In the dust of the crossroads are marks of many feet. Some have come from the desert to the well; some have passed through the jungle—and they are weary. Some there are that have passed under the spur of fear and others follow after these.

He who is keen of eye will read the tale that is written in the

dust of the crossroad. He who is dull and heavy with sleep—he

sees the mark of a snake in the sand and thinks it a trailing rope. But a snake has crossed the road.

Beside the road, in the jungle, a grave is dug for the one who is blind of eye, and dull.

This is the tale of the crossroad, and it is true.

Jhond, the money-carrier, walked slowly, aiding his tired feet with his staff. Behind him plodded a mule weighted with heavy saddlebags. The shadows were lengthening across the shimmering heat of the highway. And the mule lagged on its halter, sensing the approach of evening and a halt under the cypress trees that lined a nearby water course.

This was on the road that entered the Ghar Pass, at the head-waters of the Jumna River in Pawundur province. In the accounts of the great vizier, master of the treasury of Jahangir, Mogul of Hindustan, the Pawundur province was written down as the most northeastern of Hindustan proper, and was noted as lawless. All this being in the year of our Lord 1609.

Obedient perhaps to the mute urging of his mule, Jhond turned into the cypress nullah, followed by his dog, a nondescript of brown skin and visible bones, a byproduct of the Delhi bazaar and a beneficiary of the kindliness of aged Jhond, who was scarcely less beggarly or less sharp and furtive of eye.

Those who were walking beside the money-carrier guided him down the nullah away from the road to a cleared space. They were chance wayfarers, not guards, for the men of Jhond’s profession traveled alone. Their pride of caste rendered large sums safe in their keeping and their poor garb made them safe from ordinary thieves.

Jhond was tired for he had made a long stage on an important mission. He was glad that the Muslim merchants—they were four—who had caught up with him at the entrance of the Ghar knew the way. One who had gone ahead awaited their coming in the glade beside a ditch, wherein two coolies sat.

Two of the merchants led him to a brook. He was thirsty. The fourth had lingered behind to see that no thieves had marked their passage from the main road. The dog whined.

“Drink,” said one. “Here is the place.”

“Aye,” said Jhond and knelt.

A strip of cloth passed over his eyes and tightened around his neck. One of the men at his side gripped both his arms. While Jhond was held thus, the noose closed until he could no longer breathe. The dog ran about in little circles, whining and barking at the men.

When there was no longer any life in Jhond, his body was mutilated by kicks in the vital parts and cast into the ditch. The two filled in the ditch with fresh earth. This done, a fire was lighted on the grave so that the upturned earth should be concealed.

Not until then did the watch return from the high road with the word that they had not been seen. The six men went to the mule and ransacked the heavy leather sacks. They had, before this, searched the grimy clothing of the money-carrier and found nothing.

Nor was there gold or silver in the sacks; nothing but meal and a few pieces of cloth. Jhond, the money-carrier, had not had anything of value about him; nothing except the mule. This was strange.

But fate also was strange. And the men who had slain him were accustomed to the vagaries of fate. Besides, they had the mule. And they would have slain for less.

An owl hooted in the gathering darkness. Whereupon the men chattered anxiously together. Again came the cry of the owl. This time they took up their belongings, loaded them upon the animal and departed. They were heedful of omens.

But before they went they killed the dog by a blow on the skull with a stick. Otherwise the mourning beast might have dug into the grave or attracted other men to the spot.

So when they had gone there was nothing upon the spot where Jhond had planned to camp for the night: nothing, that is, except the dead dog and the embers of the fire, which soon went out.

Which was—all of it—as the six men dressed as merchants had planned.

“And after Jhond,” explained the elegant Nazir u’din Mustafa Mirza, “was sent one named Chutter.”

Mustafa Mirza—a tall man with narrow eyes and a thin beard, surnamed “the Moghuli”—leaned back upon the carpet which was spread on the balcony, halfway down into the well. The well was in the outer court of the Pawundur palace and it provided a grateful shade for those who wished to escape the heat that beat into the sun-dried clay of the courtyard.

“Chutter,” he said, “was a trusted servant of my master. Alas! Few may be trusted in this land of dust and wind and thorns and tangled ferns. But my master, the ameer, trusted Chutter.”

He inserted a portion of betel nut in his crimson-stained mouth and yawned, expelling thereafter the wind from his stomach after the manner of a beast. For Mustafa Mirza was sure of the interest of his two listeners. He had a rare tale to tell and it concerned them.

Idly he fingered the turquoise chain at his scrawny throat and gazed attentively into the tiny mirror upon a ring which ornamented a none-too-clean thumb. He was weaponless, yet his tu-

nic was rich with spoil, taken after the manner of the conquering Muslims from the Hindu merchants and their women.

“It was perhaps two moons ago during the festival of Miriam that Chutter was sent to the pass of Ghar, to the tower of Ghar,” he resumed. “And no trace—not so much as a sandal or the skin of his mule—had we found of the money-carrier Jhond. It was said that the half-eaten body of his dog was seen in a nullah where an owl feasted. Ho! Yet where the dog was Jhond was not. He may have camped there. Some ashes were seen. I know not.”

“What of Chutter?” asked one of the listeners.

“Aye, Chutter. A slave. A dog of many fathers. He was mounted on a good horse. A pity, that; for the horse also was lost. He rode from here toward Ghar. An armed trooper followed him. That was at my bidding. Although my master, the ameer—may his shadow be long on the land of Pawundur—trusted Chutter, yet I trusted not the child of a Gentu, or Hindu.”

He chewed at the betel and spat, after picking his teeth.

“Nevertheless it availed not. After sunset one day the trooper thought he heard a scream, choked off in the middle—thus.” Mustafa Mirza snarled shrilly, then coughed gutturally. “The rider put spurs to his horse, for Chutter, the Gentu dog, was a bare double bowshot ahead. He saw lying upon the road a man clothed like a merchant of Samarkand. The man was writhing in a fit and foam was on his lips. So the trooper dismounted.

“The sick man, however, was not Chutter. And when the trooper reined forward again there was naught to be seen on the road save many footprints in the dirt. There was a deep pool near at hand. The man saw some shadows moving in the brush nearby and stayed not to look twice. He had a fear—a heavy fear.”

The two listeners looked at each other and the Moghuli eyed them with satisfaction. His tale was worth hearing.

“The trooper swore,” he went on, “that it was the voice of Chutter that cried out. He asked that the bottom of the pool be dragged and the body of Chutter found, to bear out his tale. But why should the ameer pay coolies to search for the body of a

slave such as Chutter? Doubtless, he had died—after the manner described by the trooper. The man who lay in the road in a fit had been a trick. After the soul of Chutter had gone to join his fathers, whoever they be, it was hard to get a rider to seek Ghar on the mission. All said that death lay in wait under the cypress trees of the pass.”

“Why did not you go, Mustafa Mirza?” asked one of his companions.

“I?” The Muslim stared and shrugged his shoulders. “Allah! This is a good land, full of jewels and slim women. I prefer them to the houris of paradise. Besides, my master, the liberal and gracious ameer, asked it not. Instead he purchased with gold mohars the services of one Jhat—a Sikh who was fresh come from Peshawar, a cousin by marriage of Chutter. The Sikh, who bore himself like a warrior, said that he had no fear. He swore that no evil demons or wayside thieves would keep him from gaining Ghar Tower on the mission.

“Jhat Singh traveled by night only. During the day he slept. He thus went far up the Ghar Pass, along the river Jumna. For a time we thought that he had reached the tower, and my master and I were glad. Yet his fate was otherwise. We learned it from a fisherman of the upper Jumna.

“This man was lying in his boat, having spread his nets. The sun was very hot and he was half-asleep when he saw Jhat Singh— he described the clothing and weapons of the Sikh and we knew it was the truth—he saw Jhat Singh pass along the trail by the river where the men walk who pull the ropes of the boats, going upstream. With the warrior were about a dozen other men who the fishermen said were boatmen. Yet they had no boat.”

Mustafa Mirza nodded, pleased with his own acumen. “The Sikh was a fool, or overbold—perchance both. At this place, so said the man, the trail entered a thicket. He saw Jhat Singh and the others go into the thicket. One remained behind, looking at the fisherman who rowed over, hoping to sell some of his catch. The man on the bank bought some fish.

“ ‘Perhaps,’ said the fisher, ‘if I go into the thicket after the others, they also will buy.’

“He was eager because a good price had been paid. The other man smiled. ‘If they buy,’ he said, ‘another than you will spend the money.’ Whereupon the fisherman rowed away after he had looked attentively upon the watcher. When he glanced back over his shoulder the man had gone.”

“Why,” asked one of the men who sat beside the mirza, “did this fellow row away?”

Mustafa Mirza smiled, baring his red tooth.

“Ai—he was wise. He recognized the watcher as one of a band of slayers. As he had thought, the party emerged from the farther side of the thicket, but Jhat Singh was not with them. The fisherman waited until near twilight. Then he crept into the thicket. He searched some time before he came upon the body of the Sikh. There was no mark or wound upon it. But it had been stripped of its weapons. Then the fisherman ran away hastily, for that was an evil place.”

“He was a coward!” said the questioner gruffly.

“Nay,” objected Mustafa Mirza, “he was wise. He had fished long in the waters of the Jumna and knew that there were those who slay men for spoil, so skilled that none ever see the manner of the slaying. He named them by some strange word, such as tag. I remember not. But the breath of Jhat Singh was no longer in his body, and a new man was needed for the mission of my master.”

