by W E Johns
His groping hand touched something soft, and looking down he saw Biggles lying there. On the other side lay Bertie. He saw Toxan and the Gonds and recognized the place. How did he get there? He thought hard, but there seemed to be a gap in his memory which he could not bridge. He was relieved to find his headache had gone.
Biggles must have heard or felt him move, for his eyes opened, and in a flash, he, too, was sitting up. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Not too bad. What happened? How did I get here?”
“You went down with a touch of fever.”
“That’s right. I remember now.”
“We found you and carried you in.”
“So you turned up after all. We had your note so I knew you’d started.”
“It took a bit longer to get here than we expected and it was dark when we arrived. What on earth possessed you to drop into a place like this?”
“Bringing Mata Dhinn with us to point out the place we flew over, and seeing a lot of smoke, shot the nullah to try to make out what was going on. We spotted a couple of bodies so I stepped out to find out who they were. For all I knew it might have been you, having arrived early.”
The sound of voices had awakened the others. They, too, sat up. Ginger looked at them in turn. Someone he expected to see was not there.
“Where’s Mr. Poo?” he inquired.
“That’s what we’re waiting for you to tell us.”
“Do you mean you haven’t seen him?”
“Not a sign.”
“What a pity.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes. I headed him in this direction feeling sure he’d find this hideout, or run into Hamid, who would bring him here.”
“Did you speak to him.”
“A few words, telling him to beat it, pointing out the way. I hadn’t time to say much.”
“Do you think the Chinese got him?”
“I don’t think so. They didn’t even look for him up to the time I passed out. The last I saw of them some reinforcements had come along and they were making camp. That was about sundown, and I reckoned they wouldn’t waste time looking for him in the dark.”
“Toxan tells me he heard shooting. What was that about?”
“It was me. I had to shoot a couple of ‘em. There was no alternative. They were on Mr. Poo’s heels and would have got him if I hadn’t stepped in.”
“You’d better tell me exactly what happened, then I shall know better how we stand.”
Biggles gave Ginger another tablet, had one himself and made Bertie take one. “How about you?” he questioned, looking at Toxan, who seemed comfortable.
“Don’t worry about me. Keep ‘em for yourself. I’m one of those lucky people. Never had malaria in my life. For some reason the mosquitoes don’t like the taste of me. If they did I wouldn’t be here now. I’d have been dead long ago.”
“Fair enough. Go ahead, Ginger.”
Ginger told his story. It didn’t take long. “Lucky for me you found me,” he concluded. “I couldn’t make out what had come over me. I felt awful.”
“Hamid found you,” Biggles told him. He tinned to Bertie. “It looks as if Mr. Poo and his pal are somewhere in the jungle. They must have blundered into it, and in their hurry to get away lost their sense of direction. Our next job will be to try to find them, otherwise they’ll perish. They won’t be able to live where they are and they’ll never make the long trip to low ground where they might get help.”
“The Chinese troops will be looking for ‘em, too, old boy,” reminded Bertie, seriously, breathing on his monocle and polishing it.
“So I suppose. Well, we can’t prevent that. We shall have to try to keep out of their way, that’s all about it. Hamid, now it’s daylight, I wonder if you’d do a bit of scouting, find out where they are and what they’re doing?”
The Gurkha saluted and departed.
He was away for twenty minutes or so, those in the hideout occupying the time by exchanging further details about the affair. Ginger told of the visit of the six Chinese to the lake and what had happened there.
When Hamid returned it was to report that the troops were filing up the nullah in a long line, as if to take up positions to start the search for the man they wanted.
“I’ll tell you something,” said Ginger. “Last night they saw the bodies of the two men I shot. I saw them stop and look at them. So as they’d hardly expect Mr. Poo to be responsible for that they must know someone else is around with a rifle.”
