Hawk of the Hills | Page 9

for a fire.
Willoughby sat down on a rock near a cleft in the wall, and began
tracing a likeness of Gordon in a small notebook, straining his eyes in
the last of the twilight. He had a knack in that line, and the habit had
proved valuable in the past, in the matter of uncovering disguises and
identifying wanted men.
He believed that his calm acceptance of obedience as a matter of course
had reduced the Pathans to a state of uncertainty, if not actual awe. As
long as they were uncertain, they would not attack him.

The men moved about the small camp, performing various duties.
Suleiman bent over the tiny fire, and on the other side of it a Pathan
was unpacking a bundle of food. Another tribesman approached the fire
from behind the Punjabi, bringing more wood.
Some instinct caused Willoughby to look up, just as the Pathan with the
arm load of wood came up behind Suleiman. The Punjabi had not heard
the man's approach; he did not look around. His first intimation that
there was any one behind him was when the tribesman drew a knife and
sank it between his shoulders.
It was done too quickly for Willoughby to shout a warning. He caught
the glint of the firelight on the blade as it was driven into Suleiman's
back. The Punjabi cried out and fell to his knees, and the man on the
other side of the fire snatched a flint-lock pistol from among his rags
and shot him through the body. Suleiman drew his revolver and fired
once, and the tribesman fell into the fire, shot through the head.
Suleiman slipped down in a pool of his own blood, and lay still.
It all happened while Willoughby was springing to his feet. He was
unarmed. He stood frozen for an instant, helpless. One of the men
picked up a rifle and fired at him point-blank. He heard the bullet
smash on a rock behind him. Stung out of his paralysis he turned and
sprang into the cleft of the wall. An instant later he was running as
fleetly down the narrow gap as his build would allow, his heels winged
by the wild howls of triumph behind him.
Willoughby would have cursed himself as he ran, could he have spared
the breath. The sudden attack had been brutish, blundering, without
plan or premeditation. The tribesman had unexpectedly found himself
behind Suleiman and had reacted to his natural instincts. Willoughby
realized that if he had had a revolver he could probably have defeated
the attack, at least upon his own life. He had never needed one before;
had always believed diplomacy a better weapon than a firearm. But
twice today diplomacy had failed miserably. All the faults and
weaknesses of his system seemed to be coming to light at once. He had
made a pretty hash of this business from the start.

But he had an idea that he would soon be beyond self-censure or
official blame. Those bloodthirsty yells, drawing nearer behind him,
assured him of that.
Suddenly Willoughby was afraid, horribly afraid. His tongue seemed
frozen to his palate and a clammy sweat beaded his skin. He ran on
down the dark defile like a man running in a nightmare, his ears
straining for the expected sound of sandaled feet pattering behind him,
the skin between his shoulders crawling in expectation of a plunging
knife. It was dark. He caromed into boulders, tripped over loose stones,
tearing the skin of his hands on the shale.
Abruptly he was out of the defile, and a knife-edge ridge loomed ahead
of him like the steep roof of a house, black against the blue-black
star-dotted sky. He struggled up it, his breath coming in racking gasps.
He knew they were close behind him, although he could see nothing in
the dark.
But keen eyes saw his dim bulk outlined against the stars when he
crawled over the crest. Tongues of red flame licked in the darkness
below him; reports banged flatly against the rocky walls. Frantically he
hauled himself over and rolled down the slope on the other side. But
not all the way. Almost immediately he brought up against something
hard yet yielding. Vaguely, half blind from sweat and exhaustion, he
saw a figure looming over him, some object lifted in menace outlined
against the stars. He threw up an arm but it did not check the swinging
rifle stock. Fire burst in glittering sparks about him, and he did not hear
the crackling of the rifles that ran along the crest of the ridge.

III
IT WAS THE smashing reverberation of gunfire, reechoing between
narrow walls, which first impressed itself on Willoughby's sluggish
reviving consciousness. Then he was aware of his throbbing head.