Swords From the West

by Harold Lamb

  Moreover the natives lighted fires and rushed about, clamoring and waving their weapons to scare off the deadly spirits of the place. This would be a very effectual way of displacing the vitiated air-the dank, curioussmelling element of the place.

  Displacing the air-that would only be necessary in case it was heavier than ordinary air.

  "Carbonic acid gas!" he exclaimed. "Comes from the stagnant water and decayed vegetation and the general decomposition of this old ruin. It hangs low of course and it's little better than rank poison.'

  "My friend the demon," thought Malcolm, "was not satisfied with the rate of my demise; he wanted me to get the full benefit of the bad air by walling me in. Especially as he wanted the revenues, which would have gone to his own lease deeds. No wonder the doctors couldn't find out what was the matter with poor Powell."

  Whereupon he ordered Rawul Singh to pitch on the terrace against the castle wall the tent he had brought with him to use in hunting expeditions. Then, aided by Cheetoo, he took up his new quarters. That night and the next he slept well for the first time in weeks. Rawul Singh kept watch on the terrace.

  On the third evening the Rajput, well pleased, went to where Cheetoo was lying at the other end of the terrace by the fire.

  "The sahib gains strength," he growled. "He will live. So, thou also wilt live."

  Cheetoo did not answer and Rawul Singh, looking a second time, saw that he was dead, a cloth girdle wrapped around his twisted throat and his belly slit open by two slashes in the shape of a cross.

  Unwinding the girdle, the Rajput brought it to Malcolm, who observed that it was such a thing as was used by a Moslem for a waist sash.

  "God receive his soul," he said moodily. Fingering the stout sash, he observed to himself:

  "A rumal, or strangling cord, of the slayers who are thugs-worshipers of Kali. Did Cheetoo die because he warned me, or was his death to be a warning?"

  They buried the bheestie without delay at the edge of the jungle, and as Malcolm helped Rawul Singh roll the stones on the grave-he could do little more, being still weak-he turned to his companion thoughtfully.

  "Are the two slashes of a knife across the stomach of the bheestie similar to the mark of a knife that thou sawest upon the body of thy son?"

  "Aye."

  "Dost thou know, Rawul Singh, that when a certain band of murderers calling themselves thugs slay a victim they slash open the body in this manner before burial? They do this so that the gas contained within the human body will not swell the corpse, thus disclosing the place to jackals or dogs that might dig up the body and so reveal the traces of the crime."

  Rawul Singh hesitated.

  "Aye," he admitted, "that was known to me."

  "And didst not reveal to me thy knowledge that we were dealing with thugs? Is this thy loyalty to thy master?"

  The Rajput folded his arms and bent his head, his lean features working under strong emotion.

  "Perhaps thou didst think," Malcolm accused, "that if I knew there were thugs in Bhir I would have fled and deprived thee of my aid in seeking revenge?"

  "Nay." The other's head jerked up quickly. "I have watched thee, sahib, and I know thee for-a brave man."

  "Words." As Rawul Singh was stubbornly silent, the officer hazarded another guess. "Thy daughter-the thugs hold her and have threatened her with harm if thou didst disclose their secret?"

  "Nay. That may well be, yet no word of it has come to me."

  "What, then?" The Scot was frankly puzzled by the demeanor of his follower.

  There was no doubting the menace of Bhir, if there was-as he believed-a thuggi band in the village. Throughout the central provinces of India it was becoming known to the English officials that these slayers, who at first were supposed to be merely dacoits, infested the main villages and highways. The native officials were often bribed and more often powerless to interfere with them.

  The thugs formed a fraternity made up of every caste and profession. By day they appeared as reputable merchants or craftsmen; by night they assembled in bands to seek out victims carefully selected, and-as they believed-foreordained to their hands. The cult was handed down from father to son, and its existence was just becoming known to the English officials.

  So much Malcolm knew. Cunningham's story had led him to suspect there were thugs in Bhir. What puzzled him was that, until now, the native slayers had not ventured to number an Englishman among their victims.

  Moreover there was the peculiar individual known as the ghost to be accounted for.

  "What, then?" he repeated grimly.

