Hawksworth saddled his own mare and watched as his cot and tent were rolled and strapped into the cart alongside his chest. He stared again into the darkness that enveloped the river. Nothing could be seen except the three torches on the distant shore. Suddenly he seemed to hear a warning bell in the back of his mind. We're too exposed. Half the guard will be in the river while we cross. And there'll be no way to group the carts if we need to. He paused a moment, then retrieved his sword from the cart and buckled it on. Next he checked the prime on the two matchlock pocket pistols he carried, one in each boot. Five mounted Rajputs holding torches led as the convoy started across the sandy alluvium toward the river. Hawksworth's cart was the first to move, and as he drew his mare alongside, Nayka threw him a grateful smile through the flickering light of the torch strapped against one of the cart's poles. "You've saved us all. Captain Sahib. When the river grows angry, nothing can appease her." The bullocks nosed warily at the water, but Nayka gave them the lash and they waded in without protest. The bed was gravel, smoothed by the long action of the stream, and the water was still shallow, allowing the large wheels of the carts to roll easily. Hawksworth pulled his mount close to the cart and let its enormous wheel splash coolness against his horse's flank. The current grew swifter as they reached the center of the stream, but the bullocks plodded along evenly, almost as though they were on dry ground. Then the current eased again, and Hawksworth noticed that the Rajputs riding ahead had already reined in their mounts, signifying they had gained the far shore. Their five torches merged with the three of the Rajputs already waiting, and together they lined the water's edge. Hawksworth twisted in the saddle and looked back at the line of carts. They traveled abreast in pairs, a torchman riding between, and the caravan had become an eerie procession of waving lights and shadows against the dark water. The last carts were in the river now, and Vasant Rao was riding rapidly toward him, carrying a torch. Looks like I was wrong again, Hawksworth thought, and he turned to rein his horse as it stumbled against a submerged rock. The torches along the shore were gone. He stared in disbelief for a moment, and then he saw them sputtering in the water's edge. Lightning flashed in the east, revealing the silhouettes of the Rajputs' mounts, stumbling along the shore, their saddles empty. He whirled to check the caravan behind him, and at that moment an arrow ricocheted off the pole of the cart and ripped cleanly through the side of his jerkin. He suddenly realized the torch lashed to the side of the cart illuminated him brilliantly, and he drew his sword and swung at its base, slicing it in half. As it fell, sputtering, he saw a second arrow catch Nayka squarely in the throat and he watched the driver spin and slump wordlessly into the water.