Argosy, Vol. 122, No. 1 — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE CARAVAN seemed unafraid. He thrust a handful of silver at me, saying to fling it to the beg- gars, since it was fitting that a dog should feed dogs. Whereupon I rose up and fol- lowed, after him, for. he had money. That was as many years ago as I have fingers on one hand. Since then I have served him, and we have gone from town to town, from hill village to hill village. Sometimes we rode for many nights, when there were these who pursued. ‘¢ Sometimes,” he continued thoughtfully, ‘“‘ we were the pursuers. At such times there came men out of the £o1-yui—the goat paths—who rode beside my master, and many times rifles spoke and men were slain. Dono-van Khan bore himself like one who hunted—in the hills. Yet he had no desire _ to slay beasts except to eat. And the rid- ers who came to him called him Khan. Always danger and strife flung their shad- ows across his path. Now, he has entered the shadow of death itself.” The surgeon pursed his lips reflectively, as if in an effort of memory. He realized that Jain Ali Beg was concealing much; likewise, that the Sart could not be made to tell what he wished to conceal. “ Donovan?” he remarked. “ That name seems somewhat familiar. So you think he is dead?” ‘“‘ Assuredly,” nodded Jain Ali Beg. “ Has he not turned the reins of his horse after the dead?” Rawul Singh stepped forward. “‘ Sahib,” he observed, ‘“‘ I have heard of caravans that bore the bodies of the dead. They journey to the shrines of the Mussul- man saints, for burial. Is not this such a one?” “Nay,” interposed the Sart scornfully. “© one-of-small-understanding, you speak of the burial caravans of the plains. This is another matter.” “Did you,” asked the surgeon, “see the caravan after your master departed?”’ Again came the flicker of apprehension into the tawny eyes of the servant of John Donovan. ‘“‘ Does the lightning, after strrking down a tree, remain to be seen?” : Fraser-Carnie shrugged. It was clear that nothing more was to be learned by OF THE DEAD. | a questioning the native. He suspected that Jain Ali Beg was perhaps not such a faith- ful servant as he claimed to be. As to Donovan, the surgeon had only the missing chord of memory that suggested he had once know a white man of that name in the hills—a powerful and shadowy figure. He glanced from the bungalow windew. The darkness outside was softened by a rush of snowflakes—the first, of the season. Already the ground was white. Occasional lanterns bobbed past; the windows of the station huts glowed warmly. Fraser-Carnie shivered, for it had grown steadily colder. On the Himalaya slopes above Gilghit, the world must be a frozen wildernéss ef white. He sent Rawul Singh for his storm-coat, and dismissed Jain Ali Beg, gathering up his papers into a port- folio. He could do nothing for Donovan. Even if the region around Issyuk Kul had been within the English lines, it would be a mat- ter of the utmost difficulty and danger to send a relief party north at that season. Reflecting in this manner, he was waiting for the return of his orderly when a cry re- sounded from-his doorstep. It was a sud- den, strident cry that dwindled to a moan. Fraser-Carnie started. Then, being a man of good nerves and accustomed to prompt action, he strode to the door and flung it open. “Do you know,” he repeated that eve- ning at the small mess of the station, “‘I would hardly have thought twice of the Mohammedan’s tale, if it had not been for the manner of his death. He was lying on my doorstep, knifed—poor beggar—by one who knew how to use a knife. I saw the man who did it, and the queer chap actually took the pains to explain it to me.” At this point the worthy surgeon paused, not without an eye to dramatic effect, and the officers looked up over their cigars. “It was a fellow taller than the usual run of hillmen. He wore a sheepskin coat, or rather cloak, a gray wool cap, and his features were neither pure Chinese, Kirghiz, nor Sart. He spoke very broken Turki—as calm as I am now. He said: ‘ This is the reward of a faithless servant.’ Then the murderer chap vanished into the darkness, cCOomiclbooks.com