Yawning, the officer of the ameer lay back on the cushions and surveyed his two companions. There was curiosity in the glance of his quick, dark eyes—curiosity and cold appraisal.

“Thus, as I have said,” he concluded, “the three who were sent on the mission to the tower of Ghar died. The generous ameer has offered you much gold to follow after them.” Mustafa Mirza corrected himself hastily. “To go into Ghar Pass, I mean. For we

desire not your death. Rather must the mission succeed. For it is time my master should have that which is in Ghar.”

He offered his betel to the others, who refused.

“They died,” nodded the mirza. “It was their fate—dogs of Gentus. But you, Abdul Dost, are a follower of the Prophet and a noted swordsman. And you, Khlit, surnamed the Curved Saber, are one who has grown gray in the path of battles.”

Leaning forward, he placed a hand on the knee of each. Khlit, wise in the ways of men, had no doubt of his earnestness.

“I have a thought,” said Mustafa Mirza. “You twain may win to Ghar. For Khlit is a Ferang* and the slayers of the pass seldom lift hand against a Ferang.”

Khlit looked up from under shaggy brows. He did not like others to touch him. “The ameer pays well,” he grunted. “What manner of men are these slayers?”

“Who knows?” Mustafa Mirza stretched forth both hands, palms up. “My master and I have heard but a word here, a whisper there. Bands of the slayers go throughout Pawundur province; aye, and Hindustan. By no mark are they known. Often they have the appearance of merchants. It is not well to ask too closely. They are powerful.”

“You have a fear of them in your heart,” grumbled Khlit. “Does the governor of Pawundur, this ameer, allow murderers to walk the roads of his province?”

The other shook his head helplessly.

“By the beard of my grandsire! How can we do otherwise? The Mogul asks only that the tribute gleaned from Pawundur be given promptly to his vizier. And the slayers have harmed none of our household. Yet they have girded Ghar about like waiting snakes. Perhaps they have a smell of what is within the tower.”

Abdul Dost swore impatiently.

“Bismillah! Give us spare horses and we will ride through the nest of scorpions like wind through the jungle!”

“Horses!” The mirza, sighed, then assented eagerly. “Aye, you shall have two—the best. Think you, then, you will go to Ghar?”

Khlit made a warning sign to Abdul Dost who was ever impatient of precautions. Not so the Cossack. He had lived too long and seen too many men die at his side to be reckless of safeguards.

“Is there not another way to Ghar?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Nay—from here. The tower is at the summit of the pass. Hills, and below them blind forest mesh and swamps, make the Jumna trail the only road. It would be the ride of a month to gain the other side—the East. And there the paths are ill. You must go and return within the month. Has not my master promised as much gold as you can hold in two hands?”

“Aye,” said Khlit dryly. “Have you seen these slayers?”

“Not I. It is said they live in the villages, like the usual Gentu farmers and drivers of bullock carts. Only when they wander in bands do they slay. Perhaps they are magicians, for they are never seen to slay nor is blood-guilt ever fastened upon them. It is said they have a strange god. I know not. I have spoken thus fully, for it is my wish that you return unharmed. Will you accept the mission?”

“We will talk together,” said Khlit, “and in the morning we will come to the ameer with our answer.”

“So be it,” assented Mustafa Mirza. “Perchance, if your decision is as I expect, my master, who is the soul of generosity, will give the two good horses in addition to the gold.”

With that Khlit and Abdul Dost rose and left the shadow of the well. They went to their tent, pitched in a corner of the village caravansary—an open space within a tumble-down wall by the high road, littered with dust and the droppings of beasts who had been there with former caravans. While Khlit boiled rice over his fire in silence and set out the melons and grapes they had purchased with their last silver in the bazaar, Abdul Dost talked.

“What are these slayers,” he questioned idly, “but some bands of coolies? Aie—would they attack two riders such as you and I? We who have earned a name for our swords in Kukushetra?”

The two wanderers had aided the young Rawul of Thaneswar, nearby, and the fame of their exploit had preceded them—reaching, probably, the ears of the ameer, and arousing his interest in them as warriors useful for his own ends.

“The ameer promises reward to the value of a half dozen fine horses, and you and I have not a dinar in our girdles to buy a new saddle or a bracelet.”

“Promises cost little to the speaker.”

“Aye, but the need of the ameer is great.”

This was true, as Khlit knew. Within a month the vizier would come from the court at Delhi for the annual payment of the tax of Rawundur—of the jagir sold to Ameer Taleb Khan.

It was customary in the empire for the Mogul to lease the various provinces to his officials, who would pay him a settled price for the privilege of squeezing all possible tribute from the people of the district—the Hindu farmers, priests and landholders.

The ameer had already begged off his first year’s payment, on plea that Rawundur was rebellious. He had actually been engaged in putting down the gathering of certain hill clans. During his efforts he had deposited the accumulation of his treasury in a safe spot.

This had been the tower of Ghar, where a watchman had been posted. Khlit wondered why one man should be entrusted with so much wealth—pearls, diamonds, Venetian ducats, with various assortments of gold and silver trinkets.

The treasure, explained the ameer, was safe for two reasons. No one outside Mustafa Mirza and the watchman knew of its location in the tower. And the watchman was well able to protect his charge. Taleb Khan had smiled across the whole of his broad, good-natured face when he said this.

But now the disaffection was put down and the vizier was coming. Taleb Khan had no valid excuse to refuse payment of his two years’ tax this time. He had gleaned much wealth by crushing the district. He must pay the tax or satisfy the vizier. So

he dispatched three trusted men to Ghar Tower, bearing missives written by him and signed with his signet. All three had been slain.

This was unfortunate. Although he did not admit as much, Khlit gathered that the ameer was afraid to go himself, and the mirza likewise.

He dared not send a party of soldiers, so great was the wealth of the treasury. He had, he said, heard of Khlit and Abdul Dost. Sufficiently he trusted them to send them on the mission. They would be rewarded well.

The slayers, he thought, would not molest a Ferang. Nor did they ever rob where they did not first slay their victim.

Somewhat Khlit wondered at this. Who were these bands that went unarmed? How was it they had killed unmolested? How had Jhond, the carrier of money, been spirited off the face of the Earth? Or Jhat Singh slain without leaving a trace upon his body? Khlit had reason to know that the Sikhs were excellent fighters and well able to take care of themselves.

“Why,” he observed to Abdul Dost, “will this ameer entrust us with the carrying of his treasure?”

The Muslim was partaking of the rice and bread cakes. He had a ready answer, although it came from a full mouth.

“Why does a dog trust a man with his bone when the dog is chained? Our worthy ameer has no other staff to lean upon. The chains that bind him are fear—of the slaying bands and the coming of the vizier. He has no other riders to send save you and I.”

He swallowed the rice and muttered a brief phrase of thanks-giving to Allah. Abdul Dost was a devout man, of the finer type of Muslim.

“Likewise,” he reasoned shrewdly, “the ameer knows to a grain the sum of his treasure. He will satisfy himself that we render it in full. If we chanced to flee—and I would not scorn to take his wealth from yonder stout official—his outposts in the district would catch up with us.”

Khlit looked up curiously. The speech of Abdul Dost had struck deeper than the Afghan knew.

“Why barter further?” grumbled Abdul Dost. “The ameer needs his gold, and we also have need of the reward. Have you a fear of the thieves?”

Khlit grunted. The Muslim was well aware of the Cossack’s bravery. But Khlit was in the habit of pondering a venture well. He, contrary to Abdul Dost, was in a strange country. His sagacity had kept him alive and had served his companion well.

“What think you, mansabdar?” he asked, wiping his hands on his sheepskin coat. Khlit would not abandon his heavy attire for the lighter garb of the country.

“With two good horses, and a remount each, you and I will ride to Ghar. Eh—if the low-born thieves come against us on the way, we will swing our scimitars and their blood will moisten the dust. But Taleb Khan must pay us the price of ten Kabul stallions for this deed.”

Khlit did not answer at once. He was wondering what the tower of Ghar would be like. Why had the wealthy ameer selected it as a treasure house? He rose and went into the tent, stretching his tall bulk on the cotton cloths that the cleanly Abdul Dost provided for their sleeping.

“Tomorrow we will seek this ameer,” he said.

The broad face of Taleb Khan lighted at sight of the two warriors. He was relieved that they had come. They were hardy men, he thought, and hardier riders. If any could win through to Ghar, these two could. Had they not withstood many times their number of foes, fighting without reward, when they had been guests at Thaneswar?

Ameer Taleb Khan reasoned that they would serve him as faithfully since he was paying a reward. He reckoned the value of men in mohars. He had calculated to a nicety the sum of gold that could be drained from the province. He knew to an ounce of silver the treasure now lying in Ghar. Aye, the two warriors

would fetch back the gold and silver and jewels. And after they had left the dangerous pass of Ghar—

Smilingly Taleb Khan bent his head, although neither Khlit nor Abdul Dost had made the customary salaam. He wanted to show them he was in a gracious mood. He had dire need of their services. But this he did not care to reveal to them.

His small, womanish features puckered pleasantly. An olive hand stroked the gold chain at his throat. He lifted his face to feel the refreshing draft from the peacock fan that a woman slave moved over his head. She was a fair woman. Taleb Khan had an eye for such. He had sought out among the villages the comeliest maidens who were not yet given in marriage. In this Mustafa Mirza had been no mean agent.

For his good offices the ameer had allowed his favorite official to keep certain of the women for himself. True, the villagers murmured. But what were they save low-born? The Hindu nobles had become restive. Yet what availed their frowns and hard words when the power of the Mogul rested like a drawn scimitar behind the plump, silk-turbaned head of the ameer?

