Winds of the World

Winds of the World

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Winds of the World, by Talbot
Mundy #8 in our series by Talbot Mundy
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how
the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since
1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of
Volunteers!*****
Title: Winds of the World
Author: Talbot Mundy
Release Date: October, 2004 [EBook #6751] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on January 23,
2003]
Edition: 10

Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINDS OF
THE WORLD ***

Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THE WINDS OF THE WORLD
By TALBOT MUNDY

THE WINDS OF THE WORLD
Ever the Winds of the World fare forth (Oh, listen ye! Ah, listen ye!),
East and West, and South and North, Shuttles weaving back and forth
Amid the warp! (Oh, listen ye!) Can sightless touch--can vision keen
Hunt where the Winds of the World have been And searching, learn
what rumors mean? (Nay, ye who are wise! Nay, listen ye!) When
tracks are crossed and scent is stale, 'Tis fools who shout--the fast who
fail! But wise men harken-Listen ye!
YASMINI'S SONG.

CHAPTER I
A watery July sun was hurrying toward a Punjab sky-line, as if weary
of squandering his strength on men who did not mind, and resentful of
the unexplainable--a rainy-weather field-day. The cold steel and khaki
of native Indian cavalry at attention gleamed motionless between
British infantry and two batteries of horse artillery. The only noticeable
sound was the voice of a general officer, that rose and fell explaining
and asserting pride in his command, but saying nothing as to the why of
exercises in the mud. Nor did he mention why the censorship was in
full force. He did not say a word of Germany, or Belgium.

In front of the third squadron from the right, Risaldar-Major Ranjoor
Singh sat his charger like a big bronze statue. He would have stooped
to see his right spur bettor, that shone in spite of mud, for though he has
been a man these five-and-twenty years, Ranjoor Singh has neither lost
his boyhood love of such things, nor intends to; he has been accused of
wearing solid silver spurs in bed. But it hurt him to bend much, after a
day's hard exercise on a horse such as he rode.
Once--in a rock-strewn gully where the whistling Himalayan wind was
Acting Antiseptic-of-the-Day--a young surgeon had taken hurried
stitches over Ranjoor Singh's ribs without probing deep enough for an
Afghan bullet; that bullet burned after a long day in the saddle. And
Bagh was--as the big brute's name implied--a tiger of a horse,
unweakened even by monsoon weather, and his habit was to spring
with terrific suddenness when his rider moved on him.
So Ranjoor Singh sat still. He was willing to eat agony at any time for
the squadron's sake--for a squadron of Outram's Own is a unity to
marvel at, or envy; and its leader a man to be forgiven spurs a half-inch
longer than the regulation. As a soldier, however, he was careful of
himself when occasion offered.
Sikh-soldier-wise, he preferred Bagh to all other horses in the world,
because it had needed persuasion, much stroking of a black beard--to
hide anxiety--and many a secret night-ride--to sweat the brute's
savagery--before the colonel-sahib could be made to see his virtues as a
charger and accept him into the regiment. Sikh-wise, he loved all things
that expressed in any way his own unconquerable fire. Most of all,
however, he loved the squadron; there was no woman, nor anything
between him and D Squadron; but Bagh came next.
Spurs were not needed when the general ceased speaking, and the
British colonel of Outram's Own shouted an order. Bagh, brute energy
beneath hand-polished hair and plastered dirt, sprang like a loosed
Hell-tantrum, and his rider's lips drew tight over clenched teeth as he
mastered self, agony and horse in one man's effort.