King--of the Khyber Rifles: A Romance of AdventureMundy, Talbot
History
King--of the Khyber Rifles: A Romance of Adventure
Mundy, Talbot
British -- India -- Fiction; Historical fiction; India -- History -- Sepoy Rebellion, 1857-1858 -- Fiction; Love stories; War stories
“Who's 'Bull-with-a-beard'?” he wondered. “Nobody interfered with me
until I doctored his men. He's in opposition. That's a fair guess. Now,
who in thunder--by the fat lord Harry--can 'Bull-with-a-beard' be?
And why fighting in the Khyber so early as all this? And why does
'Bull-with-a-beard,' whoever he is, hang back?”
Chapter X
Are jackals a tiger's friends because they flatter him and eat
his leavings?
Choose, ye with stripes and proud whiskers, choose between friend
and enemy.--Native Proverb
They came and changed the guard two hours after dawn, to the
accompaniment of a lot of hawking and spitting, orders growled through
the mist, and the crash of rifle-butts grounding on the rock path. King
went to the cave entrance, to look the new man over; but because he was
in Khinjan, and Khinjan in the “Hills,” where indirectness is the key to
information, he stood for a while at gaze, listening to the thunder of
tumbling water and looking at the cliff-edge six feet away that was laid
like a knife in the ascending mist.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the new man was a
Mahsudi--no sweeter to look at and no less treacherous for the fact.
Also, that he had boils all over the back of his neck. He was not likely
to be better tempered because of that fact, either. But it is an ill
wind that blows no good to the Secret Service.
“There is an end to everything,” he remarked presently, addressing the
world at large, or as much as he could see of it through the cave mouth.
“A hill is so high, a pool so deep, a river so wide. How long, for
instance, must thy watch be?”
“What is that to thee?” the fellow growled.
“There is an end to pain!” said King, adjusting his horn-rimmed
spectacles. “I lanced a man's boils last night, and it hurt him, but he
must be well to-day.”
“Get in!” growled the guard. “She says it is sorcery! She says none are
to let thee touch them!”
Plainly, he was in no receptive mood; orders had been spat into his
hairy ear too recently.
“Get in!” he growled, lifting his rifle-butt as if to enforce the order.
“I can heal boils!” said King, retiring into the cave. Then, from a
safe distance down the passage, he added a word or two to sink in as the
hours went by.
“It is good to be able to bend the neck without pain and to rest easily
at night! It is good not to flinch at another's touch. Boils are bad!
Healing is easy and good!”
Then, since a quarrel was the very last thing he was looking for, he
retired into his own gloomy quarters at the rear, taking care to sit so
that he could see and overhear what passed at the entrance. Among other
things in the course of the day he noticed that the watch was changed
every four hours and that there were only three men in the guard, for
the same man was back again that evening.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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