by Harold Lamb
"Ha-you do not know?" The Resident chose to forget that Malcolm had dismounted only that morning from a week's ride to Agra. "I judge that the story of the ghost has been devised to frighten us away from Bhir. Within Bhir are a number of wealthy Muhammadan merchants, who have bribed the lawless elements of the ghost's village to kill our officials. Poor Powell, for instance, did not die until a month after leaving the castle. He was poisoned, because, Captain Malcolm, no physician could diagnose his illness."
"He died here, at Agra?"
"Yes. But my other friend vanished on the way hither-a victim to some of the same cursed native witchery-" Cunningham checked him- self-"trickery, I should say. Do you not think I am correct in this?"
Malcolm considered his dusty boot through a half-closed eye.
"And you say that strange natives, travelers on the highway, were killed on this road?"
"Yes."
"Then you, sir, cannot have the right answer to this. Because the men died, not in the ghost-village of Bhir, but after they had left Bhir."
The Resident, chagrined, coughed and took snuff without offering it to his companion.
"Moreover," pointed out the Scot mildly, "it-the mystery of the ghost-can hardly be merely an attempt to frighten us, sir. Not if other natives were killed by the same agency."
"Hum." Cunningham smoothed the lace at his throat moodily. "I repeat, sir, it is all part and parcel of the same damnable plot against me-against us."
A quick smile rendered the Scot's hard face agreeable.
"Sir, you will permit me to appeal to your own knowledge of native superstitions. Ghosts, to a Moslem, are nothing supernatural; and to a Hindu they form part of his religion. A native is seized with an epileptic fit; his family pay tribute to the suspected ghost; the man, perhaps, recovers and all is well-if he dies the ghost was not sufficiently propitiated. Haunts, distemper, and demon-ridding are all part of their scheme of existence."
"Well, sir?"
"It would never occur to the Bhiris to frighten away sahibs by a tale of what is to them perfectly natural phenomena."
"Ah." There was respect in the Resident's ejaculation. But it was with a dry smile that he drew a folded yellow sheet from the pocket of his coat. "Here, Malcolm, is evidence to support my view. Powell brought it back with him, having found it in the possession of one of the Bhir landholders."
Malcolm studied the sheet and saw that it was a lease deed, made out in the ordinary form, dated about a hundred and twenty years ago. The lessee was a Moslem of Bhir and the deed was made out on behalf of the ghost of Bhir.
"Sheer hocus-pocus," shrugged Cunningham. "Powell related that even up to three years ago all deeds in Bhir village were made out with the ghost as proprietor."
"And so, because Powell and the other usurped the place of the ghost, they died."
Cunningham laughed uncertainly.
"You believe that? Really, I am surprised! Why, the name of the ghostproprietor appears-"
"As Dom Gion. A curious name."
"More fiddlededee! It is not even the name of a native."
"Well, sir." Malcolm looked up seriously. "Jaswat Das assured us that the familiar spirit of Bhir wore a full-length black cloak-which is not a native garment. In fact it smacks of the, ah-demoniac. The deed is not a forgery. You have asked for my opinion-"
"I have sent for you, to that end."
"There is a ghost in Bhir, somewhat old, of the name of Dom Gion."
"Ridiculous."
"Or a demon, if you prefer."
"Absurd!"
"But unfortunately true. This deed relates that a stated tax is paid the ghost by Bhir. Powell and the other displaced the proprietor-spirit, and cut off its perquisites. Consequently they suffered."
Cunningham looked helplessly at the deep blue expanse of the river and the jungle mesh on the other side beyond which lay Bhir.
"Yet the travelers on the high road-the natives, you know-did not trespass so," he muttered.
"Their fate was the product of sheer malignancy. Sir, you know the existence of a cult in northern India that worships Kali, the All-Destroyer. I think we find a center of the cult in Bhir and that our friend the ghost plays his part therein."
"Zounds!" Cunningham's handsome face was utterly serious. He, too, had heard of Kali. "We must not let Bhir go. No matter how many sentries are killed off, a sentry post must be maintained, sir-at all costs." He took snuff vigorously. "Now, Captain Malcolm, what precautions does your experience suggest on behalf of the next officer I detail to the post?"