Still, unless the money was forthcoming to be given into the hand of the approaching vizier, displeasure of the Mogul would fall like a blight upon Taleb Khan.

The ameer sighed. He liked well the feel of gold coins and the luxury of Chinese silk, of perfume of attar, of the delight of opium and bhang, the light of great diamonds, the solace of boat festivals upon the lakes of Pawundur.

But greater than his lust for treasure was his fear of his imperial master. Somehow, the vizier must be appeased.

“You will undertake the mission?” he asked, not quite concealing his anxiety, as Abdul Dost noted.

An Afghan, whether warrior or merchant, is a born barterer. Not so Khlit.

“Three men have died upon the journey,” parried Abdul Dost. “We ask a price of five fine horses each—of Kabul stallions, flaw-less, of straight breeding.”

The plump lips of Taleb Khan drew down. He motioned to the slave to dry the perspiration on his cheeks with a cloth scented with musk.

“It is too high a price,” he objected. “All that I have I must render to the Mogul. Would you rob the Lord of Lords?”

“Liar!” thought Abdul Dost. Aloud he said: “The slaying thieves beset the forests of Ghar. I am mansabdar, not a common soldier to be bought and sold. Ten horses or their price—”

“Agreed,” said the ameer hastily. “But the treasure must be intact.”

Abdul Dost frowned. “Am I a bazaar thief, O man of the Mogul? The treasure will be given to your hands.”

“I meant but that none should be taken from you. Is the thing then agreed?”

“Aye,” said Khlit impatiently. “Give to us the money and an extra pony apiece. We shall ride hard.”

“Verily,” assented the ameer, smiling again. “You are brave men.” He drew a rolled sheet of parchment from the breast of his tunic and glanced at the seal which had been affixed with his ring.

Abdul Dost started. The letter, if it was such, was blank. Seeing his surprise Taleb Khan nodded reassuringly.

“My watchman is not a scholar. He cannot read. But the seal and the message—that Taleb Khan waits at Pawundur for the wealth that is his—will be sufficient. Eh, if a letter were stolen from you, and the thieves could read, would they not then proceed to Ghar and despoil the tower?”

He spoke idly and Khlit wondered how much of truth was in the words. Evidently the ameer had little fear that his treasure would be wrested by other hands from its abiding place.

“These thieves,” he said gruffly, “the dogs know of the treasure. Or they would not have slain the other messengers.”

“They suspect,” admitted Taleb Khan. “But they know not. Likewise, they have a fear of the watchman of Ghar. But you will be safe.” There was unmistakable earnestness now in his

modulated voice. “Ride swiftly, as you plan,” he added. “Mingle not with others, no matter who.”

Abdul Dost nodded, taking the missive and securing it in his girdle.

“Take the trail by the Jumna, on the return journey. It is best, if you can, to hire a boat on the river. But make sure that no others are on the boat. Going up the valley you must ride, but when you turn your faces hither the current of the river will bear your boat.”

When they had gone he leaned back upon the cushions, frowning in thought. Once he made as if to call them back; then he changed his mind, snuggling his plump shoulders among the cushions after the manner of a cat. But clearly Taleb Khan was not altogether at ease.

“All the others have died,” he muttered. “Yet these two be tall men and masters of the scimitar.”

He repeated that phrase as if to satisfy himself.

“If it is the will of Allah, they will come back in the boat.” Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed shrilly. He motioned to the slave.

“Bhang!” he commanded. “It is my wish to eat bhang. I would be eased of the heat of your demon-ridden land!”

Abdul Dost and Khlit had mounted after selecting with discernment two of the best ponies of the ameer’s stables. These they led by the halters. In their saddlebags they had placed rice, oatmeal cakes and, in Khlit’s case, dried meat sufficient for a journey of eight or nine days.

As they had promised, they rode at a good pace, and on the evening of the second day reached the caravansary at the cross-roads some miles from the entrance to the pass. All the other three had journeyed safely past this point.

Now at the crossroads was a group of tents. A seller of garments had taken up his station here, also a vendor of Ganges water and rotting fruit. Within the wall of the caravansary was

located a more elaborate tent of reddish color before which was stretched a carpet.

As Khlit and the Afghan rode their tired horses into the enclosure and looked about for a clean space—no easy matter to find— where the Muslim could say his sunset prayer and the Cossack cook supper, an ancient beldame emerged from this tent and laid hand upon their reins.

“Aie—you are men from the North,” she greeted them. “Your throats are dry and you are stiff from the irking of the saddle. This is verily a goodly spot for you to alight.”

She pointed with a wizened arm, covered with cheap bangles, to the carpet.

“Therein is Daria Kurn,” she explained, “one of the most beautiful of the nautch—women of Lahore. Verily she is a favorite of the wealthy nobles of Lahore. She will play upon the oina and your ears will be charmed with music as fine as the rustle of silk; perhaps, if she is minded, she will dance the dance of the ascent of the stars and your spirits will be comforted.”

The aged woman rambled on. Abdul Dost, peering at the tent entrance, saw a girl seated on the carpet within. A pair of dark eyes sought his and he saw a kohl-stained face, shaped, as he thought, like the interior of a pink shell.

Abdul Dost shrugged his shoulders and would have dismounted but Khlit checked him with a gesture.

The nautch-girl was walking toward them, swaying on her slippered feet after the manner of slaves. Her silver anklets clinked gently. In the soft light of that hour the brocade of her bodice gleamed and the silk of her trousers, worn after the Persian fashion, glimmered.

Her dark hair was confined under a cloth-of-silver cap, the lower part of her round face concealed by the yashmaq. In one hand she bore a tambourine, which she jingled idly as she scrutinized the two men. Although her dress was that of a Persian Muslim, she resembled more a Hindu type.

“Come, my diamond-sheen,” crooned the beldame, “my pretty dove, my precious pearl. Lower your veil and show the noble lords the light of your sun-adorning fairness. We will dance for the exalted ameers and their souls will sink in an ocean of delight. Oh—” to the men—“Daria Kurn is verily a moon of resplendent beauty. Her henna toes spurn the silk carpet as lightly as wind kisses silk—”

“I will not dance!” said the girl abruptly.

She spoke carelessly but decisively. The faded eyes of the old woman gleamed harshly.

“Unutterable filth!” she cried. “Scum of the back alleys of the bazaar! Parrot-tongue—disobedient wanton! Eh—will you starve your friends with your whims? Will you—”

Abdul Dost had quietly dismounted and washed in the well at one corner. He had spread the prayer carpet that he always carried upon the ground by the well. Now his sonorous voice, as he faced toward the Kaaba, cut into the shrill harangue of the woman.

“L’a illoha ill Allah,” he repeated devoutly. “There is no god but Allah. Allah, ill karim Allah ill hakim—”

He continued the course of his sunset devotions. Daria Kurn eyed him curiously, jingling her tambourine. Once an owl hooted and she turned her head on one side, much after the manner of the parrot that her protectress had just proclaimed her.

Khlit saw the two women speak together in low tones. Presently Abdul Dost rose, folded up his carpet and mounted with a leap. He urged his tired horse after the Cossack as Khlit left the caravansary.

As long as they were visible in the dull, golden afterglow of twilight, Daria Kurn watched them silently as they trotted down the highway, raising a cloud of dust that swirled upward in the breeze.

Abdul Dost had something to grumble about. “No thieves were there,” he muttered. “It is customary for the singing and dancing girls to frequent places on the main roads. Have they bewitched you?”

“Better a dozen thieves,” said Khlit dryly, “than two women. We will sleep in the forest.”

In this manner did the two enter the pass of Ghar.

II

That same evening dusk brought out the lights of a nearby village. The bullocks had been stabled, the few sheep were penned, an array of smoke columns moved up from the thatched ham-lets. Torches were visible, crossing from hut to hut. Somewhere a woman was singing softly, perhaps to a child. Boyish laughter shrilled from the vicinity of the water tank. It was followed by the deep cough of a beast close by in the bush.

Whereupon silence fell briefly on the village.

For the most part the men—farmers, hunters and merchants— squatted on their mats, chewing or drinking slowly and absorbing the cool of evening into their tired bodies. But one went quietly from house to house and talked with the owners.

He was Dhurum Khan, one of the chiefs of the village.

Those to whom he spoke girded their waist-cloths, yawned, stretched, and went out into the darkness, bearing bundles. One or two led forth a laden mule. Few spoke to their wives who watched intently.

Said one:

“The trading caravan goes to Lahore. It will be absent long, perhaps one month, perhaps two, perhaps three.”

“I will bring back ten lengths of cloth—you will have a new garment. Peace be with you!” said another.

Yet all who assembled were not merchants. Several were weavers, some tillers of the soil, one a money-changer—he was a Muslim of the North—another a water-carrier of lower caste than the rest.

They formed into an irregular line, led by Dhurum who walked for some distance before he halted. Then he faced the dim figures, for the group carried no lights, and laid his hand on the shoulder of a youth.

“My son comes upon this journey, men of Pawundur,” he announced slowly. “He will become a bhurtote.”

A murmur of assent, even of mild admiration, went through the crowd, which numbered perhaps a score and a half. “Aye, Dhurum Khan, Jemadar,” they said.

Whereupon the leader ran his eye along the line of dim faces, calling softly a roster of names. Each man responded promptly. They spoke softly, understanding each other readily, yet their words were neither Turki, Hindustani, Mogholi, or Persian, nor any of the Punjab dialects. It was an argot of comparatively few phrases, but one with which they were very fluent.