“They can’t know we’re here so they’ll imagine it was Toxan who did the shooting,” answered Biggles.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” put in Toxan. “They must have seen me fall. I was running with Hamid at the time. He helped me up and managed to get me along into the jungle. After that they didn’t bother about me. They went off after Mr. Poo.”
“According to Ginger they know we have a camp at the lake,” said Bertie. “They may associate us with what has happened here. They saw the machine, and they must have heard it fly over, if they didn’t actually see it.”
“That’s true,” agreed Biggles, pensively.
“So what’s the next move?” asked Ginger.
“I don’t know about moving,” returned Biggles. “With sick and wounded on our hands we shan’t be able to move far, if at all.”
“I’ll be all right,” declared Ginger.
“Don’t fool yourself. You may think so lying there, but when you get up you won’t feel so good. You’ll be weak on your pins for two or three days. Whatever some of us do someone will have to stay here on guard until we’re all able to march to the lake.” Biggles looked up. “By the way, what did you do with the parachute?”
“I rolled everything into a ball and stuffed it under a bush.”
“If the Chinese find that it’ll give ‘em ideas,” said Biggles, meaningly. “Still, we can’t do anything about that now. It’s a pretty kettle of fish. Even if we sit still and do nothing there’s a chance the troops may barge into us when they start combing the nullah for Mr. Poo. That would be awkward. If we could get hold of Mr. Poo we might manage to get out of the nullah into the forest on top. The only suggestion I can make is for Hamid to watch the enemy while I have a prowl round with Ram Shan, who has been here before, to see if we can pick up the track of Mr. Poo and his Thibetan friend. The rest stay here.”
Bertie said frankly he didn’t think much of being left out, but agreed. So did Ram Shan, who, with native shrewdness, pointed out that, knowing someone was about with a rifle, the enemy would be nervous, and for that reason would not be able to move about as freely as they would wish.
Said Biggles to Hamid. “You go off to watch them, and hurry back to tell us if they look like coming in this direction.”
Again the Gurkha vanished in the surrounding scrub.
A few minutes later, from a distance, came a sound that needed no explanation. It was the drone of an aircraft.
“That’ll be Algy, coming to have a dekko at what I’m doing,” observed Ginger. “When he doesn’t see me he’ll be worried sick.”
“That should give these Chinese thugs food for thought,” returned Biggles. “They’ll know an aircraft isn’t likely to be here on a mere joy-ride. They’ll also guess it’s the machine they saw at the lake.”
“They’ll work it out we’re looking for Toxan,” surmised Bertie. “I don’t see how they could possibly associate us with Mr. Poo.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The machine had now appeared and came roaring down the nullah, filling the air with sound, at below their own height. There was not a chance, of course, that Algy would be able to see them, and with the troops near there could be no question of making a signal.
Said Ginger: “He must be in a rare flap wondering why I don’t stand in the open to show myself. Or you, for that matter. He’ll assume you’ve got here by now.”
“I’m afraid he’ll have to go on wondering,” ans
wered Biggles. “If he spots our Chinese friends he’ll soon guess why we’re sitting tight and not making a smoke signal.”
Twice the machine raced the full length of the nullah, flying dangerously low; then it zoomed high and the drone receded.
“He’s gone,” said Biggles. “He’ll probably come back later for another look.”
A bear went past, grumbling to itself. Bertie reached quickly for a rifle, but it went on, taking no notice of them.
“Somebody must have disturbed him,” said Toxan. “There are quite a few of them here. They’ve got to know me, and as I’ve never interfered with them I’ve never had any trouble. There’s a group of mulberry trees near my old camp; they were always there, poking about and climbing the trees when the fruit’s ripe. By the way, talking of my camp there’s one thing I might as well tell you in case anything happens to me. It was really very bad luck for me, these Chinese crashing in just as I’d found what I’d been looking for for years.”
“You mean—rubies?”
“Yes. I’ve some magnificent stones, a coffee tin full. I buried them just under the sand on which my tent was pitched. They should still be there. You might remember it.”
