Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  He rode, now, to another hollow, and hid there until evening, with the double purpose of giving the rumor time to percolate, and the darkness a chance to hide what was probably a very poor resemblance to the robber. In the dark, with the story of his coming on ahead of him, he anticipated little or no risk of detection.

  When the low moon rose above the tree tops and the jungle noises had begun to greet the night, he rode out again, but this time far more leisurely, taking little care to look about him, but keeping his ears open for the sound of forage parties from his own Regiment. Before he had ridden twenty minutes at a walk, a woman slipped out of the scrub beside him and brought him a cooked chicken, with the whispered information that the troopers were in camp for the night, many miles away.

  He seized the chicken, broke off a leg, and devoured it hungrily.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, taking care to growl surlily from behind his mouth cloth, and looking anywhere but at her.

  “She waits at home.”

  That was enough for the first try. This woman evidently knew Gopi Lall, and might possibly detect the disguise; but he had established one fact. There really was a particular one woman.

  “So-ho!” thought Dost Mohammed. He drove his spurs in and decamped, cantering away without a word of thanks. He ran no risk in assuming that the real outlaw was a mighty ungrateful gentleman.

  But “at home” was a vague direction, and soon he began almost to despair of ever getting nearer to the mark. No more women came to him surreptitiously, and the few shadowy forms he did see vanished the moment that he challenged them. He chased one man for nearly a quarter of a mile, only to lose him in the darkness — a piece of clumsiness for which he cursed himself soundly. Gopi Lall had a reputation for absolutely never missing anything or anybody, and, if he wanted to live on the outlaw’s record for a while, it seemed he would have to be less punctilious.

  He had determined to ride down and run through the next man who failed to halt when challenged, instead of trying to capture him; but the next man seemed to guess his thougths, and threw up his hands, and went down on his knees, begging for mercy.

  “Where is she I seek?” growled Dost Mohammed.

  “Sahib — Heavenborn — Prince of dacoits — how should I know?”

  “Answer, or—”

  “Honorable one! Mercy! What have I done? What have I not done? I saw her but an hour ago, and she was yet there. But how do I know that she is there now?”

  “Thou liest!”

  “Nay, nay, Heavenborn! Tiger of the hills! How should I lie, who truly fear thee? I say I saw her — I say truth.”

  “I say thou liest!”

  “If I lie, oh Gopi Lall—”

  It was well! The disguise had worked so far at all events, and the rumor had spread, and there really was a woman!

  “Harken! It is not my view to let men lie to me unpunished. Lead on! In case she be not there, pray to thy gods on the way thither, Jungli!”

  “But, Heavenborn, I was going home — but a little way from here — my children wait — my little ones — my—”

  “Lead on!”

  “But, Prince of plunderers, let me go just one little minute to my home. I would warn my children; then I will go with thee willingly.”

  The saber whistled round the wretch’s head, close enough to have shaved him had his beard been two days older. No Gopi Lall, nor any other expert, could have performed that feat better. The man’s complaints came to a sudden end. He turned and settled down to run in front of the horse.

  Under the cloth that hid his mouth, Dost Mohammed chuckled to himself; but he rode carefully, with his saber pointing downward to the peasant’s back and with his ears and eyes on the alert. Three times they passed other men walking homeward, and because he did not challenge them, they made profound obeisance instead of running. One man even lay face downward on the path and beat the earth with flattened hands.

  “The Colonel sahib was right,” swore Dost Mohammed. “Too much honor is not good! As a soldier and a man of honor no man ever treated me to this.”

  For the best part of an hour they moved into the darkness as fast as the frightened peasant could run, Dost Mohammed noting his bearing carefully with the aid of the compass that every true fighting man should carry in his head. They were moving in a direction at right angles to that the extended troops had taken; before long, he calculated, he would cross a line between the Tail- Twisters and their quarters at Rajahbatkhowa.

  They reached a clearing in the jungle, and there Dost Mahommed chose to stop and feed his horse.

