The House of the Falcon/Chapter 30
CHAPTER XXX
THE PASSING OF THE CARAVAN
It was high midday when a tired American gentleman clad in a long black coat, riding breeches, and a flapping sombrero pushed his horse up the valleys toward the height where a mounted guide conducted him, followed by a string of impatient Garhwalis of whom only those with the best horses were able to keep near them.
Beside him Major Fraser-Carnie was unnaturally cheerful, keeping at the same time an eye upon a faint column of smoke that rose through the trees in front of them and inwardly cursing the reticence of the native guide who had joined them that morning and whose vocabulary, whether by linguistic limitations or personal inclination, was confined to the words:
"Dono-van Khan sent me," and "Missy khanum."
Even the optimism and doggedness of the worthy major that had enabled them to journey from Kashmir to Kashgar on Monsey's heels suffered when the guide disappeared as if by magic, swallowed up in the underbrush. He glanced back at the half dozen mounted riflemen in their green tunics who were lashing wearied beasts in the dread of being left behind the sahibs should the fighting—for which they had come expectantly half a thousand miles—be near at hand.
"Damn your ambuscades!" swore Arthur Rand. "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.
"So you had a hand in this, my young rascal!" he accused.
Donovan smiled, without taking his eyes from Edith and her father.
"Not as much as you might think, Major," he said. "Remember, you said at Gilghit I was heading into trouble in the Hills. Well, what are you doing here yourself with an armed force on native soil?"
Fraser-Carnie looked guilty and muttered something about old ties, and all that sort of thing. "Besides, you see, Captain Donovan, I couldn't let that blooming American—confoundedly game, you know—come up here on his own, of course. Dashed if I could. Wouldn't have been a sporting thing, what?"
"I see." Donovan's eyes twinkled, although he spoke gravely. "I fancy I overstayed the leave given me to go into the Hills. I had to make a bargain with the tribes, and keep it"
The major nodded gravely, "An agreement, eh? Why didn't you 'fess up, that night at my bungalow? Can I help a bit?"
"Thanks, no. It's ended to-day. I'm free to leave, with Miss Rand, provided we don't reveal certain pet secrets of the tribes"
Whereupon Edith tripped up to them to demand whether the British army had lunch sufficient for three men and, oh, such a hungry girl. (And to bear Donovan off to her father, while Fraser-Carnie hastened to order up his emergency rations and detail a man from the troopers' mess to cook.)
Before sitting down to the lunch spread on white cloths by the brook, nothing would content the major but an observation patrol sent in the direction of the still smoldering tower. When his men reported nothing at the Kurgan except the embers of fires and some camels feeding near by and scattered cartridge shells, the only signs of the recent fight, he was palpably downcast.
"My Garhwalis will never forgive me, quite. I promised them pukka fighting, and all we do, my dear chap, is to drop in on you for tiffin. You might at least tell us the whole story."
Donovan looked into Edith's eyes, over the camp fire.
"It might better keep," he said.
Fraser-Carnie surveyed a teacup. "Until the Viceroy hears it, of course. And that means we'll never have a whiff of it. Edith, my dear, you at least will enlighten us as to what happened here."
"M-mh," said Edith, a jelly spoon in her mouth. Flushed and happy and utterly worn out, she sat with her father's hand in hers. "Captain Donovan says I talk too much."
The major shook his head sadly.
"Rand," he observed, balancing a cigarette between two fingers, "do you realize we are snubbed? By our hosts, too. Deuced bad form, I call it. A cavalry officer—is it cavalry, Captain Donovan?—goes off hunting in the Himalayas after a confidential chat with the Viceroy of India, mind you. Just before war breaks. And the Central Asian tribes, that we fellows in India expected down on our backs momentarily, by some astounding miracle do not side against us. Then, after this same officer on his utterly foolish hunting trip, which, it seems, was with the Viceroy's consent, is mentioned for promotion he vanishes for a couple of years, to bob up with your daughter—and we are to ask no questions!"
Whereupon he emptied his cup with a sigh. Edith's drowsy eyes glowed and she glanced quickly, proudly at her father. Donovan aimed a covert kick at Fraser-Carnie which the major dodged. Only Arthur Rand remained grave.
"Edith, I haven't told you—we have lost all our money. I am bankrupt."
He was surprised to see how calmly he could say it and how little effect the announcement had on his daughter. Six months ago it would have broken his heart to confess as much. Here, with Edith restored to him and quite evidently in delighted possession of a tattered, unshaven officer, it seemed a thing of minor importance.