Malcolm considered.
"I'll go," he said.
"Eh, what?" The Resident stared at his young companion. "You, sir? My dear Captain Malcolm, I could not call upon you, when my own men have vanished in Bhir and poor Powell-the only one to leave alive-died of an unknown disease."
"If you will be so good, sir, as to appoint me magistrate and collector of the district of Bhir for a time sufficient for me to investigate this matter? The ghost, you know, must be laid."
Cunningham was troubled. He had sent for the young captain of Sepoys to get his advice, which the Resident valued; now Malcolm had volunteered for the dangerous post. The peace of the Northern Provinces demanded a white man should remain in Bhir.
"Confound me-I'm cursed if I don't accept," he acknowledged frankly. "Provided you will keep in touch with me. How many men shall I detail to go with you?"
"None."
"Will you have your camp established near the river? It is safer than the village."
"I think," smiled Malcolm, "I'll camp in the castle of Bhir. It won't do to give up our chosen post, you know."
Cunningham laughed.
"Man, you are stark mad, but I'm blest if I don't like you for it. Do you take snuff, Captain Malcolm?"
II
It was a few days later that Rawul Singh, a Rajput veteran, returned to his home in the Bhir valley after a long absence in the wars.
Since the truce with the English the Nawab of Oudh had dismissed a great part of his soldiery without pay; the great chief Ranjeet Singh had sheathed the sword, and Rawul Singh would not serve under a Mussulman leader. So, having played his part in the recent battles with the English, Rawul Singh was glad to see the roof-tree of his hut near the Jumna road. He yearned to see his daughter, who was just reaching womanhood, and his son of ten years who would presently run forth to welcome him.
Rawul Singh brushed up his truculent white mustache and swaggered in his saddle as he touched spurs to his tired horse. The silver ornaments on his harness were few; the purse at his girdle was empty.
He was one of those good-hearted, utterly brave men who cannot prosper, who are a prey to the merchant and moneylender, and who are born to be led, not to lead. Over his shoulder was a shawl, bought for Tala, his daughter. In one hand he held a small bow and arrows for the boy.
In order to purchase these he had fasted on his journey.
"Hai, Tala! Hui, little lion-it is thy father who calls. Fear not!"
Smiling, he leaped from his horse and strode into the hut. It was in neat order, but empty. So also was the cattle pen beside it. Rawul Singh laid down his presents and frowned. It was evening and his children should have been in the house, and the cattle penned, for there were jackals about.
Convinced that the girl and boy must be in the village in spite of the late hour-because the aspect of the house revealed that they had been there not later than noon, as the ashes of the fire were still warm and water in the jars still fresh-Rawul Singh remounted and rode on to the outskirts of Bhir, no more than a gunshot away.
Overhead towered the crumbling walls of the castle outlined by ruddy shafts of sunset. As the Rajput passed, hurrying to escape a storm that was overcasting the sky behind him, an eye of light winked out from the battlements of Bhir castle. Rawul Singh noticed it as he did everything within his field of vision.
A moment later his keen glance picked out a white blotch in the dull glimmer of the road. It wa
s his daughter's shawl, worn threadbare.
The Rajput looked quickly about, marking the place where the shawl had lain.
Within the village men turned away from Rawul Singh, and yet stared after him when his broad back was toward them. No one could tell him anything of his children until a water carrier in a dark corner of the bazaar muttered that the boy and girl had been in the village that afternoon, to ask after Rawul Singh. The boy had stood guard over the cattle outside the wall while Tala made her inquiries. They had started back a good hour before twilight.
"Didst thou see, bheestie," asked Rawul Singh, "this shawl upon the girl?"
"Aye." The carrier of water bent over his goatskin. "Her face is like the moon, good sir. She smiled at me and her eyes were like dark stars. Perhaps another looked upon her beauty. Beware of the man of Bhir castle who wears a cloak."
With a hiss of rage the soldier clutched at the beggar to learn more. But the bheestie and his goatskin had vanished into the shadows of an alley. Rawul Singh remembered that more than once he had given silver to the man.
