The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan. Mitford Bertram
don’t you put out the light then, Miss Cheriton?”
“Because I’m more frightened still to be in the dark. Ah now – you’re laughing at me” – she broke off, in a pretty gesture of protest.
The stranger was contemplating her narrowly, without seeming to. Good specimen of her type was his decision, but these fair haired, blue-eyed girls, though pretty enough as pictures, have seldom any depth. Self conscious at every turn, though not aware of it, or, at any rate of showing that she was. Pretty? Oh, yes, no mistake about that – knows what suits her, too.
Whether this diagnosis was entirely accurate remains to be seen – that its latter part was, a glance at Nesta left no doubt. She was attired in white and light blue, which matched admirably her eyes and golden hair, and she looked wonderfully attractive. The suspicion of sunbrown which darkened her complexion had the effect of setting off the vivid whiteness of her even teeth when she smiled. And then her whole face would light up.
“What would you like to do this afternoon, old chap?” said Upward, as tiffin over, the bearer placed the cheroot box on the table. “Don’t feel up to going after chikór, I suppose?”
“Well, I don’t know. I think I do. But I left my shot gun down at Chotiali with my other things.”
“You’d much better sit still and keep yourself quiet for the rest of the day, Mr Campian,” warned Mrs Upward. “A nasty fall on the head isn’t a thing to be trifled with, especially in hot climates. I’ve seen too much of that sort of thing in my time.”
But the warning was overruled. Campian declared himself sufficiently recovered, provided there was no hard climbing to be done. Tiffin had set him up entirely.
“Do just as you like, old chap,” said Upward. “You can use my gun. I don’t care about chikór. They are the rottenest form of game bird I know. Won’t rise, for one thing.”
“Let’s all go,” suggested Lily. “We can keep behind. And we shall see how many misses Mr Campian makes,” she added, with her natural cheekiness.
“It’s hardly fair,” objected the proposed victim – “I, the only gunner, too – Why, all this ‘gallery’ is bound to get on my nerves.”
“Never mind – you can put it down to your fall, if you do miss a lot,” suggested Nesta.
“Well, we’d better start soon, and not go too far either, for I shouldn’t wonder if this evening turned out as bad as last,” said Upward, rising from table. “Khola – Call Bhallu Khan.”
The bearer replied that he was in front of the tent.
“So this is the man whose sharp hearing was the saving of my life?” said Campian, as the head forester extended his salaam to him – And he put out his hand.
The forester, a middle-aged Pathân of the Kakar tribe, was a fine specimen of his race. He looked picturesque enough in his white loose garments, his head crowned with the “Kulla,” or conical cap, round which was wound a snowy turban. He had eyes and teeth which a woman might have envied, and as he grasped the hand extended to him, the expression of his face was pleasing and attractive in the extreme.
“By Jove, Upward, this man is as different a type to the ruffians who came for me last night as the proverbial chalk and cheese simile,” remarked Campian, as they started for the shooting place. “They were hook-nosed scoundrels with long hair and the expression of the devil, whereas this chap looks as if he couldn’t hurt a fly. He has an awfully good face.”
“Oh, he has. Still, with Mohamedans you never can be absolutely certain. Any question of fanaticism or semi-religious war, and they’re all alike. We’ve had too many instances of that.”
“Oh, come now, Ernest. You mustn’t class good old Bhallu Khan with that sort of native,” struck in his wife. “If there was any sort of rising I believe he’d stand by us with his life.”
“I believe so too. Still, as I say, with Mohamedans you can never tell. Look, Campian, this is where we found you last night. Here’s where you were lying, and here’s where the water came up to during the night.”
Campian looked somewhat grave as he contemplated the jagged edge of sticks and straws which demarcated the water-line, and remembered that awful advancing wave bellowing down upon him.
“Yes – It was a near thing,” he said – “a very near thing.”
But a word from the forester dispelled all such weighty reflections, and that word was “Chikór!”
In and out among the grass and stones the birds were running —running. The more they were shouted at the more they ran. At last several of them rose. It was a long shot, but down came one.
This was repeated again and again. All the shots were long shots, and there were as many misses as birds. There were plenty of birds, but they persistently forebore to rise.
“Now you see why I’m not keen on chikór shooting, old chap,” said Upward, as after a couple of hours this sport was voted hardly worth while. And subsequently Bhallu Khan expressed the opinion to his master that the strange sahib did not seem much of a shikari. He might have made quite a heavy bag – there were the birds, right under his feet, but he would not shoot – he would wait for them to rise – and they invariably rose much too far off to fire at with any chance of bringing them down.
Chapter Four.
Incidental
“I’m afraid, Nesta, my child, that your soldier friends will have to alight somewhere else if they want any chikór,” pronounced Campian, subsiding upon a boulder to light his pipe. “We’ve railroaded them around this valley to such purpose that you can’t get within a couple of hundred yards. When are they due, by the way – the sodgers, not the chikór?”
“To-day, I think. They have been threatening for the last fortnight.”
“Threatening! Ingrate! Only think what a blessing their arrival will shed. You will hear all the latest ‘gup’ from Shâlalai, and have a couple of devoted poodles, all eagerness to frisk, and fetch and carry – wagging their tails for approving pats, and all that sort of thing. And you must be tired of this very quiet life, unrelieved save by a couple of old fogies like yours truly and Upward?”
“Ah, I’m tired of the ‘gup’ of Shâlalai. I’m not sure I’m not quite tired of soldiers.”
“That begins to look brisk for me, my dear girl, I being – bar Upward – nearly the only civilian in Baluchistan. The only flaw in this to me alluring vista now opened out is – how long will it last? First of all, sit down. There’s no fun in standing unnecessarily.”
She sat down on the boulder beside him, and began to play with the smoothness of the barrels of the gun, which leaned against the rock between them. It was early morning. These two had strolled off down the valley together directly after chota hazri– as they had taken to doing of late. A couple of brace of chikór lay on the ground at their feet, the smallness of the “bag” bearing out the accuracy of Campian’s prognostication as to the decadence of that form of sport. The sun, newly risen, was flooding the valley with a rush of golden ether; reddening the towering crags, touching, with a silver wand, the carpet of dewdrops in the valley bottom, and mist-hung spider webs which spanned the juniper boughs – while from many a slab-like cliff came the crowing of chikór, pretty, defiant in the safety of altitude – rejoicing in the newly-risen dawn.
Some fifty yards off, Bhallu Khan, having spread his chuddah on the ground, and put the shoes from off his feet – was devoutly performing the prescribed prostrations in the direction of the Holy City, repeating the while the aspirations and ascriptions wherewith the Faithful – good, bad and indifferent – are careful to hallow the opening of another day.
“You were asserting yourself tired of the garrison,” went on Campian. “Yes? And wherefore this – caprice, since but the other day you were sworn to the sabre?”
“Was I? Well perhaps I’ve changed my mind. I may do that, you know. But