by Harold Lamb
The dark eyes of the three glistened.
“O wise leader,” they whispered. “It is verily a plan of plans.”
The dark eyes of Dhurum Khan were alight with purpose. For six days he had pondered this scheme. His spies had brought news of a treasure being carried on a panshway. And he—with the counselor at the crossroads whom they all held in reverence— had planned a great theft, a masterpiece of death.
“Take heed,” he cautioned. “If the men in the other craft should ask what has become of the dead men—for they will not suspect they are dead—say that your victims have gone to the camp at the crossroads to hear another song. Should strangers come along, say that the crew have sold the panshway to you.”
“Verily,” assented the thags.
To one not understanding the great skill of these men in their profession, the murder of five boatmen on a public landing place, and the disposal of their bodies in broad daylight, would appear a difficult, if not disastrous, feat. Yet by following these instructions of Dhurum Khan the thing was done. And the thags who had come to the ghat were in possession of a serviceable river craft as well as the few goods of the dead boatmen.
The boys and the mules returned to the roadside camp with Dhurum Khan, while Bhawani Bukta was appointed manji, or captain, of the boat.
He ordered the fastenings loosened as soon as the stains and disorder of the murder upon the lower deck had been cleared away, and the patched calico sail was raised to the breeze. The squat little vessel veered away from the land while bystanders on shore waved at it.
Invisible under the river surface rested the five bodies, well weighted with stones taken from the ballast of the boat. The hole in the side was filled up hastily and the vessel stemmed the current of the river on its mission of death, its blunt bow headed upstream toward Ghar.
Until that afternoon Khlit and his companion had had the upper reaches of the Jumna to themselves, except for some flocks of fishing skiffs. They remained carefully under the overhang of the half-cabin beside the horses, guiding their panshway by the long oar which passed through the stem.
It was hot under the dome-shaped wooden shelter; the lower deck of the vessel was musty and the timbers waterlogged. There was no place to stand on the upper portion except at the bow—for the mast penetrated the curving wooden screen—or on the steerage platform. These points they shunned and concealed themselves furthermore by placing the horses in the open pit between the overhang and the stem.
By situating the three beasts here, they made certain that no casual eye would wonder whether their craft was masterless. They did not try to raise the sail, knowing nothing of how it should be done. They were content to drift down the rapid current and steer clear of the shore by clumsy use of the oar.
“It is like to a pot floating in a trough,” muttered Abdul Dost, “and it is well that we are near to the end of the trough, for a sickness comes upon me.”
Khlit did not remind the Muslim that the boat was his choice. The Cossack leaned back against the bare beams of the side, where he could watch the river through a crack in the opposite timbers. His silence irritated Abdul Dost, who was thoroughly weary of the panshway.
“We are like sheep in a pen,” he grumbled. “Better had we risked the arrows in the forest than this thing of evil.”
“Now that we are here,” pointed out Khlit, “it would be the folly of a woman to depart from the boat. For we would easily be seen and our place of landing would be marked by many eyes.” He squinted thoughtfully ahead, where a sail was visible. “Did you see aught of Kehru during the second day at Ghar?” he asked.
“Nay, the boy had vanished with one of your ponies. Only Ram Gholab was there, at the grave of his snake. He said in parting that our graves, also, were being dug beside the Jumna.”
“Likewise,” mused Khlit, piecing together certain thoughts in his mind, “did Ram Gholab say, unthinking, that the father of Kehru was a thag for a space. But this, I think, the boy knew not.”
“He has a desire to be a warrior of the Mogul.”
“Yet is he gone from Ghar. And hereabouts the thags seem the only warriors.”
Abdul Dost glanced at his companion and shrugged his shoulders. He pointed to a pile of skins under which the corner of the ebony box protruded.
“Eh,” he grumbled, “you have claimed the care of the Mogul's treasure. But that is an ill place. If the boat should gallop the box might overturn and the diamonds would strew the deck.”
“The chest,” said Khlit complacently, “is my care—as the boat is yours.”
“Aye,” muttered Abdul Dost, “you have spent more time in counting over the bags of gold than in watching what is before the muzzle of the boat.”