At the house of the potail-village chief-a servant looked long into the Rajput's dark face and shivered.
"Ai, Rawul Singh," he whispered, "the heart of the honorable potail has turned to water at news of thy grief. He cannot give aid, and knows naught of the fate of thy children-except this. There is a farangi in the castle who has seen the face of thy daughter and lusted after her. When the sun had changed* this day, he waited for her and the boy outside the village gate-"
"And the boy?" interrupted Rawul Singh, speaking very slowly and distinctly.
"He defended her, and he was killed by the farangi."
"Who buried him? Where?"
But the servant, looking into the stricken face that was thrust near his eyes, turned and fled.
Rawul Singh loosened the folds of his turban and drew them down over his brow so that no prying eyes should behold his grief. Sitting very erect in the saddle, he rode back to his home, pausing only once when he came to the place where he had sighted the scarf, to glance up at the ray of candlelight that winked from the castle.
He could make out a break in the jungle mesh where a path ran from the road in the direction of Bhir castle. A hot wind was blowing the dust of the road into his face and the treetops were threshing under the approach of a storm.
"By Ram and Vishnu, by the sun-born gods and Siva," breathed the Rajput, "may I be avenged for this day!"
Dismounting before his home, he took the shawl of Tala and wrapped within it the two gifts he had brought for his children. The bundle he laid at his feet and squatted on the earth floor.
He was praying that the gods would bring the body of his enemy within reach of his sword. On the morrow he would seek out the body of his boy and show it to the murderer.
Outside the hut lightning flashed and a rush of rain swept over the jungle. With the rain came the sound of horses' hoofs. A man pushed open the closed door of the hut and entered.
Apparently he had not perceived the occupant of the place, for he busied himself with a lantern, striking steel on flint until he had it lighted. Captain Malcolm faced Rawul Singh.
"I am the sahib from the castle," said the Scot. "The storm has driven me under thy roof. What is thy name, Rajput?"
He spoke Hindustani fluently. Rawul Singh did not rise as Malcolm expected. Instead he sat on his heels, his black eyes boring into the gray eyes of the visitor. The Rajput had fasted for two days, except for the stim ulant of bhang that he had chewed as he rode. The influence of the drug had left his nerves frayed.
"Thou art welcome," he said quietly. "I will tell thee my name."
Silently he watched Malcolm tether his horse under the eaves of the hut, beside the Rajput's steed.
"Sahib," observed Rawul Singh between his teeth, "the gods have brought thee hither, out of the castle in the storm. It is as I prayed."
"Nay," answered Malcolm carelessly. "I was riding by the river on my way to the castle when the storm made the path impossible."
"Hast thou many servants, my sahib?"
"Not one."
"Then hast thou lied. For a light was in the towers a short space ago. No one dwells there except thee, Malcolm sahib. Where is Tala?" He rose lightly. "Thou dost not know that I am Rawul Singh whose home thou hast made a desolate place. Verily, the gods brought Malcolm sahib to my door."
The Scot's searching glance sought the wild features of the native, and his feverish eyes.
"Drunk or mad," he reflected, "and armed to boot." Not otherwise would a native have interrupted an Englishman or threatened him. Aloud he said-
"Stand back! "
But Rawul Singh leaped, his short sword flashing out as he did so. Crazed by his grief and his mind inflamed by the drug, Rawul Singh struck at the white man. A Ghurka or Maharatta would have knifed Malcolm from behind.
The Scot had barely time to draw his sword, a sturdy weapon of the hanger type. The two blades clashed, parried, and clashed again. Rawul Singh was the better swordsman but was handicapped by his blind rage.
Repeatedly he threw himself upon the Scot, his breath hissing between his teeth. Once his blade slit Malcolm's coat. The white man retreated slowly around the lantern that rested on the earth beside them. He had no chance to speak, or to do anything but keep the flashing curve of the other's weapon from his throat. And then Rawul Singh dashed out the light with a kick of his heel.
!" said Malcolm heartily.
He heard the Rajput laugh and the laugh came nearer. Quite easily Malcolm might have thrust his sword into the reckless native, but he shrank from doing that and stepped aside softly. The swish of a steel blade sounded at the spot where he had stood.