“Come!” concluded Dhurum Khan. “It is the time ordained by the earth mother, the season sacred to Kali, to Bhawani, the All-Destroyer. A sixth of our goods have we already given to her priests, who are well content. Is this not so?”

“Aye, it is truth.”

“Aforetimes did one of us see Kali in human form, feeding upon a body that the servant had slain. Since then has Kali grown great with our worship. Her shrine has its allotted gifts. Blood, sunk into the earth, is as pleasing to her divinity as water falling upon the roots of a dry plant. Come, we will perform the offices of Kali.”

“It is time,” assented a voice.

“It is time to trade,” added another with satisfaction.

“Jaim Ali,” responded Dhurum Khan, “my son, will share our trading venture. For the first time, he will buy goods—as one of us. But he will no longer bury them underground. He must be taught. Bhawani Bukta, the Hindu, will teach him. He will be the guru of my son.”

Dhurum Khan turned in his tracks and resumed his progress. “The Kassi awaits,” he said.

Now as they went a strange thing occurred. Bhawani Bukta, the bent carrier of water, still lugging his goatskin, stepped to the front like an assured leader. A weaver and a scavenger—the last of the lowest caste in the village—began to assume the guardian?

ship of others who had been highly regarded merchants of illustrious ancestors in the village. Methodically the caste of all in the group underwent a silent change and those who had been ignoble straightened and expanded before the tacit reverence of their comrades.

They walked on silently, eyes and ears keen. Was it not the time for the omens to be observed?

They went silently, leaning slightly forward, their bare legs in-visible in the dark, their turbaned heads turning alertly this way and that. The warm spell of evening faded into the clamorous night of the bush. Heavy dew moistened their arms and shoulders. Dhurum Khan halted beside a field where one of them had been wont to nurse growing grain.

As quietly as before they followed him into the field. A dark form, slender as a woman, stepped to the front of the group and pointed out a spot where a tuft of lush weeds showed in the grain.

“Herein is the Kassi,” he whispered, and straightway the jemadar and the water-carrier began to dig with their hands.

When they uprose they held an object between them. It was a short pickax. Carefully Dhurum Khan wiped the dirt from it with the corner of his girdle. Again his soft voice came to their attentive ears. An undistinguishable murmur went through the gathering, an instinctive, almost feline voicing of satisfaction; it resembled the purr of a cat.

“The Kassi,” said Dhurum Khan pleasantly, “has been tempered according to the ritual of our fathers at the forge of a high-caste smith. It has been washed first in water, then in water mixed with the sacred gur. Then in milk and in wine. It is marked with the seven spots.”

“Aye, I have seen it.” Young Jaim Ali tried hard to make his voice sound unexcited.

“It has been burned with cloves, sandalwood and gur,” repeated the jemadar. “Yet the fire injured it not. Is it not verily the tool of Kali? On this journey we will carry it for the first time.”

“May it be auspicious!”

“Heed then the omens!” Dhurum Khan’s deep voice became stern. “We are not masters of our acts. We serve another. The omens are the talk of the other. Make sure that your ears are keen. Tell me what you observe. The voice of Kali speaks from the top of the temples. Yet our eyes cannot see all of her temples. Oftentimes does she call from a tree-top or the rock of a ravine.”

“We will hear.”

Along the road passed the silent group, some walking well in advance, others behind. Except for their characteristic watchfulness, they betrayed no unusual interest in their progress.

In this manner did the thags, sometimes called thugs, march from a village of Pawundur.

“A lizard chirped,” called one eagerly.

“Good!” echoed Dhurum. “An auspicious omen, although not of the highest order. In the direction of the sound we will go. Is there a trail?”

“A bowshot beyond is a trail,” growled Bhawani Bukta. “It leads to the Ghar Pass.”

The night passed swiftly without further omen and the band went ahead with more assurance. The first streaks of dawn were gleaming in their faces when the foremost scouts sighted the glimmer of a fire. Three persons—Punjabi traders, they reported —were encamped by the fire and were already stirring to resume their journey.

Dhurum Khan gave orders with the skill of long experience. Several of the band, including those bearing the sacred pickaxes, plunged into the jungle, skirting the fire of the traders toward a point farther ahead on the road.

Two thags, dressed as coolies, plodded past the fire down the road without heeding the salutation of the traders. They were to form the advance lookout. If any strangers came toward them, the two were to delay them in talk, or, if need be, pretend sudden sickness—even a fit!

A similar outpost was sent back along the way they had come. The bulk of the gang who wore the garb of merchants then proceeded slowly forward, leading the mules.

They talked as they went, and laughed. The good omen was bearing swift fruit. Bhawani Bukta, hidden in the group beside the anxious Jaim Ali, untwisted the folds of his turban—a yellowish cloth. This he doused with water and tied one end in a firm knot.

“So your hand will not slip back along the cloth,” he whispered in the thaggi jargon.

He bound the free end into a dexterous slip-noose, sliding it back and forth to make sure it was clear.

“Twist not the rumal into too small a cord,” he advised sagely, “or it will leave a mark on the man’s throat. Nor leave it too wide or it will catch on his chin.”

Jaim Ali nodded, understanding. He had ridden with the band twice. The first time, two years ago, he had been a child of eleven and they had only permitted him to linger near the murders and to share the spoil. The second time he had witnessed first a burial, then a strangling. Now he was ready to become a full-fledged bhurtote—a slayer.

No knight, watching beside his arms in a church, was more intent on performing the ordeal in a fitting manner; no warrior-father more anxious than Dhurum Khan that the deed should go well and the auspices be good for his son’s advancement.

So as they went they chanted softly the hymn to Kali that few outside the ranks of thaggi have heard. Breaking off sharply near the traders’ fire, they fell to chattering and laughing. Dawn was outlining the treetops.

The Punjabis had adjusted the packs on their mules and were stamping the stiffness from their limbs after sleeping the night. Then Dhurum Khan gave a low exclamation of dismay. The Punjabis were in the road ahead of them, but one, revealed in the clearer light, proved to be a woman mounted on a mule.

“An ill fate!” he cried. “They are not our prey. We may not slay a woman.”

It was not chivalry that restrained the thags from the killing of women, only the belief that the female form was molded after that of Kali, their goddess. Even so, they often strangled women, especially when the victims were in the company of other men and the spoil was good.

For the laws of thaggi—rigid as the doctrines of the Buddhist faith—prescribed that no victims should be robbed without being first slain: also that none in a party should be permitted to escape. True, very young children were sometimes taken and adopted, but only if they showed no overmastering grief for the slain parents.

In northern Rájputana the thags thus slew women often. And in the Punjab, where the thags were powerful, it was done by the Mohammedans who were most numerous in these gangs. But even so it was considered an unfortunate thing, and penance was generally offered—gifts to the Brahmans or days of prayer—when a woman was strangled.

“Jaim Ali must not become a bhurtote if a woman’s blood sinks into the earth,” said Dhurum Khan, but hesitantly, for the omen had been good.

Bhawani Bukta slipped to his side.

“Nay, it is true,” assented the guru, or teacher, of the boy. “Yet another may slay the woman.”

“But the deed will be the same.”

Bhawani Bukta shook his head slowly.

“The deed must come to pass. These are the victims we have sighted. It was ordained by fate. Already is their grave being dug.” “Then let my son not try his hand at this time.”

Again the water-carrier, who was experienced in the lore of the cult, demurred. “We have said the prayer to Kali for the creation of a new strangler. It must be. Likewise, it would be unpardonable to ignore the omen of the lizard.”

Dhurum Khan hesitated anxiously. A wave of uncertainty swept through the throng. A vital issue was at decision. They awaited the word of their elders in the cult, as they walked for?

ward, apparently carelessly, toward the three who were awaiting their arrival, glad to have the company of merchants of their own class on the dangerous road.

Then from the right came the wailing cry of a single jackal. As one man the throng sighed in relief.

“It is one jackal,” cried the water-carrier softly.

“An omen of the highest order,” assented Dhurum Khan, not quite assuredly.

“Kali has spoken,” put in another.

“Jaim Ali is marked as fortunate—if he slays swiftly and well.”

The thags pressed forward cheerily. The dark clouds of doubt had vanished, even as the sun flooded in on them through the trees. They waved happily at the waiting merchants and the woman—a slip of a girl perched on the mule, regarding them gravely from dark eyes under a hood.

Likewise, the Punjabis caught the contagion of their mood. Dhurum Khan’s mild, benevolent face dispelled any doubt they might have felt that these were thieves. They had all the seeming of wealthy and reputable merchants.

Besides, the Punjabis were strangers in the district. They fell into step beside the thags. Quietly the latter shifted their positions until two men were on either side the girl, one with the rumal hidden under his cloak being a Mohammedan who had been hastily allotted the venturous fate of slaying the woman.

Bhawani Bukta and Jaim Ali stepped near one of the men. Dhurum Khan fell to the rear. He had explained to the strangers that his group were merchants of the upper Jumna, bound for Simla with rare Portuguese cloths laden upon the mules. The Punjabis expressed a desire to see the cloths.

Willingly Dhurum Khan halted the animals when his keen eye told him he was abreast the spot where certain men were digging in the thicket.

The Punjabis bent over the unrolled lengths of cheap muslin. Bhawani Bukta cleared his throat.

“Ae ho to ghiri chulo,” he said to the girl. “If you come to join us, pray descend.”

It was the signal. One of the Punjabis, recognizing the jargon or taking fright too late, cried out and sprang away.