“I will,” confirmed Biggles. “By the way, what about the jade Mr. Poo brought out with him?”
“He had to leave most of it behind. The bulk of his treasure was left in China, in a safe place. The new Chinese government knows that, but doesn’t know where it is. That’s why they’re prepared to go to all this trouble to get hold of him. Poo had some pieces of rare jade with him, in a sack, when he left Thibet, but as it was taking him all his time to get along he had to abandon the lot. He didn’t tell me exactly where or I’d have sent my fellows to fetch it. All he could say was he’d left it under a heap of pine needles in a spruce forest on the ten thousand feet mark.”
This conversation was cut off by the return of Hamid. He reported that the Chinese had gone to the far end of the nullah. There they had made a line from the top to the bottom and were beating the scrub, coming this way.
“That’s what I thought they’d do,” said Biggles.
“To cover the whole side of the nullah they must be fairly wide apart?”
Hamid agreed that this was so.
“In which case the blighters might go past us without seeing us,” suggested Bertie, optimistically.
“I wouldn’t reckon on that,” said Biggles. “I’m only glad they didn’t play their last trick of starting a fire to smoke us out.”
“They couldn’t,” put in Toxan. “Otherwise they would probably have done that. The stuff along here is too green to burn. The piece they did burn was on dry ground, in full sun, and consisted mostly of parched bamboo with a lot of dry grass in it. That’s why it was easy to set fire to it.”
“If the enemy is beating this way, if Mr. Poo is still on this side of the gorge he’ll have to retreat in front of ‘em,” stated Ginger, who was obviously fast recovering from his sharp attack of fever. “If so we may see him.”
“I don’t think we can stay here,” said Biggles.
“With three rifles, if we include Bira Shah’s musket, we should be able to make things deuced uncomfortable for the stinkers—if you see what I mean,” contended Bertie.
“Maybe. But I’d rather avoid direct hostilities if it’s possible. The odds are against us, so even if we got away with it we could hardly hope to escape without casualties. Our only way of getting out of the country is via the lake, and that’s a fair step from here. This is a case of he who runs away lives to fight another day.”
“Then what do you suggest we do about it, old boy? I hear sounds that suggest to me we shall soon have to be doing something.”
This was evident to everyone. The Chinese were calling to each other; stones were rolling down the bank and bushes were being trampled. These noises were steadily drawing nearer, and the Gonds were looking towards them anxiously. Only the Gurkha, standing with his kukri in his hand, seemed unconcerned.
“We might try getting above the line,” decided Biggles. “Toxan will have to be carried, of course, but the four Gonds should be able to do it. Ginger, with help, may be able to manage on his feet.”
From the advancing line came a shot, a shout, and a laugh. A bear went crashing past.
“If those fools are shooting at bears for the fun of it, before they’re finished they may wish they’d left them alone,” growled Toxan.
“Let’s go—or try it,” said Biggles. “I don’t know how long these devils are likely to stay here, but I must remind you that we’re practically out of water and we haven’t enough food to give eight people a meal. But we’ll deal with that problem presently. Let’s see if we can get over the rim of the nullah.”
The intention was explained to the natives, who understood perfectly. There was no question of making a stretcher. The four Gonds clasped hands under Toxan, and lifting him bodily started a slow ascent up the hill. Ginger started without help, but soon discovering what Biggles had told him was true, was glad to accept the arm of Hamid. Biggles, with his rifle, led the way. Bertie, with Toxan’s rifle, brought up the rear.
Slowly and painfully, with frequent halts, pushing through bush and bamboo, working round outcrops of rock and loose boulders, progress was made up the steep slope. At one place Hamid had to slice a way with his ever-handy kukri through a tangle of lantana. All the time the noise of the enemy advance drew nearer.