“Nevertheless, I am watching a sail that is trotting up the highway of the river toward us.”
Abdul Dost swore and peered through the ramshackle deck. The approaching panshway was nearing them rapidly, its sail bellying in the wind. He could see a brown figure on the steering platform. But no others.
“I wonder,” Khlit stroked his beard, “why Kehru left the tower.”
“He did but steal the pony.”
“The pony was given him.” The Cossack pointed aft grimly. “The thought came to me that he might have ridden from the tower bearing a message—because another sail is behind us. It crosses from one side to the other like a shying horse.”
“By the face of the Prophet!” Abdul Dost stood up and knocked his head soundly against the overhang of the deck. “B’illah! This is an evil place. It was ill done to give the boy a horse. He may have betrayed—”
“He had honest eyes.” Khlit thought briefly that Kehru had appeared uneasy when he had last seen him. “Besides, if he had wished evil he could have lifted the horse.”
Abdul Dost marked the course of the first panshway with care.
“It will pass us by, far to the flank,” he decided, and so it proved.
“But the other gains,” observed Khlit. “And our pot wallows like a full-fed turtle. Abdul Dost, you lifted your voice in favor of the boat. Tell me then how to put spurs to it.”
The Muslim gazed at the bare deck, the pile of the sail and the rotting timbers, and shook his head. He had never been afloat before, having crossed rivers after the manner of his kind by swimming his horse.
“I see no spurs,” he responded moodily. “I think the boat that follows in our tracks gains on us because it wears a sail. But how can we place a sail upon this turtle? Nay, perhaps it were best to swim our horses ashore.”
Khlit measured the distance to the bank and shook his head. Before they could gain land the following vessel would cut them off. He had noticed that it moved more quickly when tacking.
“If it is our fate to be taken in this pot,” ruminated Abdul Dost, “it will come to pass. What is written is written.”
“Look,” said Khlit.
The panshway that had passed them by had come out in the wake of the second boat and now both were heading downstream. Their brown sails fluttered as they were hauled by the crews. Behind them the green slopes of the Ghar rose to the blue sky. The broad bosom of the Jumna was spreading wider as the gorge opened out. They were nearly at their destination. But the pursuing vessel was within arrowshot.
Khlit drew his Turkish pistols from his belt and saw to the priming carefully. He rose and adjusted the saddlebags on his horse, despite the danger of being seen. Then he called to Abdul Dost.
“The riders of the nearest boat are running about the deck in confusion. They are crying out as if in fear.”
What Khlit said was true. To a man accustomed to sailing craft, it would have been evident before now that the crew were endeavoring to make all possible haste, nursing the boat along against the wind, under the loud orders of the steersman. The crew were glancing back at the third vessel, which was following steadily some distance in the rear.
“They have a fear!” cried Abdul Dost.
The fleeing vessel was now abreast of
them. Two men, dressed in the manner of merchants, gestured at them wildly from the after deck.
“Thags!” they cried. “Fools! Lift your sail and flee. Do you not see that the boat behind is a craft of the slayers. They follow, waiting for their prey.”
Khlit and Abdul Dost glanced at the swelling brown sail in their wake. The Muslim smiled ruefully.
“Verily, that is wisdom!” he cried. “But we know not how to bridle this boat for speed.”
“Fools!” said the merchant again. “It is death to linger.”
They cried shrilly at the crew who were fumbling with the sail. The two vessels had drifted almost together, for the other panshway had lost the wind.
“A handful of gold,” offered Abdul Dost, “to one of your men who will come to our boat and rein it for flight.”
Even in the danger of capture by the pursuing craft, he was not willing to venture on the merchant's ship with the telltale chest. Inwardly he cursed Khlit's obstinacy in leaving the treasure in the chest.
The coolies stared at him and glanced at each other. The two boats were now rail to rail. One of the crew leaped to Abdul Dost's side.
He was a half-naked Mussulman coolie, his eyes rolling in excitement. He glanced sharply down into the lower deck, noting the tangled sail, the pile of skins, and the watching Khlit.
