by Harold Lamb
It was the bole of a tree, the bark cut away from it, and around it the throng began to thicken, leaving clear about the stake the space of a stone's cast. An elbow was thrust into my ribs and a bearded face leered at me.
"In the name of God!" the man muttered. "The Arab doctor hath come to the hills!"
Eh, this man was one of the Hazaras who had visited me at Sher Jan's fire. Indeed, many of his companions stared at me, for my garments were not like the Pathans. They seemed both suspicious and arrogant.
"See, hakim," quoth another, in broken Persian, "the stake is ready for thee."
"He quakes," jeered a third, "and before long he will shrivel. We will build a fire around him."
I heard several of them draw swords out of sheaths, and the press around me grew greater. Mahabat Khan, standing near, made no sign. I thought that if there were danger, he would take my part.
"Bism'allah!" I cried. "Is this the hospitality of thy camp?"
"Nay," grunted the Hazara, "this is not our sangar. What led thy steps hither?"
"The other Arabs-they of the horse traders' tents-told me of a holy man in this spot."
A pockmarked Pathan, with a sword scar whitening his brow, pushed through the crowd to me and growled. "Who led thee hither?"
At last Mahabat Khan turned, stepping between us.
"I!" he said. "I did."
They all looked at him, finding nothing to say for the moment. I wondered if any would know the face of the Sirdar of Ind. But then horns began to quaver behind us, and drums rumbled. The Pathans forgot us and thronged about the cleared space, into which a score of the elder men were moving, swords in hands. Turning their left shoulder to the post, these old warriors made a circle about it.
"Hai! Ahai-hai!" one shouted, and the drums quickened into a fierce beat.
Mahabat Khan touched me on the shoulder and led me to a blanket by one of the fires. Here we sat, our faces toward the stake, the veiled women moving off a little from us.
"Silence is best," he whispered, "for a little, until this is ended."
The music grew louder; younger warriors ran from the crowd toward the elders, who were now moving slowly around the stake, swinging their swords over their heads. Eh, the youths had more supple joints. They hastened into rings, leaping and swinging their blades in time to the music.
Some had two swords, some a sword and musket. All the circles were now revolving about the posts in the same direction, and the swiftly darting blades made red light above the tossing heads. Faster leaped the warriors, the sword edges whistling in the air. Straining throats made deep-tongued clamor.
More swiftly the long-robed figures ran, long locks tossing about the turbaned heads. But never a blade clashed another, never a steel edge slashed a man. The cliffs roared back in echo:
"Hai-hai!"
Half smiling, yet his eyes agleam, the Sirdar watched the sword dance of his hills, seeming to expect some greater miracle of movement and madness. And it happened.
There was a rush of hoofs, a straining creak of saddles, and jangling of silver laden reins. Standing in their stirrups, nay, leaping upright upon the saddles, the men who had mounted horses joined the throng, rushing about the post. They tossed their swords into the air, caught them, and flashed the blades down at the dancers. Red firelight flickered on the bare steel.
The Pathans who sat about the spot were staring, loose lipped and shouting. Mud-stained children jumped about in their bare feet beside their mothers. More and more swiftly the drums resounded and the hoofs raced. Then some of the horses darted aside, figures swirled, and a man shouted in rage.
I had seen a horse stumble. Its rider must have slashed another Pathan-the same pockmarked giant who had confronted me. He gripped his ear, the blood running through his fingers; the greater part of the ear was cut clean away.
Shouting, he made toward the horseman who had wounded him. The drums fell silent, the horns ceased, and the dancers ran toward the two antagonists. Deep-toned clamor arose-men snarling at their companions of a moment before. Panting and mad with excitement, they would have thrown themselves at each other, for at such a time it takes little to turn play into slaughter, and many clans with many feuds had joined the dance. But the tumult was quieted before the first blow could be given.
Above the stake on a great flat boulder appeared a slight figure in a brown robe and green turban, and a high voice shrilled over the quarrelling-a single word.
I saw that this figure was veiled beneath the eyes. At its bidding the Pathans dropped their swords, the wounded man fell silent, and, in a moment, they turned to go back to their fires, as jackals turn at the coming of a wolf.