  The reply of the Rajput came like a flood when a darn is loosed. Mal- colrn's accusation had stirred his sense of honor, which was very high indeed.

  "Sahib, it is true that thou couldst aid me in my revenge, and that these words-if they are overheard-may mean the death of Tala. I have sworn to serve thee. Judge whether I am faithful to my oath. Two sahibs that were here before thee were slain. Thou art a brave man. Thou wouldst not go from this place until the revenues were collected. As it is, the thugs seek only to drive thee away, or to harm thee secretly. Once they suspect that thou knowest their secret, thy fate is sealed. Thou wilt lie beside my son."

  He pointed quietly to the grave of Cheetoo.

  "Thus! But there is still a chance for thee to escape. I say-go.

  "Sahib, thou art well enough to travel. Mount, then, this night for Agra and ride fast. If there are thugs in Bhir, they have marked thee for slaying. Know, sahib, that secrecy is the veil that shields the servants of Kali; my son they buried, but Cheetoo they left under our eyes. That means that they have determined thou shalt not leave Bhir, to report their presence. Otherwise they would have dragged away the body before slashing it and we would have thought that a tiger had struck him down."

  "Yes," acknowledged Malcolm, "I thought of thugs when I first heard the tale of the servant of Cunningham sahib. But what of the man who visits the castle and who is my enemy?"

  "I know not. But consider this." Rawul Singh pointed at the fresh mound of stones. "They know now that thou wilt not die by the poisoned air, nor by my sword. So they may attack thee at once."

  "Yes," said the Scot dryly.

  "I will stay, sahib, and search for Tala alone. But you must go at once."

  "No."

  That night two men watched on the terrace where the moonlight threw a jagged shadow from the walls of the ruins. Under the tower where his outline blended with the wall, Rawul Singh squatted, his drawn sword across his knees.

  Lying on his cot in the tent, Malcolm watched, pistol in hand, the play of light and shadow over the cotton roof. He was wondering whether Rawul Singh was not an ally of the man in the cloak-who took upon himself the resemblance of a demon-Rawul Singh, who might have slain the unfortunate Cheetoo, and who was now urging him to fly from Bhir, which was the thing his enemies wished.

  Tossing on his cot in the hot hours of early night, Malcolm could hear the sounds of the nearby jungle, a buffalo crashing down to water somewhere at the edge of the rice fields-an owl hooting-the slipping passage of a leopard-the snarl of a jackal.

  Wearied by his sickness, his senses sharpened by edged nerves, Malcolm felt that hostile forces were gathering around him. He knew that he was cut off from his kind-the chit bearer who had been gone ten days had not returned. Worst of all, he wondered whether he could feel certain of Rawul Singh.

  Through the opening in his tent he could see the moonlight on the roofs of Bhir village, could glimpse a torch passing down the bazaar front or a turbaned group of men moving quietly across the central square.

  These groups merged together, and lights danced across his eyes that persisted in closing with the lengthening of the night. It seemed to him as if the beasts of the jungle had halted in their tracks and were crouching, their eyes shining in the darkness as they looked toward him.

  A cold wind blew into his face and he seemed to be lifted into the starlit air. A high voice shrilled down the wind, and la
ughter sounded in mocking words of a tongue he did not know.

  It was strange, he thought dully, that the voice in the night air should laugh. It was very cold among the stars and their light hurt his eyes ...

  Malcolm awoke to find himself stiff from the chill of dawn and a gray light filling the tent.

  Rawul Singh was standing beside him, looking curiously at the pistol still grasped in his master's cramped hand.

  "Sahib," he said, "while thou didst sleep I heard someone call from the tower. I know not what it was, for the words were neither Hindustani nor Turki nor English. So, as thou didst, I ran into the castle to the tower stairs. Yet when I came to the window that looks out on the terrace I bethought me that this might be a trick to separate us, and I stayed at the window, watching and listening.

  "Sahib, it was only a moment before I heard a man breathing very near. It was not behind me but in front of me. So I looked out, very carefully. And my face was within a foot of the face of the demon, who crouched below the window with his feet on the vines and his fingers on the stone ledge of the opening. I struck quickly with my sword, but he was more swift and dropped to the terrace. The window was too small for me to climb through, and by the time I reached the terrace by way of the castle door he was gone. Verily is he a thing of the night."

