Veils of Silk(151)

One of the men went for a closer look. After looking in the havildar's face, he exclaimed, "Gulzar Khan!"

A babble of comments broke out, and the three Pathans lowered their jezzails. Thank heaven that Laura and the havildar were close enough to the man's home that he was recognized!

Her three captors, or whatever they were, had a brief discussion, then one said, "Kuram."

The others nodded, so the first man went loping off one way while the other two took the reins of the horses and began leading them through the hills. Laura was content to let them do as they wished.

After an hour's travel, they reached a compound that was much like Habibur's. There were a number of friendly women who clucked over Laura, touching her hair and petting her.

Unfortunately, no one spoke Urdu, and Laura couldn't understand more than a few words of Pashto even though the languages were closely related. It was frustrating, for she felt that comprehension was almost within reach.

Gulzar Khan was also clucked over, then whisked away for treatment. Based on the solicitude of the Pathans, if this wasn't his own home, it was surely owned by near relations. She was confident that he would be well cared for.

Though the pampering was pleasant, after Laura had eaten and napped for a couple of hours she began to feel restless. When she tried to convey that she wanted to leave, her hostesses made it clear that leaving was not an option. "Kuram," was repeated over and over again. She hoped that it was the name of an Urdu speaker who had been summoned.

She was almost right. Eventually one of the older women indicated with gestures that Laura was to follow her. They went into the courtyard, then left the compound, the woman covering her face before she stepped outside. "Kuram," she said, gesturing at a tall young Pathan with an intelligent face.

Eagerly Laura said, "Do you speak Urdu?"

He smiled and said in fluent English, "Yes, but wouldn't you prefer your own language?"

"Thank heaven!" she said fervently. "Are you a soldier of the Sirkar?"

"I once was, until a youthful indiscretion on my part," he said with a trace of wistfulness. "After that, I took salt with a mountain prince and went to England with him. I spent two years there." He gestured to a wooden bench set against the mud-brick wall. "Tell me what an Englishwoman is doing here. You are the amazement of all my kinfolk."

Hoping that Kuram's time in England meant that he had pro-British sympathies, she identified herself. Then she explained the situation, including the fact that she needed to go back through the Punjab to find British troops.

At the end, she said, "Will you help me? I'll need an escort and guide."

He considered. "My tribesmen will not be pleased to have British troops cross our lands. Yet even less will they want Afghans to use our territory for an invasion. The Afghans are our cousins, you know, which makes them much easier to hate."

He rose from the bench. "I will send word to my kin, suggesting they allow the British safe passage to the Shpola Pass. Most will agree that the British are the lesser evil, for they are more likely to leave."

After that, things happened quickly. Within half an hour, Laura and Kuram were riding toward the main Khyber Pass road. Now all she had to do was find an army.

* * *

Having found an army, Ian was now wishing that it would go away. The last hours had made him think of a Hindu prayer: Oh, Lord, from the venom of the cobra, the teeth of the tiger, and the vengeance of the Afghan, deliver us!

It was easy to see how the Afghans got their reputation. Why didn't these damned fearless idiots concede that they couldn't use the Shpola and leave? But they didn't. They tried rushing out, climbing up, down, and around the opposite cliff and gorge, anything they could think of to get at him.

His opponents had located his aerie. Occasionally one would pop out and take a quick shot, then try to dodge out of sight before he could retaliate. Sometimes they were successful. More often, Ian was.

One clever fellow tried a decoy, sticking out a turban wrapped around some other object to draw Ian's fire and waste his ammunition. Ian was fooled once. After that, he waited to see a torso before firing.

Still, no matter how sparing he was of ammunition, by the time dusk fell his supply was beginning to run low. With nightfall, activity on the other side ceased, but there were no sounds of withdrawal. He suspected that they were reluctant to retreat when they had already come most of the way through the Shpola. Turning back now and trying the Khyber would cost them days, and possibly be even more bloody.

He assumed they would slip out under cover of darkness, with a few of them climbing up to his aerie to put an end to him once and for all. But the night was clear and the moon bright enough to illuminate the track. After he had picked off several men who ventured out, they stopped trying.