“I will aid you!” he cried. “It is time!”
Silently a half-dozen turbans appeared over the rail of the larger boat. Brown forms sprang down upon Abdul Dost, their naked feet bearing him to the deck, with the breath knocked from his broad chest. No chance had the Afghan to draw weapon or even shout a warning to Khlit.
But the Cossack had seen. Instinctively—for he was never startled by sudden danger—he had grasped the halter of his pony, the beast being already weighted with his saddlebags, and freed it. He stepped back, drawing the horse with him to the boat rail opposite the point of attack.
The thought flashed upon him that Ram Gholab had said the thags never attacked without slaying. Abdul Dost was already under their feet and seemed doomed, for he lay passive, struggling with his breath. By a leap over the rail Khlit and his pony might perhaps have escaped into the water and reached the shore before the sailing craft could be brought about after them.
But the Cossack would not leave his friend. With an angry shout he drew his weapon and leaped forward. He had seen the treachery in a flash, too late. The panic on the other panshway was assumed. They had been cleverly surprised.
As he sprang, swinging his blade overhead, there was a hiss in the air. Something settled about his shoulders and drew taut. Striving vainly to strike at it with his sword, he was jerked to one side and thrown heavily.
A fleeting glimpse he had of the merchant—a slim, bearded fellow whose face was vaguely familiar. The man was pulling at the cord, the noose of which had closed over Khlit.
Savage hands struck at the Cossack. Others gripped his sword-arm. Several naked bodies pressed upon him. Struggling, he was cast face down and held firmly. The horses reared in fright.
Khlit expected momentarily the bite of a knife against his ribs or the tension of a cord about his throat. He struggled in grim silence, only to feel other ropes wound about his legs and around his body.
Then he was picked up bodily and thrown heavily into the other panshway. A thud, and Abdul Dost lay beside him, likewise bound and breathing in great gasps.
“The horses!” cried the merchant's voice. “They are valuable.” “Master, we cannot fetch them,” a coolie's voice made answer. “Their fear is too great.”
“Dogs! Then do two of you man the boat that has them. Sail it to shore. Your death if the horses are not landed safely.”
With that the merchant scrambled down beside Khlit. In his arms was the ebony chest. He shouted an order and the square sail was hastily dressed. The boat swayed and lunged forward as it caught the wind. Several of the coolies had leaped back after the merchant. Khlit had a glimpse of the sail running up on the panshway he and Abdul Dost had occupied.
Khlit wondered why they had not been slain. Surely they were helpless. He had strained fruitlessly at his cords and now lay passive. Abdul Dost was glaring at their captors.
The merchant had set down the box and was regarding them complacently.
“Well done!” said a smooth, familiar voice.
Khlit rolled over upon his other side to peer at the speaker. Under the overhang of the cabin sat a stout man, wearing the cloak and long, gray tunic of a Mussulman trader. A broad face beamed upon the surprised Cossack and a pair of pig eyes puckered in a smile.
In spite of the tradesman garb, Khlit recognized Ameer Taleb Khan.
His first impression was relief that they had not fallen into the hands of a thag band. His second was a swift foreboding that all was not well. But he lay silent, thinking. Why was the ameer so costumed? Why had he and Abdul Dost been attacked? The Muslim, who had also seen their captor, found his voice readily.
“Is this the manner that you greet your riders, Taleb Khan?” he snarled. “By Allah and the ninety-nine holy names! It was ill done. My ribs are cracked. Unloose us!”
Taleb Khan's smile broadened. He sat on his heels upon a comfortable rug, a water jar and dish of sweets at his side. Now he lifted a sugared date carefully and placed it in his mouth. He seemed well pleased with the situation. The merchant sat down beside him, and Khlit knew him to be Mustafa Mirza, also disguised after a clumsy fashion.
1
European.
“Peace!” ejaculated the servant of the ameer. “Make your tongue gentle in addressing your master.”
Abdul Dost worked to a sitting position, stifling a grunt of pain. He had been roughly used.
“Is this a jest? Do not those dirty garments offend your nicety, Mustafa?”
