“Shorten those stirrups, then, six holes at the least! Men will laugh at me if I ride like a British arrficer!” “Aye!” said Ismail, hurrying to obey. “Aye! Aye! Aye!” agreed the others. “Now,” he said, gathering the reins and swinging into the saddle, “who knows the way to Khinjan?” “Which of us does not!” “Ye all know it? Then ye all are border thieves and worse! No honest man knows that road! Lead on, Darya Khan, thou Lord of Rivers! Do thy duty as badragga and beware lest we get our knees wet at the fords! Ismail, you march next. Now I. You other two and the mule follow me. Let the man with the belly ache ride last on the other horse. So! Forward march!” So Darya Khan led the way with his rifle, and King's face glowed in cigarette light not very far behind him as he legged his horse up the narrow track that led northward out of the Khyber bed. It would be a long time before he would dare smoke a cigar again, and his supply of cigarettes was destined to dwindle down to nothing before that day. But he did not seem to mind. “Cheloh!” he called. “Forward, men of the mountains! Kuch dar nahin hai!” “Thy mother and the spirit of a fight were one!” swore Ismail just in front of him, stepping out like a boy going to a picnic. “She will love thee! Allah! She will love thee! Allah! Allah!” The thought seemed to appal him. For hours after that he climbed ahead in silence. Chapter VIII Dear is the swagger that takes a man in Helmeted, clattering, proud. Sweet are the honors the arrogant win, Hot from the breath of a crowd. Precious the spirit that never will bend-- Hot challenge for insolent stare! But--talk when you've tried it!--to win in the end, Go ahsti!* Be meek! And beware! [* Slowly.] Even with the man with the stomach ache mounted on the spare horse for the sake of extra speed (and he was not suffering one-fifth so much as he pretended); with Ismail to urge, and King to coax, and the fear of mountain death on every side of them, they were the part of a night and a day and a night and a part of another day in reaching Khinjan. Darya Khan, with the rifle held in both hands, led the way swiftly, but warily; and the last man's eyes looked ever backward, for many a sneaking enemy might have seen them and have judged a stern chase worth while. In the “Hills” the hunter has all the best of it, and the hunted needs must run. The accepted rule is to stalk one's enemy relentlessly and get him first. King happened to be hunting, although not for human life, and he felt bold, but the men with him dreaded each upstanding crag, that might conceal a rifleman. Armed men behind corners mean only one thing in the “Hills.”