nor respect. Yet there was a suggestion of both.

  "At last she said, 'It is well; I will not wait! I know of this sahib.He is a man whose feet stand under him and he will not tread my growingflowers into garbage! He will be clever enough to pick up the end ofthe thread that I shall leave behind and follow it and me! He is a truebound, with a nose that reads the wind, or the general sahib never wouldhave sent him!' So she left me behind, sahib, to--to present to you theend of the thread of which she spoke."

  King tossed away the stump of the cigarette and rolled his tongue roundthe butt of a fresh cheroot. The word "hound" is not necessarily acompliment in any of a thousand Eastern tongues and gains little bytranslation. It might have been a slip, but the East takes advantage ofits own slips as well as of other peoples' unless watched.

  The carriage swayed at high speed round three sharp corners insuccession before the Rangar spoke again.

  "She has often heard of you," he said then. That was not unlikely, butnot necessarily true either. If it were true, it did not help to accountfor the puzzled look in the Rangar's eyes, that increased rather thandiminished.

  "I've heard of her," said King.

  "Of course! Who has not? She has desired to meet you, sahib, ever sinceshe was told you are the best man in your service."

  King grunted, thinking of the knife beneath his shirt.

  "She is very glad that you and she are on the same errand." He leanedforward for the sake of emphasis and laid a finger on King's hand. Itwas a delicate, dainty finger with an almond nail. "She is very glad.She is far more glad than you imagine, or than you would believe. Kingsahib, she is all bucked up about it! Listen--her web is wide! Heragents are here--there--everywhere, and she is obeyed as few kings haveever been! Those agents shall all be held answerable for your life,sahib,--for she has said so! They are one and all your bodyguard, fromnow forward!"

  King inclined his head politely, but the weight of the knife insidehis shirt did not encourage credulity. True, it might not be Yasmini'sknife, and the Rangar's emphatic assurance might not be an unintentionaladmission that the man who had tried to use it was Yasmini's man. Butwhen a man has formed the habit of deduction, he deduces as he goesalong, and is prone to believe what his instinct tells him.

  Again, it was as if the Rangar read a part of his thoughts, if not allof them. It is not difficult to counter that trick, but to do it a manmust be on his guard, or the East will know what he has thought and whathe is going to think, as many have discovered when it was too late.

  "Her men are able to protect anybody's life from any God's number ofassassins, whatever may lead you to think the contrary. From now forwardyour life is in her men's keeping!"

  "Very good of her; I'm sure," King murmured. He was thinking of thegeneral's express order to apply for a "passport" that would take himinto Khinjan Caves--mentally cursing the necessity for asking any kindof favor,--and wondering whether to ask this man for it or wait until heshould meet Yasmini. He had about made up his mind that to wait wouldbe quite within a strict interpretation of his orders, as well asinfinitely more agreeable to himself, when the Rangar answered histhoughts again as if he had spoken them aloud.

  "She left this with me, saying I am to give it to you! I am to say thatwherever you wear it, between here and Afghanistan, your life shall besafe and you may come and go!"

  King stared. The Rangar drew a bracelet from an inner pocket and held itout. It was a wonderful, barbaric thing of pure gold, big enough for agrown man's wrist, and old enough to have been hammered out in the verywomb of time. It looked almost like ancient Greek, and it fastened witha hinge and clasp that looked as if they did not belong to it, and mighthave been made by a not very skillful modern jeweler.

  "Won't you wear it?" asked Rewa Gunga, watching him. "It will prove atrue talisman! What was the name of the Johnny who had a lamp to rub?Aladdin? It will be better than what he had! He could only command a lotof bogies. This will give you authority over flesh and blood! Take it,sahib!"

  So King put it on, letting it slip up his sleeve, out of sight,--witha sensation as the snap closed of putting handcuffs on himself. But theRangar looked relieved.

  "That is your passport, sahib! Show it to a Hill-man whenever
yousuppose yourself in danger. The Raj might go to pieces, but whileYasmini lives--"

  "Her friends will boast about her, I suppose!"

  King finished the sentence for him because it is considered goodform for natives to hint at possible dissolution of the Anglo-IndianGovernment. Everybody knows that the British will not govern Indiaforever, but the British--who know it best of all, and work to that endmost fervently--are the only ones encouraged to talk about it.

  For a few minutes after that Rewa Gunga held his peace, while thecarriage swayed at breakneck speed through the swarming streets. Theyhad to drive slower in the Chandni Chowk, for the ancient Street of theSilversmiths that is now the mart of Delhi was ablaze with crude colors,and was thronged with more people than ever since '57. There were athousand signs worth studying by a man who could read them.

