Hawk of the Hills | Page 8

so
savagely desire the success of his emissary? The Orakzai had been
getting the worst of the war, but they were not whipped, by any means.
Was there, after all, something behind the visible surface--some
deep-laid obscure element or plot that involved Willoughby's mission?
Was there truth in Gordon's accusations of foreign entanglements and
veiled motives?
Babar took three steps forward, and his beard quivered with his
eagerness.
"Well?" His voice was harsh as the rasp of a sword against its scabbard.
"Will the dog make peace?"
Willoughby shook his head. "He swears the feud will end only when he
has slain Afdal Khan."
"Thou hast failed!"
The passion in Baber's voice startled Willoughby. For an instant he
thought the chief would draw his long knife and leap upon him. Then
Baber Ali deliberately turned his back on the Englishman and strode to
his horse. Freeing it with a savage jerk he swung into the saddle and
galloped away without a backward glance. And he did not take the trail
Willoughby must follow on his return to Fort Ghazrael; he rode north,
in the direction of Khoruk. The implication was unmistakable; he was
abandoning Willoughby to his own resources, repudiating all

responsibility for him.
Suleiman bent his head as he fumbled at his mount's girths, to hide the
tinge of gray that crept under his brown skin. Willoughby turned from
staring after the departing chief, to see the eyes of the four tribesmen
fixed unwinkingly upon him--hard, murky eyes from under shocks of
tangled hair.
He felt a slight chill crawl down his spine. These men were savages,
hardly above the mental level of wild beasts. They would act
unthinkingly, blindly following the instincts implanted in them and
their kind throughout long centuries of merciless Himalayan existence.
Their instincts were to murder and plunder all men not of their own
clan. He was an alien. The protection spread over him and his
companion by their chief had been removed.
By turning his back and riding away as he had, Baber Ali had tacitly
given permission for the feringhi to be slain. Baber Ali was himself far
more of a savage than was Afdal Khan; he was governed by his
untamed emotions, and prone to do childish and horrible things in
moments of passion. Infuriated by Willoughby's failure to bring about a
truce, it was characteristic of him to vent his rage and disappointment
on the Englishman.
Willoughby calmly reviewed the situation in the time he took to gather
up his reins. He could never get back to Ghazrael without an escort. If
he and Suleiman tried to ride away from these ruffians, they would
undoubtedly be shot in the back. There was nothing else to do but try
and bluff it out. They had been given their orders to escort him to the
Gorge of the Minaret and back again to Fort Ghazrael. Those orders
had not been revoked in actual words. The tribesmen might hesitate to
act on their own initiative, without positive orders.
He glanced at the low-hanging sun, nudged his horse.
"Let's be on our way. We have far to ride."
He pushed straight at the cluster of men who divided sullenly to let him

through. Suleiman followed him. Neither looked to right nor left, nor
showed by any sign that they expected the men to do other than follow
them. Silently the Pathans swung upon their horses and trailed after
them, rifle butts resting on thighs, muzzles pointing upward.
Willoughby slouched in his saddle, jogging easily along. He did not
look back, but he felt four pairs of beady eyes fixed on his broad back
in sullen indecision. His matter-of-fact manner baffled them, exerted a
certain dominance over their slow minds. But he knew that if either he
or Suleiman showed the slightest sign of fear or doubt, they would be
shot down instantly. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth,
whimsically feeling as if he were riding along the edge of a volcano
which might erupt at any instant.
They pushed eastward, following trails that wandered down into
valleys and up over rugged slants. The sun dipped behind a
thousand-foot ridge and the valleys were filled with purple shadows.
They reached the spot where, as they passed it earlier in the day, Baber
Ali had indicated that they would camp that night.
There was a well there. The Pathans drew rein without orders from
Willoughby. He would rather have pushed on, but to argue would have
roused suspicions of fear on his part.
The well stood near a cliff, on a broad shelf flanked by steep slopes and
ravine-cut walls. The horses were unsaddled, and Suleiman spread
Willoughby's blanket rolls at the foot of the wall. The Pathans, stealthy
and silent as wild things, began gathering dead tamarisk