“Death!” he shouted and began to run wildly down the road. But his comrade groaned and staggered. Jaim Ali’s cloth was about his throat. The knot was drawn tight.

The girl gave a startled gasp, and was pulled from her mule by strong hands. A rumal passed over her slender throat, and the Muslim strangler watched until her frail, twisted features had frozen into quietude. The thags gave no heed to the escaped Punjabi.

But presently Dhurum Khan, who was watching, saw two of his comrades slip from the shadows at the side of the road and bury their knives in the body of the fugitive.

This done the slayers stepped aside and burial thags took their places. The three bodies were carried quickly to the newly dug grave. There they were stabbed under the armpits to make certain of their death. Skillfully the earth was piled over them.

Some coolies, passing by the spot presently, saw a group of jovial merchants seated about a fire, some asleep, others sorting out the contents of the packs of the mules with them. The coolies went on, not suspecting that the bodies of the three Punjabis were under the ashes of the fire.

When they had gone the throng came to Jaim Ali and bent before him. He stood proudly beside Bhawani Bukta.

“He is a slayer!” they cried. “He has done well.”

Unstinted admiration was in the words. Dhurum Khan smiled.

“We will eat gur,” he proclaimed, “in honor of my son.”

They partook solemnly of the rich and heady sugar, which is doctored highly by the thags. It was in one a food, a sweet and a stimulant. But the brow of the jemadar was not altogether clear. He was gratified by his son’s success, no less than by the omens. But he still doubted because of the forbidden slaying of

the woman. Perhaps he should have kept her to be the wife of his son.

“A shadow lies over us,” he announced gravely.

“Perchance,” admitted Bhawani Bukta, “for no other good omens have appeared since to indicate the approval of Kali.” “It is an evil thing,” said Dhurum Khan.

A heavy silence fell upon the group who looked at their two leaders. The jemadar lifted his head in decision.

“My share of the spoil,” he announced, “I will give to the Brahmans. But more we must do to avert the shadow. Else must we return to the village, and that is not wonted.”

They waited expectantly. They had committed the murders with the dreadful skill of which they were masters. They considered that they had but done what was fated, that the gods were pleased.

“Six days will we pray,” said Dhurum Khan, “and the place we will pray will be the presence of one who is high in our faith. We will go just beyond the mouth of the Ghar and rest there. Thus we will pray and lighten the shadow. For my doubt is heavy.”

Thus it happened that Khlit and Abdul Dost, riding fast along Ghar Pass, found the way free of slayers, nor did they set eyes upon a thief, because the slaying of the woman had led the gang back toward Pawundur.

III

The shrine of Naga is covered with weeds. It is hidden in the forest. The passersby see it not. Other shrines have they built and worshipped.

Many have cried, “Naga is dead!”

Does a god die? Nay. For the passerby, parting the leaves of the forest, will see the stones of the shrine and one who watches thereon.

The wind of the foothills of the Siwaliks whistled up the Ghar Pass, stirring the ferns that clung to the giant oaks and sounding a strange tune as it pierced the tall, fragile bamboos.

Quivering, the delicate stems of the bamboos bent and nodded to the wind. The sound grew to a melodious, multitudinous

whistle. For many hands had made holes in the bamboo stalks cunningly, leaving round apertures for the passage of the wind. Its coming was heralded up the pass as it bore the heavy scent of decaying lush grass and the odor of dying dahlias and jasmine.

Vividly the sun etched the shadows of the bamboo leaves and touched the moss on the piles of stone about the tower foot. A man, squatting against a stone, lifted his face to the sun and sighed.

His form was like that of a bamboo, lean so that the bones of his shoulders, ribs and arms showed through his gleaming brown skin. A turban of immaculate white muslin bound his head tightly. His beard grew low on his naked chest. His dark face was stamped with weariness.

“Little Kehru,” he chanted gravely, “I hear you. You are coming through the sirki grass, walking like a panther upon your four limbs. You are holding your breath, and just now you gave the hiss of a contented cobra.”

The man’s eyes were closed but he pointed directly at a clump of grass, tall as an elephant’s back, which was waving strangely in the wind.

“Little Kehru,” he said mildly, “our friends, the sweet bamboo stalks which we cook and eat, you and I, they also are making a hiss. But the sound of a snake is not like to the rustle of the grass. And the sound of your coming is like the trot of a fat pig. I hear you.”

The clump of grass was still a moment, then a child burst from it, laughing. He was naked except for a clean breech-clout. In a basket slung to his back he carried some mangoes.

“You were awaiting me, Ram Gholab,” he accused. “Soon I will deceive you, O grandsire, and I will pounce upon you like a falcon that has marked a sparrow in the thicket. O, I am clever. I am wise. Grrh-uugh! I will pounce upon you someday and then you will laugh. Now you never laugh.”

The lad reached his grandfather’s knee and laid down the fruit. Ram Gholab reached forward and felt of it approvingly. Kehru

might have been ten years of age. Probably he had no reckoning of the years. In his estimation he was already growing to the stature of a warrior. Was he not sole master, with of course Ram Gholab, of the upper Ghar?

“What saw you, O Kehru?”

“I saw that the kites have left the thicket far, far down where they flew to feast during the last moon—the thicket by the jumna bank. I saw no fishermen in the upper river. There were no feet marks in the upper trail, save those of sleek agni.”

“No horses have passed upward?”

“Nay. Only, I saw the white crane of Saravasti and harkened to the talk of the bandur.”

“Were the bandur clamorous or slothful?”

“Aye—they called to me lazily, as if their bellies were full. All is well, they said, though not in words. They would have liked me to climb the trees, but I was running.”

Kehru stretched himself proudly. “How well I run!” he said reflectively. “Soon I will keep pace with the antelope of the plain. But I would rather ride a horse. Why have not you a pony, Ram Gholab?”

“I have no silver. How could I have silver, O one-of-smallreason?”

“There is plenty in the inner cavern where—”

“That is forbidden.” A stern note crept into the mild voice of the old man. “It is kept for our master.”

“The fat ameer?”

Curiosity was mirrored in the boy’s changing face. He was fathoming new depths. Ram Gholab talked little.

“Nay. Who is the Muslim but a slave of a slave? The master I named is Lord of Lords. He also is a Muslim by prayer, yet his mother was a Hindu and we of Pawundur serve him because of this.”

“I have no mother. I am a free man.” Thus Kehru soliloquized while Ram Gholab listened gravely. “The Lord of Lords is the Mogul. That is true. I know. He never goes forth except upon

a picked elephant, and when he sets foot to ground the earth quakes. He has warriors as many as the ants in the sand-heaps. I have seen some riding through the villages when I climbed the trees of the lower forest. They had plumes on their turbans and the sun shone on their mail. Why have not you a bright scimitar, grandsire?”

“It is not lawful. My caste bears not weapons.”

“But I do not want to play upon a pipe. I would like a horse between my legs and a good sword to cut off the heads of my enemies.”

Ram Gholab’s eyes puckered. He had not once opened them. The sadness deepened in his face.

“It is in the blood,” he murmured. “Yet how may I who am blind teach the use of sword?” He took up a reed-like instrument and set it to his lips. “Eat, Kehru,” he said. “I have brought grapes.”

While the boy munched the fruit, Ram Gholab played upon his pipe. One at a time from various crevices in the stones issued cobras. They moved slowly toward the two, their beautiful brown and purple-green forms twisting lazily.

“Is the milk set for their eating?” questioned the master of the snakes.

“Aye,” responded the child from a full mouth.

A hooded cobra had crept across his foot. Kehru lifted it partially between his toes with a slow, caressing motion and set it down farther away. The shrill, sweet notes of the pipe went on.

Suddenly Ram Gholab ceased, and at the same instant Kehru lifted his shaggy head. The ears of each were equally keen, but the hearing of the elder was more significant, from the experience of years. Some of the snakes moved away.

“Horses—several,” mused Ram Gholab. “Two by their gait bear riders.”

The boy had wriggled away, carefully stepping over the snakes, and darted to the clump of grass from which he had recently

emerged. This point gave on the half-overgrown trail to Ghar Tower.

“Two strange warriors,” he called softly, “and two led horses.” The snake charmer nodded.

“Perhaps, Kehru,” he assented, “they have come—whom we awaited. Hide until I am certain of this thing. Are they armed?” “Both. They have swords as big as my leg.”

Kehru hid himself instantly in the grass. A crashing of bamboo stems, a quick thud-thud of tired horses spurring up a slope, and Khlit and Abdul Dost drew rein before the watchman of Ghar.

“Ho!” cried the Muslim, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “This is an evil place to find. We were not told that Ghar was a ruin and veiled in the forest.”

He was about to swing down from his horse, but hesitated. “By the face of the Prophet! Never have I seen so many snakes!”

“Soon they will go,” said Ram Gholab calmly. “But speak your names and your mission in Ghar.”

Abdul Dost did so in broken Hindustani, eyeing the snakes alertly. Khlit glanced curiously over the tumble-down tower and the stone-heaps.

“The ameer,” grumbled Abdul Dost, “warned of certain slayers in the forest. Bismillah! We have slept in our saddles and crossed the river thrice to escape pursuit, but not a thief has shown his evil face.”

“It is well you did so. They are afoot. Throw me the letter.” Abdul Dost did so. Ram Gholab felt toward the sound of the

paper striking the earth and picked it up. He felt of the seal. “He is blind,” observed Khlit.

“A strange watchman!”

Ram Gholab smiled under his beard.