  Malcolm read in the man's eyes that he was telling the truth. He saw now how the visitor had eluded them on the previous night, waiting probably crouched against the tower wall in the shadow until they had left the terrace, when he had slid down easily, breaking the vine in the process.

  "So," he thought, "my friend the demon is very small in body, is quite fearless, has a sense of humor, and-speaks Portuguese."

  "Sahib," concluded Rawul Singh gravely, "from this hour thou and I must keep together and one of us must always watch. I am afraid that the demon overheard our speech of the thugs."

  IV

  Ali Khan was as heavy as a buffalo and as light on his feet as a panther. He was of Afghan blood and his father had been a rokurrea-a professional carrier of money. His grandfather had been a Said, so good Moslem blood ran in the veins of Ali Khan.

  A square jet-black beard was his pride, with a brace of silver-chased Turkish pistols and a Persian sword that curved nearly to his heels. Ali Khan was a bold man and boastful, likewise crafty.

  It was for these reasons that Rawul Singh had picked the Afghan, ten days before they heard the voice in the jungle, for the chit bearer, to go to Cunningham sahib. Being an Afghan, the soldier was not one of the men of Bhir; being son of a hereditary messenger, Ali Khan was reasonably faithful to a trust-when he swore on the Koran, as he had done in the rear of a wine shop in the Bhir bazaar before Rawul Singh.

  "Send a child, Rajput," the Afghan had gibed. "The task is not worthy of me."

  "Thou wilt not think so when I tell thee there will be thugs behind thee and perhaps before. "

  "Ho!" Ali Khan had fingered his beard. "Aho-ho-o. Well, I will go, and to Jehanum with all thugs, dacoits, and slayers."

  "Hss!" Rawul Singh's sibilant warning had cut him short. "There be thugs about us now. Do not join company with any on the road; travel by day, and if thou dost esteem thy bull-neck dismount not from thy horse on the road; sleep in the jungle at night and then only after crossing the river-"

  So had Rawul Singh spoken, as quietly as he might, but sharp ears had heard the boast of Ali Khan, and before the big Afghan flung his weight upon his horse a rider had slipped out of the bazaar and passed up the Jumna highway toward Agra.

  Obedient to his instructions, Ali Khan rode swiftly until dusk the first day; then he swam his horse across the river, picketed it in a mango grove, and snored peacefully until dawn.

  Regaining the highway, he pressed on, the letter of Captain Malcolm concealed in a fold of his turban. Passage through the jungle bypaths from village to village was more dangerous than the main road where merchant caravans, parties of soldiers, and peasants were usually within sight. A group of a dozen poverty-stricken Hindus besought the protection of the Afghan on their journey.

  Ali Khan grinned and bade them be off, saying that the smell of a Hindu irked him.

  Toward evening that day when he was hot and thirsty a party of Moslem cloth traders bound for Agra overtook him and invited him to camp with them that night and share their fire.

  "Bismillah!" Ali Khan eyed them sharply; they seemed wealthy and peaceable; there was nothing about them to suggest assassins. "I would like to, but it is forbidden. Allah be with you. I go my own way."

  They persisted in urging him to dismount and pressed around him. The Afghan's beard bristled and he touched spurs to his tired horse. When he had gone on a way he looked back and found the merchant cavalcade staring after him.

  "Yah Allah!" muttered the khan. "They were thugs."

  He shared the knowledge, common among natives of India, of the secret slayers of the highway. He knew that they followed their trade only when unwatched; that they slew only when the omens vouchsafed by Kali were propitious, and that they killed by strangling.

  Very rarely did they use other weapons; moreover they were accustomed to choose certain spots for the assassination and travel with the victim until the appointed place was reached, where they could bury their victims at once.

  More than one courier from Bhir, he knew, lay under the grass by the Jumna highway, and he suspected that the body of a sahib-magistrate of Bhir had been cast into the Jumna after the Englishman had imprudently joined company with a party of mild-appearing merchants.

  So that evening Ali Khan said his prayers devoutly, alone. The next day brought no signs of thugs and he knew that he was no longer followed. Throughout the night he rode, resting his horse at intervals.

