The Passing of the Caravan
"My girl is up there on the hill where we saw the fire last night."
He rode very well, this lean American father with the white hair and the slow drawl. He spurred on into a green ravine and the English major, armed only with a valued riding crop, followed, in absolute defiance of all rules of tactics for a small mounted patrol in hostile country.
"Damned if I'll let you lead," he responded irritably.
So the two came bridle to bridle to the bed of a small brook and simultaneously reined in their mounts at sight of Donovan and Edith cooking lunch very carefully over a tiny camp fire, while Aravang stretched his sheepskin-clad body beside them. One by one, the best mounted troopers—all volunteers picked from a native regiment—trotted up with carbines in hand and eyes alert for the treachery which long experience taught them was apt to follow close upon the heels of foolhardy sahibs who rode, with no regard for the danger of mountain muskets.
These veteran border warriors—and to tell the truth, their leader also—were astonished to see a tall mem-sahib with hair much like spun gold and eyes that gleamed like jewels from a smoke-stained face rise and fly toward the horse of the American who had led them from Kashgar.
"Daddy!"
"My girl!"
Arthur Rand swung from his saddle with an ease beyond his years and took Edith into his arms. Major Fraser-Carnie said "My word!" and coughed. Then he brought his horse up, to interview the tall man in very soiled flannels who waited beside the fire.
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