“I have other eyes,” he said. “Kehru! Come, light a fire before me.”

The boy emerged from his nook, staring round-eyed at the tall warriors. He fetched dried sticks, leaves and a flint-stone. This he struck skillfully until the spark caught in the leaves.

When a small flame was flickering brightly, Ram Gholab ex-tended the blank letter Abdul Dost had given him over the fire. He waited until it had become alight. It burned slowly in his fingers, and the two horsemen smelled a strong odor, strange to them, that resembled musk.

Then the Hindu withdrew careful from a knot in his own girdle a similar sheet of white parchment. He burned this also, sniffing at the odor. Apparently he was content.

“It is well,” he said. “You have come from the fat slave of the Mogul.”

Khlit mused upon the unusual method of identification and realized its advantages. As the ameer had said, no one seizing upon the missive would know for what it was intended. And certainly, despite his blindness, Ram Gholab was not easily to be deceived. He did not know, however, that a further precaution had been adopted.

“Dismount,” instructed the snake charmer, “and tether your horses in the grove at the rear of the tower. There they will be less likely to step upon the snakes.”

“The snakes!” cried Abdul Dost. “You mean the horses will be safer there.”

“Nay. What I have said is the truth. Here the cobras are worshipers at the shrine within the tower. It is the shrine of Nagi. Molest them not. And likewise beware of them for your own sake.”

He picked up a great, mottled cobra and showed its poison fangs intact.

“By allah!” muttered Abdul Dost to himself. “If one moves toward me Nagi will lack a worshiper.”

He was beginning to understand why the tower of Ghar was safe from intruders.

“Come, O watchman of the snakes, our bellies yearn and we are weary of dried meal cakes. Give us food.”

Ram Gholab rose and moved back to the tower in the manner of one who well knew his way. Khlit and his comrade followed, after seeing to the comfort of their horses.

The tower itself, although in ruinous condition, was of more re-cent building than the shrine it surmounted. Khlit scrambled over the stone-heaps—not without a wary eye for the cobras de-spite the stout, yak-hide boots he wore—into the rear postern gate. Here he found Kehru busied in preparation of porridge, milk, curried rice and mangoes.

Wide-eyed, the boy gazed on the tall warrior, noting Khlit’s broad leather belt and smooth, leather boots, his black sheepskin hat, and the gold chasing on his scabbard. He marked the swagger of the Cossack—the walk of a man better accustomed to a saddle than the earth. And he drew in his breath with a hiss of admiration.

Khlit gazed at the framework of the tower. A broad aperture opened into the older shrine of Nagi. The shrine was of stained marble, without window or light of any kind. A rough flight of granite steps led up to the second story of the tower where Abdul Dost, doubtless mindful of the worshipers of Nagi, had persuaded Ram Gholab that the two warriors would prefer to spread their saddlecloths for sleep.

Having satisfied himself that the place contained no other in-mates, the Cossack yawned, stretched and seated himself upon a wooden bench by the fire. He produced his black Cossack pipe and a small sack of what passed in China for tobacco. Kehru blinked and stared.

Khlit filled his pipe with tobacco, a rare delicacy that he husbanded with care in this land where the merits of the weed were as yet unknown. He picked a burning stick from the fire and lit the pipe, drawing into his lungs a mixture of smoking hemp, opium, and noxious weeds that would have instantly nauseated a man of less hardened constitution.

“Aie!” cried Kehru, sitting back on the stone floor abruptly.

“Chota hazeri!” grumbled Khlit, nodding at the food.

He knew but a word or two of Hindustani, picked up from Abdul Dost, but his gesture was significant. Kehru resumed the stirring of the pot and twining together of plantain leaves, which

were his only plates. His eyes shone. Verily, here was a man of authority who took his ease right royally and indulged in a note-worthy solace, such as a man should!

He grinned and shook the trailing hair back from his eyes. He extended a mess of curry to Khlit who immediately fell-to with his fingers. Kehru was astonished as well as delighted. This tall warrior with the scarred face and swaggering feet had not only the bearing but the appetite of a warlike god.

Kehru hastily added more rice to the pot. He had measured the hunger of the two riders by the slender needs of himself and old Ram Gholab. A thought came to him. Khlit had appeared ill content with the frugal fare.

“Wait but the space that water boils,” he chattered, “and the thrice-born chieftain may taste what is more fitting to his man-like gullet.”

Assuring himself by a crafty glance that Ram Gholab was not within hearing, Kehru flitted from the tower. He ran to a thicket and dug with his hands into a hollow covered with cypress branches. He disclosed the body of a small antelope. An arrow had transfixed the beautiful beast behind the forelegs.

Kehru had gratified his ambition toward prowess by fashioning a slight bow with which he had become wonderfully skilled. An arrow was silent, and Ram Gholab, whose caste prohibited the taking of animal life, could not see its flight. But, alone, the boy had not dared to cook his prey. Also he would not eat meat. But the tall warrior quite evidently had stronger tastes.

Somewhat doubtfully he showed the dead antelope to the Cos-sack, who sniffed it appraisingly and took it readily.

“Ha!” he muttered, well pleased, and Kehru smiled joyfully.

In a trice Khlit had cut off a hind quarter, which he skinned with his dagger swiftly and tossed into the pot. Then impatiently he swept the whole of the boy’s stock of wood upon the fire until it roared hotly and the water boiled.

This done, be nodded in friendly fashion to Kehru and stretched himself beyond the heat of the blaze, his sword near his right

hand, and was asleep in a moment. Kehru harkened to his snores and crept nearer to gaze upon the splendidly engraved curved scabbard. He touched the weapon fleetingly in admiration.

At once Khlit was awake, his eyes hard, and the hilt of the sword close-gripped in a ready hand. Seeing only the startled boy, his tense figure relaxed and Kehru breathed again, well under-standing that he had been close to death.

When Abdul Dost climbed down to the fire, attracted by the smell of meat, he found Khlit heartily engaged upon the antelope quarter, half-cooked.

“Ho!” remarked the Muslim. “The smell is good. How was the beast slain?”

Khlit was well acquainted with the Mohammedan scruples as to food.

“In fitting fashion,” he remarked dryly. “Eat.”

Abdul Dost sniffed and sat down. He tried some of the fruit and curry, eyeing the rapidly vanishing meat enviously.

“Ram Gholab says that peril awaits us on our return,” he observed.

“Then will you need more strength, Abdul Dost. Eat, there-fore.”

The Muslim needed no further urging. When the food had vanished and the fire was cooling into ashes, he lay back on his cloak contentedly.

“You and I are marked by the slayers, Khlit,” he said, “as a hare is marked by a goshawk. So says Ram Gholab. The slayers have doubtless seen us as we came hither. They have knowledge of the treasure—eh,” he broke off, “then why have they not attacked the tower, O watcher of the snakes?”

The Hindu pointed into the dark shrine.

“Nag guards what is there. The thag fears the cobras. Likewise, it is their custom to slay only upon a journey. If they marched against a dwelling they would fear the anger of Kali.”

“A strange folk,” meditated the Muslim, “low-born Hindus, doubtless.”

“Nay,” Ram Gholab spoke sharply, “they are followers of the Prophet for the most part. Their ancestors were laborers behind bullocks and such dishonorable pursuits.”

“That is surely a lie.” Abdul Dost’s religious pride was aroused. “For it is forbidden in the law to slay murderously.”

“The thags believe that they keep the law. They say that their victims are marked for death by fate. Thus the thags do naught but carry out what is already ordained. If they did not slay—and it is a sin in their evil minds if they do not—the victims would die otherwise.”

“Still the guilt of blood is on their souls.”

“Are not you also a slayer?”

“In battle. Arm to arm and eye to eye, in a just quarrel. Never have I slain save in open fight.”

“Death is death.” Ram Gholab closed his blind eyes. “Thus I heard the father of this boy say—for he was once a scout-thag, but repented swiftly.”

He ceased abruptly, fearing that Kehru had heard. Abdul Dost looked at him sharply.

“So—the thag—slayers believe that I and the Curved Saber are fated to die?”

“Assuredly.”

“Hm. They will watch for our coming with the gold.”

“But,” pointed out Ram Gholab, “Taleb Khan has devised a means of leaving the tower. A panshway—a river boat—lies nearby on the Jumna bank below the tower. This will bear you back to the ameer.”

“A boat!” grumbled Khlit when this was told to him. “Nay, rather will we ride where we may choose our going.”

A shadow crossed the thin face of the Hindu. He had had his instructions. Ram Gholab was a faithful man and worthy of trust. Moreover, he had the single-mindedness of the aged, whose sole task had been the care of a trust.

The treasure of Ghar Tower had been the somber delight of his lonely life. His pride was at stake—for the safety of the gold. His hand trembled slightly as he answered:

“Ameer Taleb Khan spoke with me and said that thus should the gold be taken from the tower—and in no other manner. There is a roof over the deck of the panshway and under it you may lie hid, with horses. The current will bear you downstream. The long end of the rudder can be handled, so said the ameer, from within.”

“It is well said,” mused Abdul Dost who liked to take the other side of an argument from the taciturn Khlit. “But if the thags see us enter the boat—”

“Tomorrow night you must embark. They will not see for they have not eyes of an owl. Aye, the boat is best. For the thags have spies, so I have heard, along the Ghar Pass. They will see you ride down the trail.”

“We bear swords,” grunted Khlit who had no love of a ship of any sort. “Our horses are swift—”

“But not so swift as an arrow,” pointed out Abdul Dost, yawning. “Nor can we ride for three days and nights without watering the horses. The slayers will be watching the trail. They will not look for us within the boat.”