They were nearing the objective, the true jungle that began at the top of the rise, when there came a series of whoops, yells and cries, as if hounds had sprung a hare. Bushes crashed. Out of them, at the side of Biggles’ party, now somewhat strung out, close to Ginger, burst a Chinese soldier. He seemed astonished by what he saw and lost a few seconds bringing his rifle to his shoulder. That cost him his life. Hamid dropped Ginger as if he had been a krait and leapt forward. His kukri swished, and the Chinese went down without a sound. For a moment Ginger felt physically sick, but he realized the Gurkha had saved his life.
“Keep going,” ordered Biggles, tersely.
A few more yards and again came the shouts. They ended in a babble of voices.
Biggles stopped. “It sounds to me,” he said slowly, “as if they’ve got Mr. Poo.”
A shot rang out.
“And I’d say they’ve shot the Thibetan,” added Biggles. “If I’m right they may not come any farther. We’re nearly at the top so we might as well finish the job in case they do.”
Panting and streaming with perspiration they struggled on the last few yards, and topping the lip of the nullah sank down exhausted. Just inside the forest Hamid with his kukri cleared a little space under a tree that bore scarlet blossoms dripping with a sort of gum. They all moved into the place thus made and sat down.
“Now what do we do?” asked Bertie.
“The first thing will be to find out if they’ve got Mr. Poo,” answered Biggles.
“And if they have?”
“We shall have to try to get him back. After all this sweat I’m not going home without him if I can help it.”
“Too true. I’m with you there, old boy. Absolutely. Every time.”
“I go see Chinese,” offered Hamid. “Rest here.” He went off.
“Stout fella, Hamid,” said Bertie, approvingly.
“Worth his weight in gold,” declared Toxan. “I don’t know where I’d have been without him.”
They waited. Biggles lit a cigarette. Ginger, feeling as weak as a kitten after the climb, lay back.
CHAPTER XIII
“If they’ve got Mr. Poo I don’t see what we can do about it,” said Ginger, moodily, after a time.
“We haven’t finished yet,” answered Biggles curtly. “What I’m worried about is food. I try to plan for emergencies but I couldn’t foresee a situation like this. When we leave here, whichever way we go we shall have a long march in front of us, and with Toxan unable to walk, and you not entirely fit, it’s bound to be a slow one.”
&nbs
p; Although Biggles spoke quietly Toxan overheard the remark. “Don’t worry about me,” he said.
Biggles ignored the remark. “It seems likely the Chinese are short of food, too,” he went on. “Ginger, you’ve seen this hole in the ground from topsides; how far do you reckon we are from the lake? It’s nearer than the Gond village, and there isn’t much there in the way of food, anyway. At the lake we have food and transport.”
“I don’t know about the ups and downs, but I’d say, as a crow flies when it’s sober, between twelve and fifteen miles. That’s as near as I can judge. Has it occurred to you that if the Chinese are as short of grub as you seem to think, they may make for the lake? They know about us being there and they’ll realize we couldn’t be there without a stock of food.”
Biggles thought for a moment then looked at Bira Shah. “Could you find your way to the lake from here?”
The Gond said he could. Many game tracks led directly to the lake, where animals went to drink.
“How long would it take you to get there?”
Bira Shah said he might get there by that night or early in the morning.
“We have no food. There is plenty there. Would you be willing to go and take a message to the sahib there? He would give you food to bring back to us. You can take one of your friends with you. Mata Dhinn is at the lake, too. He could come back with you, helping to carry the load.”
“Where we find you, sahib, when we come back?”
“Here. If we have to move someone will stay to tell you where we are.”
Bira Shah said he understood.
“I’ll write a note for you to take.”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Come back as quickly as you can.”
Bertie stepped in. “But look here, old boy. It’d be quicker if Algy flew over and dropped us a parcel of grub.”
“With the Chinese in the offing? We don’t want to feed them. Algy couldn’t drop anything without them seeing it. He wouldn’t know exactly where we were, anyway.”
“We could make a signal.”