"What is this?" I whispered.
But Mahabat Khan frowned, his eyes intent.
"A time for silence," he repeated under his breath.
Still fingering their weapons, panting from the dance, the hillmen sought the fires. Some of them snarled at me; but they were too full of their half-stifled quarrel and too eager to hear what the man on the boulder might say, to bother about an old Arab.
"0 ye of little wit!" he cried, in their speech.
Nay, at the time of his speaking, I understood not, but many have told me his words. For the words of al-Khimar were treasured in the memory of the hillmen.
"Know ye not that it is written, 'Nothing happens save by the will of Allah?' What have I seen? A horse stumbled, a man was cut by a sword, and ye thoughtless ones-ye less than children-would have taken life, here, before me!"
Slowly he spoke, pausing to give them time to hear and understand and mutter among themselves. Every word was clear as the clank of steel, and I thought that at one time al-Khimar had been a muezzin. The warrior of the slashed ear made as if to complain to him, but the veiled prophet waved him away angrily, and he went in among his fellows, unheeded.
I saw now why al-Khimar had appeared so suddenly. Behind the flattopped boulder was a dark mouth of a cave. Within this he must have stood and watched. There were many clefts and ridges in the rock wall, but this seemed to be a cavern of some size.
"Why are ye here?" he asked, and looked from one to another.
The Pathans moved uneasily, and many thrust their swords back into their girdles.
"To obey," responded an old man, "to hear and obey."
"Take heed that ye do it!" Again he searched the crowd with his eyes, and the listeners held their breaths. "Have I come at this hour of the night to see ye wield swords? Are ye indeed children that ye may not wait for a space without a game?"
"Nay," cried a bearded warrior with one eye, "Shamil the Red Snout set up the stake and called upon us to show our skill. I am of the Yuzufi Khel"*
Even their reverence for the holy man could not keep these children of the hills curbed entirely. They answered back like defiant sons and, like sons, received their chastening. I noticed likewise that when they spoke the echoes flung back the words. The louder they shouted, the louder roared the opposite cliffs. Foolishly, they tried to make themselves understood by shouting.
But al-Khimar, standing apart from them and facing the end of the valley down which we had come, managed to speak without stirring up the echoes. No doubt he had experimented until he had discovered how to do this, yet it filled the hillmen with awe-they knew that echoes were the voices of devils, mocking men.
"Thou art a pig's butcher!" gibed al-Khimar, and the valley rocked with laughter.
When the echoes rumbled-Ho-oho-ho!-they were frightened and fell silent again.
"Will ye take up the swords again and play at butchering-or listen to me?"
"Nay, al-Khimar," protested the Yuzufi, "we will listen."
And thus the veiled prophet quieted them by mocking them, and turned their thoughts to him.
"I dreamed last night of war," he said then. "Have ye forgotten that time I beheld in a dream the coming of the caravan with silver and precious stuffs? In this new dream a message came to me. These were the words of the message: `Think ye your weal
th will save you, if your deeds destroy you? "'
They murmured, saying that truly they had not forgotten.
"The gain was great at that time," quoth al-Khimar, "and now-very soon-it will be more. But you must win it by your deeds!"
"Ah!" cried the Yuzufi. "Lead us to Kandahar! We have waited and increased in strength, and now, surely, it is time."
"0 thou shameless one!" shrieked al-Khimar. "If these men followed thee, many would be slain with little gain. Know ye not the citadel of Kandahar hath walls too high to climb? Behind walls the Moguls will be stronger than ye. Know ye not that the Sirdar of Ind hath come to Kandahar with a following? What talk is this? Nay, I dreamed of another matter. In the night this was revealed to me-a rich camp, with camels and mules. A camp of silk pavilions and ivory and red leather-of full wine skins and a thousand slaves."
The Pathans gazed up at him, plainly astonished, and Mahabat Khan chewed his mustache.
"Where?" shouted a man far back of us.
Al-Khimar pointed to the west.
"At the edge of the plain, among the foothills, I saw this camp."
Then a camel driver sprang up, his face distorted with amazement.