Khlit was silent.

“Where lies this gold?” he asked presently.

When Abdul Dost had translated his request, Ram Gholab rose. Kehru lighted a torch from the embers of the fire. But the master of the snakes needed no light to find his way into the shrine.

It was a bare chamber of stone, perhaps ten feet square, great fissures showing between the slabs. Khlit, peering keenly at the walls and floor, saw no sign of an opening which might serve as a hiding place. The only object in the shrine was a square block of jade, placed against the wall, wherein was carved the image of Vishnu with the hood of the seven snakes above the figure of the god.

Ram Gholab squatted on the floor.

“Be silent,” he whispered, “and move not. The servants of Nag are quick to strike, and their touch is death.”

Abdul Dost, guessing vaguely what was to come, glanced back at the doorway uncertainly; but as Khlit stood his ground so did the Muslim. Ram Gholab’s pipe began its soft note. His turbaned head moved slightly, almost in the fashion of the hood of one of his snakes. Kehru was like a brown figure turned to stone.

The voice of the pipe rose shriller. The flickering light from the torch faded then grew greater. Ram Gholab nodded his head and Kehru stepped toward the jade slab. Abdul Dost glanced from side to side uneasily. He was not at all comfortable. His religious scruples did not favor his presence in a Hindu shrine, especially that of Nag—even though deserted. Besides he felt a distinct sense of danger.

Kehru thrust the unburned end of his torch into the crack of the stone directly over the jade. He pried vigorously and the slab turned as if revolving on a hidden axis. When an opening about a foot in width had been made the boy stepped back alertly.

The hooded head and tiny eyes of a giant cobra were visible in the black hole. Khlit heard a sound like that of steam passing through a narrow hole. The snake darted its head forward and the glistening coils followed.

It was a magnificent specimen, the spectacle mark clear and shining, the long, beautiful body nearly the length of a man. A second cobra followed the first.

“Come, beloved of the god, guardian of Door-ga—master of Ghar. Come. We are calling thus. Do not harm us. We also are servants of Nag.”

So chanted Ram Gholab, removing the pipe from his lips. The cobras which had turned aside, running their heads along the wall, moved toward him, their hoods lifted.

Abdul Dost felt his brow strangely warm. He had heard no sound, but Khlit had drawn his sword and held it poised in his

hand. Meanwhile the boy slipped to the opening in the wall. He drew out an ebony box of some size.

The snakes seemed to pay no heed to him. Kehru gently walked from the shrine, bearing the box and his torch. For a moment the place was in half darkness. The pipe of Ram Gholab continued its soothing note.

Then Kehru returned, and light flooded the chamber.

“B ’illah!”

It was a full-voiced oath, torn from the throat of Abdul Dost. One of the snakes of the shrine had moved its coils toward him with dreadful grace and silence, and the torch showed that its coils were passing over his foot. Its head waved not a yard from his hand.

And at his voice the coils of the snake on the floor contracted instantly. A cobra does not draw back its head to strike, such is the strength of its lean body. But this one struck simultaneously as it moved.

Khlit’s action was involuntary. He had seen vicious tensity leap into the snake. He had not waited for the head to strike.

Even so, his blade moved with deadly swiftness. The snake had darted its fangs at Abdul Dost, but midway the sword met it and the splendid hood fell to the stone floor, cleanly severed from the writhing trunk.

Kehru gave a cry of dismay and dropped the torch. The chamber dwindled into gloom. Abdul Dost and the Cossack both ran from the shrine into the tower at the same second.

They paused by the fire with drawn weapons. The Muslim’s teeth were chattering as if from a chill. But he mastered his emotion quickly.

“Well did you serve me!” he cried. “I was near to death.”

Kehru stood beside them, staring affrightedly at the shrine. Khlit took a step forward and hesitated. Ram Gholab must be in peril. But it would be vain to return to the stone chamber without a light. Then an angry voice came from the darkness.

“Death! It is near to you now. O fool! O blunderer! O accursed of the gods! An evil deed.”

The old Hindu advanced into the light, his blind eyes rolling fruitlessly. And Khlit swore. The second cobra was held on the arm of the snake-charmer, its coils about his waist and leg.

Although the giant snake was plainly agitated, its hood erect and venomously swelled, it made no effort to strike its friend. Both warriors recoiled hastily.

“Well for you,” said Ram Gholab bitterly, “that I seized upon the second servant of Nag. O well for you that I am blind and my senses are keen in the dark. If I had not seized him, he would have struck once—twice—as you fled. Fools, to think that your clumsy feet could outstrip the dart of the cobra. Half am I minded to release him upon you.”

His teeth glimmered through his beard. The blue veins stood out in his forehead. His voice was like the angry breath of the serpent he held. Then his head drooped.

“Nay,” he murmured. “You are but the dull slaves of a master who is also my master. You shall go free. But the shrine of Nag is profaned. Take the gold of the Mogul. I shall abide in the shrine. Kehru, build up the fire. The servant of Nag must be burned upon the pyre or evil will descend upon your head and you—aye, though a child—will be accursed.”

Throwing back his head he laughed. The giant snake twisted in his arm. “Verily,” he cried, “have you said that the slayers have marked you. Now will you not escape uncaught from Ghar. Now it is assured. The shadow of death will close upon you. No sword will guard you this time. Ohé—my work is done, but your fate you may not escape.”

Abdul Dost felt a cold pulse stir in his back. Khlit stared curiously at the Hindu, wondering why the life of a snake should be so valued.

To Abdul Dost, however, the words rang with an ominous portent. The Muslim, as well as Ram Gholab, was a believer in fate.

The form of Ram Gholab slipped back into the darkness of the shrine, bearing the snake, and the glimmer of his white turban was lost in the shadow. Whereupon the boy raised the lid of the ebony box.

Within gleamed the soft luster of gray pearls, the rainbow glitter of diamonds, the wine-hued sparkle of rubies. Beneath the gems were sacks of gold.

Abdul Dost fingered a diamond curiously, turning it in his lean hand so as best to catch the light.

“A rich nest,” he grunted, “with rare eggs therein. I have a thought, Khlit, that our path back to Pawundur will be set with the thorns of trouble.”

“Close the casket,” advised the Cossack, “and bear it with you to your couch above. We must sleep, but first I will see to the horses.”

At a sign from him Kehru produced a fresh torch and lighted it, following Khlit’s tall figure to the thicket behind the tower where the four horses were picketed. It was a mild night and the trees sheltered the beasts from the heavy dews.

Having satisfied himself that the horses were fed and secured, Khlit undid the saddle-girths and laid the furniture on the ground. Then he paused to watch the boy.

Kehru had stuck his torch in the earth and approached one of the Cossack’s shaggy Turkoman ponies. Caressingly his hand went behind the horse’s ears, and he crooned softly. He fetched dried ferns and spread them for a bed under the animal.

Whereupon the pony nuzzled Kehru, lipping his hand and sniffing, well content. The boy of Ghar was at home with animals. They were, indeed, the only friends of his life, except for the blind guardian.

Wistfully his dark eyes dwelt on the pony. Khlit grunted.

“Oho, little warrior! Did not Abdul Dost say when he was well fed that you desired a horse and had none? Aye, the pony will not be too large for your small legs.”

Kehru looked at him inquiringly. On an impulse Khlit placed the halter of the beast in the boy’s hand, resting the other hand on the pony’s neck.

“Scarce will there be space for four horses in the boat,” he mused. He nodded. “Yours,” he explained in broken Hindustani.

Kehru started with surprise and excitement. His white teeth shone from his brown face in a wide grin. He had understood, but hardly credited his good fortune. Khlit nodded again and walked away carelessly.

Straightway his hand was seized in a warm clasp. Kehru knelt before him and pressed the scarred hand of the warrior to his brow. Then he bent his dark head to the ground and touched Khlit’s boots reverently.

Impatiently the Cossack drew away and swaggered off to his sleep. He knew it not, but his generosity had stirred a tumult in the boy’s mind. Long after Khlit was asleep the boy lingered proudly by his new possession. In his soul was arising a great doubt.

While he felt the back of the horse for saddle sores and examined teeth and legs in the dark, he was debating a most important matter. For the first time in his life he must decide upon the con-duct of a warrior.

He glanced at the dark shrine where muffled sounds indicated that Ram Gholab still labored. Then he undid the halter from the tree trunk and sprang upon the pony’s back. Swiftly he guided his mount from the tower, using only the halter cord and his bare heels.

Beyond the tower he struck into the Ghar trail and quickened to a gallop.

All was silent now about Ghar Tower, save for the grieving prayers of Ram Gholab, who squatted above a fresh mound in the earth between the stones, and the nightly tumult of insects—the strident hum where the dwellings of men are few and the forest is moist.

IV

On the broad plain by the Jumna, just below the Ghar Pass, the camp of the Pawundur thags spread, like a brown anthill resting upon green sward. The six days of prayer had passed without

further ill omen, and Dhurum Khan, the jemadar, was easier in spirit, although he still felt vague misgivings at the death of the woman.

He was walking restlessly along the high road near the encampment, accompanied by the guru, Bhawani Bukta, whose bent figure was alert with new eagerness now that the time was drawing near for the band to march again.

“According to the custom of thaggi,” he told Dhurum Khan, “we have waited at the crossroads, lifting hand against none, while the six days have dawned and ceased. Rather, we have aided and given comfort to passing traders, as well as entertainment in the tents, owing to the advice of the one to whom we came in our trouble.”

