“And to-morrow I go back to my home,” said Jan Chinn to his faithful few, whom neither spirits, overeating, nor swollen glands could conquer. It is hard for children and savages to behave reverently at all times to the idols of their make-belief; and they had frolicked excessively with Jan Chinn. But the reference to his home cast a gloom on the people. “And the Sahib will not come again?” said he who had been vaccinated first. “That is to be seen,” answered Chinn, warily. “Nay, but come as a white man—come as a young man whom we know and love; for, as thou alone knowest, we are a weak people. If we again saw thy—thy horse—” They were picking up their courage. “I have no horse. I came on foot with Bukta, yonder. What is this?” “Thou knowest—the thing that thou hast chosen for a night-horse.” The little men squirmed in fear and awe. “Night-horses? Bukta, what is this last tale of children?” Bukta had been a silent leader in Chinn’s presence since the night of his desertion, and was grateful for a chance-flung question. “They know, Sahib,” he whispered. “It is the Clouded Tiger. That that comes from the place where thou didst once sleep. It is thy horse—as it has been these three generations.” “My horse! That was a dream of the Bhils.” “It is no dream. Do dreams leave the tracks of broad pugs on earth? Why make two faces before thy people? They know of the night-ridings, and they—and they—” “Are afraid, and would have them cease.” Bukta nodded. “If thou hast no further need of him. He is thy horse.” “The thing leaves a trail, then?” said Chinn. “We have seen it. It is like a village road under the tomb.” “Can ye find and follow it for me?” “By daylight—if one comes with us, and, above all, stands near by.” “I will stand close, and we will see to it that Jan Chinn does not ride any more.” The Bhils shouted the last words again and again. From Chinn’s point of view the stalk was nothing more than an ordinary one—down-hill, through split and crannied rocks, unsafe, perhaps, if a man did not keep his wits by him, but no worse than twenty others he had undertaken. Yet his men—they refused absolutely to beat, and would only trail—dripped sweat at every move. They showed the marks of enormous pugs that ran, always down-hill, to a few hundred feet below Jan Chinn’s tomb, and disappeared in a narrow-mouthed cave. It was an insolently open road, a domestic highway, beaten without thought of concealment. “The beggar might be paying rent and taxes,” Chinn muttered ere he asked whether his friend’s taste ran to cattle or man. “Cattle,” was the answer. “Two heifers a week. We drive them for him at the foot of the hill. It is his custom. If we did not, he might seek us.” “Blackmail and piracy,” said Chinn. “I can’t say I fancy going into the cave after him. What’s to be done?”