“Now girls, we’d better go in. It’s raining hard still.”
This drew a vehement protest from Hazel and Lily. It was such fun watching the flood, they urged. What did it matter about a little rain? and so forth. But Tinkles, the little fox terrier, was now barking furiously at something or other unseen, keeping, however, very close to her master’s legs, for all her expenditure of vocal ferocity. Then a voice came out of the darkness—a male voice which, although soft and pleasing, caused Nesta Cheriton to start and cling involuntary to Upward’s arm.
“Huzoor!” (A form of greeting more deferential than the better known “Sahib.”)
“What is it, Bhallu Khan?” said Upward, as the voice and the light of the lantern revealed the chief forest guard.
The latter now began speaking quickly in Hindustani. Had the Huzoor heard anything? Yes? Well there was something going on yonder. Just before the tangi came down there was a shot fired. It was on the other side of the nullah. Something was going on.
Now Bhallu Khan was inclined to be long-winded in his statements. It was raining smartly, and Upward grew impatient.
“I don’t see what we can do,” he bellowed through the roar of the water. “We can’t even go and see what’s up. The tangi is down, and the tumasha, whatever it is, was on the other side.”
“Not all the time, Huzoor,” urged the forest guard. “While the roar of the water was yet distant, we heard a strange noise—yes, a very strange noise—It was as the clatter of hoofs in the bed of the dry nullah, of shod hoofs. And then there was another shot—and the hoof-strokes seemed to cease. Then the water came down and we could hear no more of anything.”
“Eh! another shot!” cried Upward, now thoroughly startled. “Why, what the devil is the meaning of it?” This last escaped him in English—and it brought the whole party around him, now all ears, regardless of the rain. Only Nesta was out of it—not understanding Hindustani.
It was where the road crosses the nullah, Bhallu Khan explained. He could not tell what it might be, but thought he had better inform the Huzoor. It might even be worth while going that far to see if there was anything to find out.
“Yes, let’s go!”—cut in Lily. “Hurrah! here’s a new excitement!”
“Let’s go!” echoed her father sharply. “To bed, you mean. So off you go there, both of you. Come—clear in—quick! Likely one wants a lot of children fooling about in the dark on a night like this.”
Heedless of their grumbling protest, Upward dived into his tent, and, quickly arming himself with his magazine rifle and revolver, he came forth. Bhallu Khan he instructed to bring another of the forest guard to accompany them while a third was left to look after the camp.
In the darkness and rain they took their way along the bank of the flood—Upward hardly knowing what he was expecting to find. The country was wild, and its inhabitants wilder still. Quite recently there had been an upheaval of lawlessness among a section of the powerful and restless Marri tribe. What if some bloody deed of vendetta, or tribal feud, had been worked out here, almost at his very door? He stumbled along through the wet, coarse tussocks, peering here and there as the forest guard held the lantern before him—his rifle ready. He hardly expected to find anything living, but there was a weird creepiness about this nocturnal quest after something sinister and mysterious that moved him by sheer instinct to defensive preparation. Twice he started, as the dark form of a half-stranded tree trunk with its twisted limbs suggested the find of some human body—ghastly with wounds—distorted with an agonising death. Suddenly Bhallu Khan stopped short, and with a hurried and whispered exclamation held up the lantern, while pointing to something in front.
Something which lay half in, half out of the water. Something which all felt rather than saw had had life, even if life were no longer in it. No tree trunk this time, but a human body. Dead or alive, however, they were only just in time, for even as they looked the swirl of an eddy threw a volume of water from the middle of the trunk right over the neck—so quickly had the flood risen.
“Here—give me the lantern—And you two pull him out, sharp,” said Upward.
This, to the two stalwart hillmen, was but the work of a moment. Then an exclamation escaped Bhallu Khan.
“It is a sahib!” he cried.
Upward bent over the prostrate form, holding the light to the face. Then it became his turn to start in amazement.
“Good God! it’s Campian!” he exclaimed—“Campian himself. But how the devil did he get here like this, and—Is he alive or dead?”
“He is alive, Huzoor,” answered Bhallu Khan, who had been scrutinising the unconscious features from the other side.
Chapter Three.
The Forest Camp.
The following morning broke bright and clear, and save that there was a coolness in the air, and the bed of the tangi which had poured forth its black volume of roaring destruction the night before was wet and washed out—no trace of the wild whirl of the elements would now be visible.
Campian awoke, feeling fairly restored, though as he opened his eyes after his sound and heavy sleep he could hardly recall where he was, or what had happened—nor in fact, did he particularly care whether he could recall it or not. This frame of mind lasted for some time, then his faculties began to reassert themselves. The events of the previous night came back to him—the long, wearisome journey, the exhausted steed, the sudden onslaught of the Ghazis, the pursuit—then that last desperate effort for life—the rolling flood, the jezail shot, and—oblivion. Now a thought struck him. Where was he? In a tent. But whose tent? Was he a captive in the hands of his recent assailants? Hardly. This was not the sort of treatment he would have met at their hands, even if the unmistakably European aspect of all the fittings and tent furniture did not speak for themselves. And at that moment, as though to dispel all further grounds of conjecture, the purdah was moved aside and somebody stole softly in. Campian closed his eyes, surveying this unexpected visitant through the lids. Then he opened them.
“That you, Upward, or am I dreaming?”
“It’s me right enough, old chap. How are you feeling—eh? A bit buzzy still? How’s the head?”
“Just as you put it—a bit buzzy. But I say, where are we?”
“In camp, at Chirria Bach.”
“So? And where the devil might Chirria Bach be? I was bound for Gushki. Thought you were there.”
“Didn’t you get my letter at Shâlalai, saying we were going into camp?” said Upward.
“Not any. I got one—There was nothing about camp in it—It told me to come on to Gushki. But I fell in with two Johnnies there who were going on a chikór shoot, and wanted me to cut in—I did—hence concluded to find my way here across country instead of by the usual route. I’m fond of that sort of thing, you know.”
“Where are your things—and how is it you are all alone? This isn’t the country to ride around in like that—all alone—I can tell you.”
“So I’ve discovered.” And then he narrated the events of the previous day’s journey up to the time of his falling unconscious in the riverbed.
“Well you’ve had a devilish narrow squeak, old chap,” pronounced Upward, when he had done. “Do you know, if it hadn’t been for old Bhallu Khan, my head forest guard, hearing your gee scrambling through the nullah, you would never