And to Edith herself six months ago the news would have been the collapse of the world about her ears and the loss of her birthright. Now, between mouthfuls of splendid biscuit, it was a meaningless detail of the world she had left long since.
"Yes, Edith," nodded Arthur Rand absently, "you must get away from this inhospitable place. The major will take you and Donovan back, I reckon. Donovan, I hear, has earned a rest on his own estates in England."
But his daughter was staring at Donovan uncomfortably.
"Estates?" She sat up accusingly. "Why—why, I thought you had no money, like me."
Donovan glared at Fraser-Carnie; then his brow cleared.
"I haven't, Edith. Because, of course, the family holdings should go to the wife of my brother."
"My dear chap!" the major observed. "But, of course, your uncle the curate"
Unperceived by Edith, Donovan's powerful hand closed upon the collar of the major's uniform and he ceased with a cough. The girl was still surveying him accusingly. "Are you certain," she demanded, "that you aren't the least rich?" He smiled, without releasing his grasp on his companion.
"Absolutely—as you can see, Edith."
"Quite so," amended the Major, adjusting his collar.
"Then, that's all right!" She nodded approvingly, and then recalled her father's speech. "Dad! Aren't you coming with us? You are not thinking of staying here?"
Arthur Rand's fine face hardened. "I reckon," he drawled, "I'll look for that cur, Monsey."
Upon the gathering of these four wanderers who had come to the world of the Hills each for sufficient reason, and just now happy at being united, advanced a smart Garhwali carrying a rifle. He stood at attention by Major Fraser-Carnie.
"Sahib, the camels come hither with riders."
They rose, and the major spoke a brief word to his men, seated at their meal some distance away. The troopers took up their arms instantly. In the silence that settled on the ravine Edith heard the clink-clank of rusty camel bells and the familiar pad-pad of soft feet. Through the trees she saw the moving shapes of clumsy beasts.
Donovan touched her arm, his eyes serious.
"Come, Edith." As he led her away from the brook, he observed quietly to Rand:
"Monsey has been found by—others."
The bells came nearer. Edith and Donovan were out of sight when a cloaked figure came down the ravine from the Kurgan, leading a long string of camels walking patiently in the wake of their conductor.
Seeing that only two men were seated on the beasts and they unarmed, the Garhwalis drew back. The two riders who were bound tightly between the humps of the camels, their heads bobbing with the walk of the animals, stared stolidly before them.
"Monsey!" said Rand under his breath.
"And Abbas," nodded Fraser-Carnie.
The rusty bells clanked; the beasts—indifferent as ever—passed majestically by the watchers. Monsey and Abbas swayed in their seats. When the last camel had passed, wending its way among the trees, Fraser-Carnie turned to his friend:
"That was Mahmoud, the Sayak. So my Garhwalis say. Rand, these legends of the Hills sometimes assume the form of rather ghastly reality. I'm glad Donovan took your daughter away."
Arthur Rand replaced the revolver he had drawn. "I know a dead man when I see one—or two, for that matter. Is it a kind of burial?"
"It is," observed the major thoughtfully, "the caravan of the dead. It will go from hill village to hill village. It is the custom of the Sayaks in dealing with their enemies. The tribes, of course, say it comes from nowhere and goes—nowhere. Strange, what?"
On a hillock among the aspens that concealed the brook and the passing of the caravan Edith had turned to Donovan, pausing in her walk.
"Was it Iskander with his camels?" she asked.
"The son of Tahir," he responded gravely, "is no more."
Edith made a little, sorrowing sound. Iskander had been her friend, and she had meant to thank him for many things. Now that was impossible. She stood on tiptoe, peering out over the trees, searching for something she could not see among the overhanging mountain slopes. Nothing was visible except the clear blue of the sky and the wandering, white clouds that seemed quite close at hand.
"What, dear?" he questioned gently.
"Our house," she lifted quiet eyes, in which lurked a hint of tears. "We shan't ever see it again, shall we?"
"Why, sweetheart," he took her face between hands that were not altogether steady, "did you—were you happy there?"
"Too happy to tell you, Donovan Khan—if you don't know."
And her eyes, bright under the tears, smiled up at him.
The aspens at the edge of the clearing parted and an ugly, scarred face looked out steadfastly upon the two who had eyes only for each other. A hand was lifted in yearning salutation. Then a shaggy, limping figure moved away from them through the trees toward the cleft in the hills that was Yakka Arik.
Aravang had said farewell to his master and his mistress.
THE END