"By Allah, indeed!" he shouted. "There is a camp, down below, a day's ride. Yesterday I saw it, and it is filled with Persians, lords and servants who have come hither to hunt."
The shrill voice of al-Khimar soared.
"May their eyes be darkened! They will fall to our swords-save those who would better be held for ransom. Yea, we shall have slaves enough to glut the markets of Kandahar. For nothing happens save by the will of God! The fate of these Persians is not to be altered-the hour of their doom is written."
And for awhile he harangued the Pathans, promising to lead them to victory, rousing them again to eagerness and anger, though they needed little rousing. Thus he made them cease to think of Kandahar, and to long for the spoils of the camp below. Never before had the wealthy lords of Persia ventured so near the frontier.
He painted with words the attack upon the lashgar of the hunters by night, the overthrow of the guards, the swift charge among the tents, the slaughter and the pursuit of the fleeing, and the capture of young and fair women-until the mass of hillmen rose to their feet and shouted to be led down into the valleys.
"Not yet," said al-Khimar, when the roaring had died away between the cliffs, "not yet is the time. In two days-the night following the next." Then he lifted his slender arms. "Upon ye be the blessing of Allah!"
This done, he turned and stepped down from his rock, vanishing from the circle of firelight as swiftly as a shadow. He must have entered his cavern, because I could not see him anywhere behind the rock. A moment later, the red-bearded opium eater Shamil-whom I had defied in the Valley of Thieves-came and stood upon the rock, leering down at the fires as if all these men were no more than sheep to be led under the knife. As usual, his eyes were nearly closed, yet I thought from a sudden movement and a turn of the head that he had noticed me.
Mahabat Khan sat in talk with the Yuzufi, who was called Artaban and who wore about his neck a charm. It was a camel's tooth upon which a prayer had been carved by some holy man. Artaban carried it in a silver locket, hanging upon a plaited cord. He said to us, for he loved the sound of his own voice, that this charm made him safe from bullets or steel.
"Allah is my witness," he swore, "that bullets have gone through my sleeves and girdle and head cloth without harming my skin. I had it of a man I slew with my hands."
Truly this Artaban had a bear's strength in his arms. Grinning with yellow teeth, he showed me how he had slain the owner of the charm, seizing his beard in one hand and pulling to one side while with his other hand he thrust the man's shoulder in the opposite direction.
"Allah is merciful," he grinned again. "The night after the next I will flay one of the dog-born dogs of Persians alive. They had my brother for a slave and ripped him up with a knife."
Eh, the Persians love the Pathans as wolves love panthers; because the ones reverence Ali as the successor to Muhammad, and the others disown Ali. It is said that no feuds are as fiercely hot as the feuds of cousins, and no quarrels are as deadly as the strife of Alyites and Sunnites.
"And will al-Khimar lead ye to attack?" asked Mahabat Khan, looking about him idly, as if no more than courtesy had prompted the words.
"Nay," declared Artaban. "He gives us warning of what must be done; he chooses the fortunate hour of sallying forth; but I and the red Shamil and the Hazara chieftain lead."
"Truly, ye have many men."
Artaban grunted.
"Six hundred and more. There are guards upon the roads, and other men in Kandahar."
"It is a great miracle," said Mahabat Khan, sinking his voice, "that the Veiled One eats not and never ventures from his place."
"Allah is great!"
"What man could go without food for many days?"
Artaban pulled at his beard and blinked, flattered by the reputation of his prophet.
"Perhaps," went on Mahabat Khan gravely, "there be fools who believe such matters, but thou and I are men of intelligence, and we understand that even saints must have food-even though it pleases them to pretend otherwise."
"True, by Allah!" The one-eyed Yuzufi chieftain frowned and tried to look wise.
"Some say there is another way out of this cavern."
"Then let them look! I will not enter it."
"Does none go in?"
"Shamil-nay, I saw a man of the Waziri khels carried out with his toes turned up and a knife in his heart. Why not? Al-Khimar keeps all the offerings of his people-all the silver that we shall need someday-in there."
"True. Who does not know a day of need?"
"As for me, 1 take what I require."