  “But, Heavenborn, why do this here? With but a quarter of a coss to go, and safety there, why wait?”

  “An excellent reason!” thought Dost Mohammed. “Allah knows what will happen when I get there! Chup!” he growled aloud.

  “The Heavenborn knows best.”

  “Chup! I ordered. Black earthworm!”

  Twenty minutes later they went on again, and in less than five minutes after that they emerged into another clearing where a hut loomed darkly in the misty moonlight.

  “There, Prince of plunderers! Said I not so? She waits!”

  “Then go thy way and thank thy jungle gods!”

  The man was gone more quickly than a frightened jackal; he turned, tucked his head down, and was gone. Dost Mohammed, with the cloth about his face drawn even higher yet, rode on.

  “Oh, Gopi Lall?” It was not a soft voice.

  “Quietly!” growled the Rajput.

  He dismounted by a low fence, and stood waiting on the near side of his horse, fumbling with the stirrup.

  “There are none here who listen. Thou mayest trust me! The troops — may Allah whelm them — are miles away. Oh, Gopi Lall, thou greatest fool of fools! You trust that woman, who is naught but a tigress and an enemy, while I, who truly love thee, wait alone. Come — eat, beloved.”

  “How knowest thou where I have been?” He answered huskily, and stood behind the horse where the moonlight could not fall on him.

  “They have harmed thee? What is that? Thy throat? My Prince of—”

  “Silence! The hurt is nothing. I asked, how knowest thou where I have been?”

  “How! Hear him! Who sent thee all those mes- sages? Who waits for thee always? Who but Yasmini? Sahib — Heavenborn — my lord! Trust not that tigress instead of me! She will slay thee in the dark, or hand thee over. She is thine enemy — naught else!”

  Dost Mohammed, wondering what the real outlaw would have done if given such advice, took a chance and laughed. It seemed he had guessed right, for the woman behaved as if she quite expected it.

  “Aye, laugh! Laugh on! Did she laugh, think you, when you slew her lover? Think you she forgot? Think you she came here from the distant North to sing you love songs? Bah! Thou art a madman, Gopi Lall! Thy head is turned by flattery. When did I ever flatter thee? Therefore, I who love thee wait alone, while she, who lies and lies and lies again, gets thee ever tighter in her clutches! Thou fool of fools!”

  But Dost Mohammed knew enough. His thoughts came quick as lightning. The Regiment was twenty miles away, and in the wrong direction. To Rajahbatkhowa was roughly forty miles, and his charger was fresh enough to make the distance; for all his height the Rajput was a lightweight, and he could ride as only a born horseman of the North can. He was mounted and away, and thanking God that he had fed his horse, before the woman knew that he was starting; and a minute later he was down tight in the saddle, headed straight for the mess tent where his Colonel ought to be.

  Ten minutes after he had gone, a dozen troopers burst in from the jungle and made the woman prisoner. They had with them the trembling peasant who had served as guide for Dost Mohammed.

  “Where is thy man, Gopi Lall?” they demanded. But they might as well have asked the dead. Now the woman understood why he had galloped off without a word, and more than ever she idolized her robber lord, who could hear and see with his one eye so infinitely better than the eagles! She only pra
yed that he had not ridden off to Yasmini.

  They questioned and cross questioned her for fifteen minutes, and threatened her with coarse military-Rajput oaths; but all her answers were denials.

  “Good for thee,” said a Rissaldar at last, turning to the trembling guide, “that we found thee on our way to camp, and not twenty miles from here! We would have hanged thee else. Go!”

  And with that they booted him and spurred him and lance-pummeled him and chased him to the roadway.

  CHAPTER IX. — THE PANCH MAHAL’S BACK DOOR

  The trumpet sends men roaring on to death;

  The cold gray dawn sees strong men grim and white;

  Fire, water, and the devastating breath

  Of pestilence breed panic’s fright.