The mirza scowled.
“Nay, it is no jest. We have taken two thieves in the act.” “Thieves!” Abdul Dost grappled with this new thought. “The thieves are behind you in the pursuing boat. You named them thags.”
“It is the truth—most like. They had evil faces and they stared at us as they passed. But then my men were below deck. Now the thags have seen our number and weapons and they have headed about, up the river, being wise—as you are not.”
A glance showed Abdul Dost that this was so. The third boat was but a diminishing square of sail, already rounding a bend of the Jumna near the shore. His own boat followed close behind that of the ameer.
“Wherefore have you done this thing, Taleb Khan?” The Afghan was still bewildered. “There was no need to set upon us. Here is the gold and the jewels in the chest.”
“Aye, the chest.” Taleb Khan stroked its black surface fondly and eyed the bronze clasp. “Well do I know my treasure chest.” He shook his head moodily. “Aye, a pity. I deemed you worthy of trust. Yet is the treasure of my box gone.”
“Gone?” Abdul Dost gaped, but Khlit's eyes grew hard under the shaggy brows.
“Aye—vanished. Stolen!”
“Nay!” cried the Afghan roundly. “Look within and you shall see the jewels and gold mohars. Even so. Did I not see them with my eyes?”
“I doubt it not. You coveted the wealth with your eyes. And you took it. It is written that the fate of a stealer of the goods of another man shall be like to the reward of a jackal.”
“But look within the chest and see the truth.”
The ameer glanced tentatively at the watching coolies and shook his head.
“No need,” he observed, “to verify your guilt. You have stolen the treasure entrusted to your care. I—watchful in the affairs of the Mogul—have caught the thieves. But the treasure is gone. A pity. The vizier will grow great with wrath. Already he rides hither, not an hour from Pawundur. He will deal with you as you deserve, being a faithless servant.”
Khlit sat up, biting his mustache.
“Harken, O ameer,” he said bitterly. “In all things we have done as you bade us. We are not thieves. We journeyed in the path back
to Pawundur by the boat as you ordered.”
“I?” The official's brows went up. “Did I mention a boat? I think not—Mustafa!”
“Nay,” amended that person promptly, “you bade these lowborn ride back by the trail. I heard it.”
“A lie!” cried Abdul Dost.
Taleb Khan and Mustafa laughed; they rocked on their heels with mirth; they looked at Khlit and Abdul Dost and the skin of their smooth faces grew wrinkled with mirth.
“Nay, O harken to the low-born snatchers of goods—the faithless messengers!” they said in concert. “Did not you steal the panshway from the landing place of the shrine? Did you not slay the thrice-blessed snake of the shrine? Nay, for you stole down the river, thinking to outwit us and escape from Pawundur. Verily, but we were watchful.”
While Abdul Dost stared, the truth began to glimmer into the shrewd brain of the Cossack. He spat vigorously.
“So—we have been tricked, mansabdar,” he growled, shaking his head like an angry dog. “Doubtless Ram Gholab helped in the trick. And Kehru—”
“The boy rode to us,” explained the mirza, taking pleasure in the discomfiture of his prisoners and wishing to while away the hour before they should land. “Thus he had been ordered. He rode swiftly by the byways that he treads like an antelope. A good half-day he came before your slow boat. Ai, we knew that you were no sailors.”
At this Abdul Dost subsided into silence, for he understood now the trap that had been set. Taleb Khan had sent them to Ghar meaning to give them over to the agent of the Mogul as stealers of the gold. The ameer had sent others on the mission but they had been slain by the unexpected activity of the thag bands that were rife in the valley.
He saw now why Taleb Khan had not wished to go himself or to send a body of soldiery for the gold. The covetous official had desired to keep the wealth that should be paid to his master. He had devised this stratagem to provide men to accuse of the theft. Khlit and Abdul Dost had no friends in Pawundur. Their case would be decided long before they could get word to the Rawul of Thaneswar. The Mogul's justice was swift, and the Afghan had no proof here among the lesser agents of the throne that he had once served Jahangir, Lord of Lords.