"Aha, my sahib, thou dost not stand thy ground-as a man should. Yet thou didst slay my son who was the light of my eyes and the meat of my liver-"
Rawul Singh fell silent, listening, and the Scot tried to stifle his panting breath. The native was between him and the door.
A second time Rawul Singh leaped, as noiselessly as a cat leaps. At the same instant a flicker of lightning revealed him to Malcolm, against the opening of the door.
The white man dropped to his knees, let slip his sword, and clutched his foe by the waist. The impetus of the Rajput's rush carried both to the earth where they rolled, crashing against the table.
Malcolm felt the sweat of the other's body strike his face as he gripped the snake-like sword arm. The greater weight and muscle of the white man told on the other and in another moment they lay quiet, Rawul Singh pinioned in the Scot's arms.
Catching a fold of the native's turban in his teeth, Malcolm shook it loose, and taking care not to relax his hold, with one hand bound the man's wrists and ankles behind him. It was well for the white man that Rawul Singh was exhausted by his efforts.
Then the Scot lighted the lantern and sat down on the low table to recover his breath. To the average English officer Rawul Singh would have appeared merely insane; but Malcolm was puzzled.
"I'm thinking," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his hands, "that there's a method in his madness." Aloud he added: "Tell me the story of thy grievance, Rawul Singh. I am the new kotwal* of Bhir."
"Pani Sara kyun?"' snarled the other.
But fearlessly, as was his nature, he unfolded the nature of his wrong, believing that whatever happened he would die.
Malcolm listened to the grieving story as stonily as Rawul Singh spoke.
"A forked arrow, Rajput," he said at length, "can strike down two birds at one cast, and a forked tongue is a serpent's tongue."
"Nevertheless, the bheestie spoke truly; my heart told me he did not lie."
Malcolm nodded impatiently.
"He said naught of me, Rajput; he said to beware of the man of Bhir castle who wears a black cloak. Nay, Rawul Singh, where is thy wisdom? Many men must have made away with thy children and cattle, if they were not to be seen when thou didst ride to the village. Alone, I could not have driven away so many
head of cattle in so short a space of time. Also would I have come thus, like a blind pig to thy house? Nay, throughout this afternoon I was engaged in marking the boundaries of the fields beyond the village. A score of men will tell thee so."
Rawul Singh looked at the white man and was silent. Hotheaded as he was, he could understand when a man was speaking the truth.
"Why did this evil come upon me?" he muttered. "Lo, it was to tend the grave of Iny wife who died upon the journey that I remained in this accursed nest of Mussulmans. They are not my people nor my caste-"
"And because, Rawul Singh," mused Malcolm, "there were evildoers in this village, they wished to be rid of thee, even as they desired to slay me. They learned the hour of thy return; they took the cattle, Tala, and thy son. Then the servant of the potail lied, and thou didst believe." He frowned thoughtfully. "And you saw a light in the castle?" he muttered in English.
"Yes, sahib," agreed Rawul Singh, who understood.
Malcolm wondered if the invisible foemen who had struck their first blow at him that night through Rawul Singh had actually taken Tala to the ruins. He thought not. But then who had made the light?
"Rawul Singh," he said abruptly. "If I were the murderer of thy son, would I let thee live, to be revenged upon me?"
ay.
"Yet I will do thus. I trust the faith of a Rajput chief."
So saying, he undid the knots in the man's turban cloth and picked up his own sword, sheathing it. Rawul Singh expressed no pleasure.
"Why should I live?" he said. "My son who was the blood in my veins is no more and my daughter has come to shame. My beard is dishonored and my name is no better than a dog's. Let the jackals tear open the grave of my wife that I and those two have tended and watered the young willows by it. Ai-it matters not."
Malcolm turned away from the grief of the old man, to hide his own sympathy. There was no way to console Rawul Singh nor would the Rajput have thanked the Scot for attempting it.
The rain was still beating down and Malcolm decided to remain the night where he was. Under the circumstances he judged the hut safer than the darkened castle where the other men might be waiting for him in the storm. He slept fitfully on the low divan that had been built for Rawul Singh's children.