  But, death in darkness — lurking, sheenless steel

  The grip of unseen hands — the hot, hissed breath

  The silent, gruesome fight with hand and heel

  Unguessed at, unexpected — that is death.

  COLONEL STAPLETON proved difficult in the matter of calling on Yasmini that evening, but Boileau stuck to his point. His private reason, of course, was that he wanted an excuse for going back again at once, but the reason he gave was one calculated to work on the Colonel’s well known gallantry.

  “Of course, sir, it’s unusual, I know. But there you are. She’s a lone woman, and she’s frightened. She has a strange idea that the police will order her away unless we show we’re friendly.”

  “But if she’s up to no mischief, why on earth should she be afraid of the police?”

  “You said yourself, sir, not so very long ago that the police lose all sense of decency, or words to that effect. They could make things pretty uncomfortable for an unprotected woman. You’d never believe, sir, how anxious she was for me to bring you along.”

  “I advised you not to go there again, you’ll remember.”

  “I know you did, sir. I can only say I’m glad those weren’t orders. I’d like you to see for yourself what kind of woman she is. Then you’d understand my calling there again.”

  The Colonel leaned back in his chair and looked hard at him for half a minute.

  “I understand that much, at least, perfectly!” he answered. “Well — I’ll go, since she’s so anxious. But I shall give her plainly to understand that I can offer her no protection from the consequences of any action of her own, and I shall advise her to go away from here.”

  “Will you come this evening?”

  “Yes, I’ll come now and get it over.”

  So the Colonel called for his horse, and he and Boileau rode together to the Panch Mahal, with a trooper behind and a lantern bearer in front and a great display of dignity.

  “It’s a deuce of a strange hour to go calling on a native woman, Boileau, and I must confess I don’t at all like it.”

  “You’ll find she’ll receive us well enough, sir.”

  That prophecy proved justified. Yasmini outdid herself. She was coquetry, and subtlety, and dignity and grace in one; and though she left no stone unturned to win her way to Colonel Stapleton’s good graces, she let Boileau see that she was deeply in his debt for having brought him. If Boileau chose to misinterpret some of the soft glances that she sent him, that was understandable at least; and he was too overcome by Yasmini’s spell, and too amused by the Colonel’s evident amazement, to reason like a man of sense.

  He forgot for the time being the gulf that separates the Englishman and native women of far lower caste than Yasmini; forgot that though the purdah might be absent for the once the rule of centuries remained the same; and remembered only that he was a very handsome man and she a lovely woman.

  The Colonel told Yasmini what he had said he would. But he put it so delicately, in punctilious and perfect Hindustani, that all of the sting was taken out of it; he sounded more like a courtier assuring her of everlasting homage than a cavalry colonel declining his moral and material support.

  “You see,” he said, “it’s no business of mine to ask you why you happen to be here. Any man with half an eye can see at a glance that you are charming, and as clever as you are beautiful. Therefore, madam, if you’ll excuse my saying so, people are quite justified in wondering why you don’t look for more healthful quarters. The neighborhood of this jungle can not be too wholesome; now, can it?”

  “I have good reasons for being here — very good ones, Colonel sahib. Colonel sahib, may not a woman have her little secrets — or her big ones?”

  “Certainly she may — and always does.” He bowed as a man conferring privileges.

  “But she must not blame mere man for wondering what those secrets are,” he added.

  He rose to go, but she begged him not to. She offered him refreshment, entertainment, anything; she called for her maids to dance and play on their guitars, and then, because he still persisted with his air of courteous but unpersuadable dignity, she drew him aside and whispered to him.

  “I would like to tell you why I stay here, Colonel sahib; but it must be only for your ears. Then you will understand, and will protect me.”

  “I can promise you nothing,” he warned. “Nothing, that is to say, more than is due to any woman from any man.”

  “But I must tell it to you alone.”

  “You’d better go, Boileau!” he said across his shoulder.

  He was facing Yasmini, looking down into her eyes, and beginning to feel her spell. Boileau got up, bowed, and started for the stairs, but she left the Colonel and came over to him.