Artaban struck his fist against his broad chest covered with chain mail to which some traces of gilt still clung. I wondered if the steel shirt were the reason why the Yuzufi had escaped wounds.
"So Shamil goes in," nodded Mahabat Khan, his head close to the tribesman's shaggy locks. "Surely he is the servant of the Veiled One."
"Nay, his watchman. Red Shamil keeps the silver and sees to it that none goes in. If one of us went in, how would we know that the silver and precious things were not stolen? The Hazaras and the Waziri are great thieves." Artaban spat.
I heard a man breathe at my shoulder and turned swiftly. The man called Shamil stood within touch of me, his eyes fixed on the ground, his thin lips sneering.
"So," he said harshly, "ye twain have come hither to hear the Veiled One? Will ye go to his place and speak with him?"
The Yuzufi dropped back a pace and stared, but Mahabat Khan considered a moment and nodded.
"Aye."
"Why?" demanded the watcher.
"I am of the Lodi Pathans and I have come far. I bear a message to al-Khimar."
"From whom?"
"That is for him to hear."
For a moment Shamil combed his beard, swaying his red head from side to side. I wondered what the Sirdar would find to say to the prophet. It would have been a mistake to refuse to go with Shamil-who among these men would refuse?
And suspicion was in the air.
"And thou, Daril," snarled the redbeard, "hast thou a message also?"
I shook my head, and he turned on his heel, motioning for us to follow. Mahabat Khan did not look at me, but he waited until I had reached his side before he advanced. His step and hearing told me that he foresaw no good thing awaiting us. Artaban and a dozen others trailed along to listen.
The fires had died to glowing embers, and, when we climbed up behind the boulder, we could see little except the dark mouth of the cavern. A cold gust of air touched our faces. Shamil bade us stand, while he went forward to speak to al-Khimar concerning us. I looked up at the stars, above the black wall of the cliff, and envied the Bedouins in their blankets by the river.
W'allahi! It is written that no man knoweth what the next moment will bring to him. I thought of ma
ny things, but not of what happened now. Shamil had vanished into the darkness, and I strained my ears in vain, hearing only the coughing and shuffling of the tribesmen who had lingered by the boulder.
Then I beheld a tiny spot of light that danced on the rock wall of the cavern. It vanished, and a soft glow was cast upon the arched roof, slowly moving toward us. I stared at it like a sheep. Mahabat Khan moved beside me. Steel slithered faintly through leather.
The flickering glow came nearly over us, when suddenly a glaring light shone full into my eyes.
The light was from a copper lantern held in a man's hand. I could see the hand and the long sleeve, but little else, for the frame of the lantern was so wrought that it threw its illumination only in front. In such shadow and at such a moment the eyes seize upon a little thing, a familiar thing. I was sure that I noticed Shamil's curling beard. I think he had brought the lantern from elsewhere and wrapped it in a soft blanket, because presently my toes caught in a loose cloth upon the rock floor. But at that moment my ears were filled by a high-pitched shout-the voice of al-Khimar.
"Spies! These twain be spies, sent by the men of Kandahar. Slay them, ye men of the hills!"
The voice came from behind Shamil, and I thought that verily this was a prophet of true words. One instant's sight of our faces, and he had cried out at us. The hair prickled on my scalp, and I put my hand to my sword hilt.
It was the part of Mahabat Khan to act now; he was the leader, his the responsibility. I did not need to wait the space of quickly drawn breath to see what he meant to do. Before the light shone upon us, he had drawn his blade, and now he slashed at Shamil behind the lantern.
The watcher of the Veiled One caught the glimmer of steel descending and sprang back. Mahabat Khan was after him like a panther, and Shamil ran to the side of the cavern, the light swinging wildly. Eh, Shamil bleated like a sheep, and I ran in to corner him. Nay, I should have remained at the edge of the cavern!
Mahabat Khan whirled suddenly away, flinging over his shoulder a command to me to finish the redbeard. I heard his saber grate against steel, and then the dish-clash-clank of many blades striking together.
Shamil was like a rat, slipping this way and that, evading me. He drew and flung a knife that ripped through a fold of my headcloth, the guard scratching my ear. Darting past me, he ran out of the mouth of the cavern, close to the rock.