  King, watching and saying nothing, reached the conclusion that Delhi wasin hand--excited undoubtedly, more than a bit bewildered, watchful,but in hand. Without exactly knowing how he did it, he grew aware of acertain confidence that underlay the surface fuss. After that the seaof changing patterns and raised voices ceased to have any particularinterest for him and he lay back against the cushions to pay stricterattention to his own immediate affairs.

  He did not believe for a second the lame explanation Yasmini had leftbehind. She must have some good reason for wishing to be first up theKhyber, and he was very sorry indeed she had slipped away. It might beonly jealousy, yet why should she be jealous? It might be fear--yet whyshould she be afraid?

  It was the next remark of the Rangar's that set him entirely on hisguard, and thenceforward whoever could have read his thoughts would havebeen more than human. Perhaps it is the most dominant characteristic ofthe British race that it will not defend itself until it must. He hadknown of that thought-reading trick ever since his ayah (nativenurse) taught him to lisp Hindustanee; just as surely he knew that itsimpudent, repeated use was intended to sap his belief in himself. Thereis not much to choose between the native impudence that dares intrude ona man's thoughts, and the insolence that understands it, and is rathertoo proud to care.

  "I'll bet you a hundred dibs," said the Rangar, "that she jolly welldidn't fancy your being on the scene ahead of her! I'll bet you shedecided to be there first and get control of the situation! Take me?You'd lose if you did! She's slippery, and quick, and like all Women,she's jealous!"

  The Rangar's eyes were on his, but King was not to be caught again.It is quite easy to think behind a fence, so to speak, if one givesattention to it.

  "She will be busy presently fooling those Afridis," he continued, wavinghis cigarette. "She has fooled them always, to the limit of their ballybent. They all believe she is their best friend in the world--oh, dearYes, you bet they do! And so she is--so she is--but not in the way theythink! They believe she plots with them against the Raj! Poor sillydevils! Yet Yasmini loves them! They want war--blood--loot! It is allthey think about! They are seldom satisfied unless their wrists andelbows are bally well red with other peoples' gore! And while theyare picturing the loot, and the slaughter of unbelievers--(as if theybelieved anything but foolishness themselves!)--Yasmini plays her owngame, for amusement and power--a good game--a deep game! You have seenalready how India has to ask her aid in the 'Hills'! She loves power,power, power--not for its name, for names are nothing, but to useit. She loves the feel of it! Fighting is not power! Blood-lettingis foolishness. If there is any blood spilt it is none of herdoing--unless--"

  "Unless what?" asked King.

  "Oh--sometimes there were fools who interfered. You can not blame herfor that."

  "You seem to be a champion of hers! How long have you known her?"'

  The Rangar eyed him sharply.

  "A long time. She and I played together when we were children. I knowher whole history--and that is something nobody else in the world knowsbut she herself. You see, I am favored. It is because she knows me verywell that she chose me to travel North with you, when you start to findher in the 'Hills'!"

  King cleared his throat, and the Rangar nodded, looking into his eyeswith the engaging confidence of a child who never has been refusedanything, in or out of reason. King made no effort to look pleased, sothe Rangar drew on his resources.

  "I have a letter from her," he stated blandly.

  From a pocket in the carriage cushions he brought out a silver tube,richly carved in the Kashmiri style and closed at either end with atightly fitting silver cap. King accepted it and drew the cap from oneend. A roll of scented paper fell on his lap, and a puff of hot windcombined with a lurch of the carriage springs came near to lose itfor him; he snatched it just in time and unrolled it to find a letterwritten to himself in Urdu, in a beautiful flowing hand.

  Urdu is perhaps the politest of written tongues and lends itself mostreadily to indirectness; but since he did not expect to read a catalogueof exact facts, he was not disappointed.

  Translated, the letter ran:

  "To Athelstan King sahib, by the hand of Rewa Gunga. Greeting. The bearer is my well-trusted servant, whom I have chosen to be the sahib's guide until Heaven shall be propitious and we meet. He is instructed in all that he need know concerning what is now in hand, and he will tell by word of mouth such things as ought not to be written. By all means let Rewa Gunga travel with you, for he is of royal blood, of the House of Ketchwaha and will not fail you. His honor and mine are one. Praying that the many gods of India may heap honors on your honor's head, providing each his proper attribute toward entire ability to succeed in all things, but especially in the present undertaking,

  "I am Your Excellency's humble servant, --Yasmini."

  He had barely finished reading it when the coachman took a last cornerat a gallop and drew the horses up on their haunches at a door in a highwhite wall. Rewa Gunga sprang out of the carriage before the horses werequite at a standstill.

  "Here we are!" he said, and King, gathering up the letter and the silvertube, noticed that the street curved here so that no other door and nowindow overlooked this one.

  He followed the Rangar, and he was no sooner into the shadow of the doorthan the coachman lashed the horses and the carriage swung out of view.

  "This way," said the Rangar over his shoulder. "Come!"