  “He won’t remain,” she whispered. “I am sure he won’t. But I am frightened. I must have some one here this evening. Will you return?”

  “I’ll do anything you say!”

  “Then do you go straight home — straight home—” she laid one light hand on his shoulder, and he thrilled— “and when he returns, ride back again to me!”

  “Why straight home?” wondered Boileau. “What earthly difference can that make to her?”

  He did ride straight home; but when he reached his tent he was still wondering.

  “Is she up to mischief with the Colonel now, I wonder? Can’t be! Still — I took him there, and I’m responsible.”

  He called for his horse again, and then countermanded the order and sent for his personal servant, who came running with a lantern. Then he once more changed his mind, and took the lantern himself and started off.

  Before he had gone a quarter of a mile he saw another lamp, and caught sight of the Colonel’s charger; he turned almost instinctively into a narrow track that led to the right of the main path. He felt ashamed of himself a moment later, but continued since he did not care to let the Colonel know that he had sought concealment and then changed his mind. He suspected that the narrow path that he had taken must come out eventually near the Panch Mahal, since there were no other buildings near to which a used track could lead.

  His surmise proved correct. After half an hour of stumbling through the pitchy blackness, shuddering at the thought of snakes, he came out of the jungle at a corner of the Panch Mahal that he had never seen before, and stood still for a moment looking at it. It was not the exact rear of the building, but a wing that projected to the right of the rear in the direction of the thickest jungle, and there were no lights in the windows up above to prove that that part of the building was occupied. He could see the wall; though, clearly, for it was white, and he could make out the shape of the open windows.

  The next thing he noticed was that a thick, knotted rope hung down from the top window nearly to the ground, swaying gently in the breeze. Then he heard a voice, and listened. The words were Hindustani, and the voice beyond doubt Yasmini’s.

  “Any sign of him yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  He remembered then that two of Yasmini’s maids were from Madras, and that she had to use the common tongue of India to communicate with them. All the same, he wondered why he listened, and thought no better of himself for doing so.

  “Go fu
rther, then, and see if he is coming. There must be at least one white man here to-night!”

  “Now, what in blazes is the game?” thought Boileau.

  He was not without brains, and, once his suspicions were aroused, not at all easy to trick. He much more than suspected now that Yasmini’s desire to see him was not actuated by any admiration. His cavalry training, too, had seeped into his system and made action — prompt, unexpected action — an essential remedy for doubt. He stooped, loosed the straps beneath his insteps that held his trousers tight, and pulled off his spurs. Then he saw some one, whom he took to be Yasmini herself, come to the window, haul up the rope, and hang the coils on some kind of projection. But when she went away the rope fell down again. She had left the window open.

  Adventure — and excitement — and something primitive he could not have named — mystery and the lure of it — began to call to Boileau. The military were in charge now of operations against the outlaw, and as an officer he remembered that he had the right to investigate suspicious circumstances. Too — and that was not to be overlooked — his sudden appearance through a window might appeal to Yasmini’s feeling for romance. And then, he wanted to; and that was a good enough reason in itself. All of those arguments left quite out of account a feeling deeper down that told him there was danger near at hand. Danger never called to Boileau unanswered.

  He walked up and seized the rope and jerked it. It was made fast at the top. A moment later he was shinning up it, as fast as a native would have done, and thanking Heaven that he had left his spurs behind.

  He vaulted lightly through the window, and landed on something nearly solid that was on a divan underneath. A second later the something grunted, and an arm like a black snake licked out of the darkness, and he felt the sting of a knife that seared his cheek. Quicker than thought itself he gripped the wrist he could not see, wrenched at it, and sent the knife spinning; he heard it fall some distance away on wood. Next he was locked in a native wrestler’s hold that was something new in his experience. Not a word was said nor another sound made but heavy breathing. He was fighting for dear life against a slippery antagonist, who stank enough to sicken him, but whom he could not see!