  Dawn brought the sight of Agra's towers, and relief to the heart of the chit bearer. A few hours more would bring him to the cantonment of Cunningham sahib, where he could sleep, eat, and boast his fill.

  "Yah Allah," he muttered, satisfied. "I am out of the snake's nest. At the dawn prayer I will give thanks-"

  He reined in beside a group of mournful-looking Moslem soldiers who were burying one of their companions in a grave by the road. The body was cleanly robed in white cloth, but the survivors stood disconsolately by, a Koran in their hands.

  Seeing Ali Khan dismount and wash at a brook by the grave and prepare his carpet for prayer, one of them approached him and asked if he could read from the Koran.

  "May I strangle if I can't read like a mullah," responded the Afghan.

  He understood that they could not read, nor repeat the burial formula over the body of their mate. They asked him if he would do so.

  "I would be a dog if I did not, and my beard would be defamed," acknowledged the big warrior frankly. "Besides, I owe such a kindness, for my life has been miraculously spared."

  He cleansed his hands anew, took the Koran, and knelt on the cloth by the body and the grave. As custom prescribed he laid aside his weapons, and two of the party knelt beside him.

  In a sonorous voice Ali Khan began to repeat the burial service. In a moment a sash was passed about his neck from behind, the two men at his side grasped his arms and he was strangled silently.

  Then his big body was tumbled into the grave; the man who had taken the part of the dead Moslem rose. A caravan of traders came into sight from Agra at that instant and the thugs, perceiving it, began to complete the burial service over Ali Khan.

  Before the last camel of the caravan had passed the erstwhile soldiers had filled in the grave, and Malcolm's messenger had passed from the sight of men. Only when the thugs took a folded paper from his turban did the act excite interest on the part of the passers-by on the caravan.

  "Why do you take aught from the dead?" someone on the caravan asked.

  "It is a message to his people-his last message," explained the young thug who had impersonated the body and who possessed a sense of humor.

  The thug who had secured the chit stripped Ali Khan's horse of its s
ilver saddle-trappings and mounted, forcing the nearly exhausted beast to gallop back along the Jumna trail. His companions remained behind, to light a fire-now that the caravan was out of the way-on the grave, thus obliterating the traces of a burial. The weapons of Ali Khan they divided among themselves.

  It was nightfall of the second day when the thug messenger-Hossein by name, a bhutote-strangler-of the Bhundulkhand clan of Jumnaarrived at the outskirts of Bhir. Instead of entering the village, Hossein slowed down to a walk and took a cattle path away from the highway.

  After following this a short distance up in the direction of the castle, he dismounted, tethered his horse, and slipped into the jungle mesh. Passing silently through a bamboo thicket-no easy feat-he parted a dense mass of junipers and stepped out into a cleared space that seemed to have for its center a square black hole.

  Here Hossein was very careful to give the cry of an owl, repeating it after an interval of silence. Advancing with more assurance, he stepped out upon what appeared to be the square cavity. Here a flight of steps led down and Hossein disappeared from view.

  The hole was, in fact, an empty tank, or well, built after the fashion of Hindustan with stone platforms a little way down and recesses opening into the platforms. Here the wives and daughters and servants of a raja aforetime had cooled themselves during the stress of a hot season. But the sandstone walls of the tank were now dry and overgrown with weeds. A snake crawled away unseen by the boy.

  Coming upon the lower platform, he turned into a recess. Here a ray of light flashed into his face and a man peered at him. Hossein passed the sentinel and advanced along a stone corridor into a small chamber lighted by a single lantern set with red and green bull's-eyes of glass.

  "Tala," he whispered almost noiselessly.

  "Peace be with thee, Hossein," a low voice answered.

  The youth stooped to peer at the form of a girl upon a divan against the wall. Costly Persian rugs and silk brocade covered the stone floor under the divan. A taboret containing fruit and fresh water stood by it.

  The lantern hanging from the ceiling was so arranged as to cast its glow on the passageway rather than the curtained recess where the woman rested. But Hossein's sharp glance distinguished a pallid brow, circled by heavy, black hair, and black eyes that returned his stare dully.