Rung Ho! A Novel, Talbot Mundy [free ebook reader for ipad .txt] 📗

and some one challenged through the dead-black night.

“How-ut! Hukkums—thar!”

A horseman appeared suddenly from nowhere, and examined them at close quarters instead of waiting for their answer. He peered curiously at Cunningham—glanced at Mahommed Gunga—then wheeled, spinning his horse as the dust eddies twist in the sudden hot-wind gusts.

“Sahib-bahadur hai!” he shouted, racing back.

The night was instantly alive with jingling movement, as line after line of quite invisible light-horse-men—self-disciplined and eager to obey—took up their dressing. The overhanging cliff of sandstone hid the moon, but here and there there was a gleam of eyeballs in the dark—now man's, now horse's—and a sheen that was the hint of steel held vertical. No human being could have guessed the length of the gorge nor the number of the men who waited in it, for the restless chargers stamped in inch-deep sand that deadened sound without seeming to lessen its quantity.

“Salaam, bahadur!”

It was Alwa, saluting with drawn sabre, reining back a pedigreed mare to get all the spectacular emotion out of the encounter that he could.

“Here are fifteen hundred eight and fifty, sahib—all Rangars—true believers—all true men—all pledged to see thee unsinged through the flames of hell! Do them the honor of a quick inspection, sahib!”

“Certainly!” smiled Cunningham.

“I have told them, sahib, that their homes, their women, their possessions, and their honor are all guaranteed them. Also pay. They make no other terms.”

“I guarantee them all of that,” said Cunningham, loud enough for at least the nearest ranks to hear.

“On thine own honor, sahib?”

“On my word of honor!”

“The promise is enough! Will you inspect them, sahib?”

“I'll take their salute first,” said Cunningham.

“Pardon, bahadur!”

Alwa filled his lungs and faced the unseen lines.

“Rangars!” he roared. “Your leader! To Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur—son of Pukka-Cunnigan whom we all knew—general—salute—present—sabres!”

There was sudden movement—the ring of whipped-out metal—a bird's wing-beat—as fifteen hundred hilts rose all together to as many lips—and a sharp intake of breath all down the line.

It wasn't bad. Not bad at all, thought Cunningham. It was not done as regulars would have worked it. There was the little matter of the lances, that he could make out dimly here and there, and he could detect even in that gloom that half of the men had been caught wondering how to salute with lance and sabre both. But that was not their fault; the effort—the respect behind the effort—the desire to act altogether—were all there and striving. He drew his own mare back a little, and returned their salute with full military dignity.

“Reeeecee—turn—sabres!” ordered Alwa, and that movement was accomplished better.

He rode once, slowly, down the long front rank, letting each man look him over—then back again along the rear rank, risking a kick or two, for there was little room between them and the cliff. He was not choking now. The soldier instinct, that is born in a man like statesmanship or poetry, but that never can be taught, had full command over all his other senses, and when he spurred out to the front again his voice rang loud and clear, like a trumpet through the night.

With fifty ground scouts scattered out ahead of them, they drummed out of the gorge and thundered by squadrons on the plain beyond—straight, as the jackal runs, for Howrah City. Alwa, leaving his own squadron, to canter at Cunningham's side, gave him all the new intelligence that mattered.

“Last evening I sent word on ahead to them of our coming, sahib! I sent one messenger to the Maharajah and one to Jaimihr, warning each that we ride to keep our plighted word. At the worst, we shall find both parties ready for us! We shall know before we reach the city who is our friend! News reached me, too, sahib, that the Maharajah and his brother have united against us—that Howrah will eat his promises and play me false. God send he does! I would like to have my hands in that Hindoo's treasure-chests! We none of us know yet, bahadur, what is this plan of thine—”

“You've been guessing awfully close to it, I think” laughed Cunningham.

“Aha! The treasure-chests, then! But—is there—have you information, sahib? Who knows, then—who has told where they are? Neither I nor my men know!”

“Send for Mahommed Gunga.”

Mahommed Gunga left his squadron, too, to canter beside Alwa.

“I am all ears, sahib!” he asserted, reining his horse until his stride was equal to the others.

“The key to the situation is that treasure,” asserted Cunningham. “Howrah wants it. Jaimihr wants it. The priests want it. I know that much for certain, from the McCleans. All right. We're a new factor in the problem, and they all mistrust us nearly as much, if not more, than they mistrust one another. Good. They'll be all of them watching that treasure. It'll be near where they are, and I'm going to snaffle it or break my neck—and all your necks—in the deuced desperate attempt. Is that clear? Where the carcass is, there wheel the kites and there the jackals fight, as your proverb says. The easiest part will be finding the treasure. Then—”

They legged in closer to him, hanging on his words and too busy listening to speak.

“If Howrah thinks we're after the treasure and decides to fight without previous argument, that absolves you from your promise, doesn't it, Alwa-sahib?”

“Surely, sahib, provided our intention is not to evade the promise.”

“Our intention is to prevent Howrah and his brother from fighting, to insure peace and protection on this whole countryside, and, if possible, to ride away with Jaimihr's army to the Company's aid.”

“Good, sahib.”

It seemed to occur to none of the three that fifteen hundred mounted men were somewhat few with which to accomplish such a marvel.

“If they are fighting already, we must interfere.”

“We are ready, bahadur. Fighting is our trade!”

“But, before all things, we must keep our eyes well skinned for a hint of treachery on Jaimihr's part. I would rather quarrel with that gentleman than be his friend, but he happens to hold our promise. We've got to keep our promise, provided he keeps his. I think our first objective is the treasure.”

“That, sahib, is an acrobat of a plan,” said Alwa; “much jumping from one proposition to another!”

“It is no plan at all,” said Cunningham. “It is a mere rehearsal of the circumstances. A plan is something quickly seized at the right second and then acted on—like your capture of Jaimihr. Wait awhile,