“Well did the one counsel,” admitted the leader, “for by our quietude none suspect that we be slayers. Nay, not the riders of the ameer himself, who have stopped in our tents.”

“Blind slaves!” The water-carrier grimaced. “Our time is come and we will act. Look!”

Where the roads crossed were strange marks in the sand, as if men had turned to the right, toward the river, dragging their feet and leaving small piles of dirt at intervals. This was a well-known signal.

“The scouts bid us hasten,” interpreted Dhurum Khan, “to the Jumna.”

They quickened their pace, plying their staffs vigorously, looking to those who might chance to watch like wandering trades-men. Presently they emerged upon the sand flat through which the tranquil Jumna threaded, its sacred waters a deepest blue in color. For the Jumna, although taking its source from the snow ravines, retains its clear color, unlike the Ganges.

At the ghat, the river landing place, a small skiff was tied to a pole in the sand. In the skiff were two men.

“O Jemadar,” reported one, “as you commanded we have rowed until our backs are blistered with the sun and sore with a great soreness. We have made our eyes like to the eyes of vultures

and we have seen them enter a panshway—even as our spies among the fisher folk foretold. Behold, protector of the poor, our poverty is like to a ragged garment.”

“Two lengths of cloth you shall have.”

“Our hands are raw.”

“An ounce of silver each.”

“O generous master!” The scout-thag bent his head. “Another word have I. When we rowed hither a raven called twice. Is not the omen good?”

Both Dhurum Khan and the guru gave an exclamation of plea-sure. Bhawani Bukta stroked the outlines of his noosed cord under his dirty tunic.

“Are you assured it is they?” demanded the jemadar. “We have waited long for news of their coming to the river.”

“Their faces were hid,” responded the man in the skiff. “And they loosened the boat at night. But we followed, where we were not seen, and harkened to their talk. We are not mistaken. Within a day, or perhaps two, they plan to land near this spot.”

Dhurum Khan nodded, reflecting. He glanced along the ghat and saw one or two river craft tied up nearby, their crews asleep under the awnings that kept off the hot sun. He lowered his voice earnestly.

“Harken,” he whispered. “This day the band will move. We will leave the one who counseled us wisely. The omens are good. But the skiff is too little for a crew. Do you, Bhawani Bukta, and these two, assume the manner of weavers who are seeking cloth to buy. In one of the vessels in the bight there are sellers of cloth— so they told us when they rested in our tents and refreshed their spirits with the magic of a song. O, the one is wise!”

“Aye,” responded the three, “it is the truth.”

“Then,” continued Dhurum Khan, “will I retrace my steps and give the order for one-half the band to break camp. Some boys under my son, Jaim Ali, will I send hither in advance of the rest. The boys will drive mules without burdens and pretend that the mules have broken loose.”

“Aye,” they nodded expectantly.

“When the boys and the mules come, you will be upon yonder panshway, bartering with the owners. Ask permission to cook your rice at their fire under the roof of the boat.”

“We will slay those who sit about the fire,” hazarded Bhawani Bukta.

“Aye, thus you will do. Bhawani Bukta will give the jhirni— the signal for murder—which is three raps upon the deck, on a boat. He will watch and see that no men on the other craft take alarm.”

“But what of the men sleeping on the upper deck?” asked the guru. “Shall I stab them quietly as they sleep?”

“Unworthy!” Dhurum Khan frowned, for he had grown careful since the murder of the woman. “Kick them awake and say that one of their comrades by the fire has been taken with a fit of vomiting.”

“Nay,” broke in the quick-witted water-carrier, “I will say that he writhes with torment of worms in his body and barks like a dog. Thus they will have a fear lest he become mad and go hastily.”

“So that these two clever thags may strangle them. Then, when all of the five men on the pan shway have become offerings to Kali, make a hole in the side of the boat away from the other craft and let the bodies fall into the water.”

Bhawani Bukta bent his gray head in assent smilingly.

“You spoke of boys and mules, Jemadar. What is their mission?”

“To make a loud noise and outcry upon shore, to drown a cry if one of the men on the boat struggles against the noose. Thus will the crews of the other vessels have eyes and ears only for the mules and the running boys.”

The dark eyes of the three glistened.

“O wise leader,” they whispered. “It is verily a plan of plans.”

The dark eyes of Dhurum Khan were alight with purpose. For

six days he had pondered this scheme. His spies had brought news

of a treasure being carried on a panshway. And he—with the counselor at the crossroads whom they all held in reverence— had planned a great theft, a masterpiece of death.

“Take heed,” he cautioned. “If the men in the other craft should ask what has become of the dead men—for they will not suspect they are dead—say that your victims have gone to the camp at the crossroads to hear another song. Should strangers come along, say that the crew have sold the panshway to you.”

“Verily,” assented the thags.

To one not understanding the great skill of these men in their profession, the murder of five boatmen on a public landing place, and the disposal of their bodies in broad daylight, would appear a difficult, if not disastrous, feat. Yet by following these instructions of Dhurum Khan the thing was done. And the thags who had come to the ghat were in possession of a serviceable river craft as well as the few goods of the dead boatmen.

The boys and the mules returned to the roadside camp with Dhurum Khan, while Bhawani Bukta was appointed manji, or captain, of the boat.

He ordered the fastenings loosened as soon as the stains and disorder of the murder upon the lower deck had been cleared away, and the patched calico sail was raised to the breeze. The squat little vessel veered away from the land while bystanders on shore waved at it.

Invisible under the river surface rested the five bodies, well weighted with stones taken from the ballast of the boat. The hole in the side was filled up hastily and the vessel stemmed the current of the river on its mission of death, its blunt bow headed upstream toward Ghar.

Until that afternoon Khlit and his companion had had the upper reaches of the Jumna to themselves, except for some flocks of fishing skiffs. They remained carefully under the overhang of the half-cabin beside the horses, guiding their pan shway by the long oar which passed through the stem.

It was hot under the dome-shaped wooden shelter; the lower deck of the vessel was musty and the timbers waterlogged. There was no place to stand on the upper portion except at the bow—for the mast penetrated the curving wooden screen—or on the steer-age platform. These points they shunned and concealed them-selves furthermore by placing the horses in the open pit between the overhang and the stem.

By situating the three beasts here, they made certain that no casual eye would wonder whether their craft was masterless. They did not try to raise the sail, knowing nothing of how it should be done. They were content to drift down the rapid current and steer clear of the shore by clumsy use of the oar.

“It is like to a pot floating in a trough,” muttered Abdul Dost, “and it is well that we are near to the end of the trough, for a sickness comes upon me.”

Khlit did not remind the Muslim that the boat was his choice. The Cossack leaned back against the bare beams of the side, where he could watch the river through a crack in the opposite timbers. His silence irritated Abdul Dost, who was thoroughly weary of the panshway.

“We are like sheep in a pen,” he grumbled. “Better had we risked the arrows in the forest than this thing of evil.”

“Now that we are here,” pointed out Khlit, “it would be the folly of a woman to depart from the boat. For we would easily be seen and our place of landing would be marked by many eyes.”

He squinted thoughtfully ahead, where a sail was visible.

“Did you see aught of Kehru during the second day at Ghar?” he asked.

“Nay, the boy had vanished with one of your ponies. Only Ram Gholab was there, at the grave of his snake. He said in parting that our graves, also, were being dug beside the Jumna.”

“Likewise,” mused Khlit, piecing together certain thoughts in his mind, “did Ram Gholab say, unthinking, that the father of Kehru was a thag for a space. But this, I think, the boy knew not.”

“He has a desire to be a warrior of the Mogul.”

“Yet is he gone from Ghar. And hereabouts the thags seem the only warriors.”

Abdul Dost glanced at his companion and shrugged his shoulders. He pointed to a pile of skins under which the corner of the ebony box protruded.

“Eh,” he grumbled, “you have claimed the care of the Mogul’s treasure. But that is an ill place. If the boat should gallop the box might overturn and the diamonds would strew the deck.”

“The chest,” said Khlit complacently, “is my care—as the boat is yours.”

“Aye,” muttered Abdul Dost, “you have spent more time in counting over the bags of gold than in watching what is before the muzzle of the boat.”

“Nevertheless, I am watching a sail that is trotting up the highway of the river toward us.”

Abdul Dost swore and peered through the ramshackle deck. The approaching pan shway was nearing them rapidly, its sail bellying in the wind. He could see a brown figure on the steering platform. But no others.

“I wonder,” Khlit stroked his beard, “why Kehru left the tower.”

“He did but steal the pony.”

“The pony was given him.” The Cossack pointed aft grimly. “The thought came to me that he might have ridden from the tower bearing a message—because another sail is behind us. It crosses from one side to the other like a shying horse.”

“By the face of the Prophet!” Abdul Dost stood up and knocked his head soundly against the overhang of the deck. “B ’illah! This is an evil place. It was ill done to give the boy a horse. He may have betrayed—”

“He had honest eyes.” Khlit thought briefly that Kehru had appeared uneasy when he had last seen him. “Besides, if he had wished evil he could have lifted the horse.”

Abdul Dost marked the course of the first panshway with care. “It will pass us by, far to the flank,” he decided, and so it proved.

“But the other gains,” observed Khlit. “And our pot wallows like a full-fed turtle. Abdul Dost, you lifted your voice in favor of the boat. Tell me then how to put spurs to it.”

The Muslim gazed at the bare deck, the pile of the sail and the rotting timbers, and shook his head. He had never been afloat be-fore, having crossed rivers after the manner of his kind by swimming his horse.

“I see no spurs,” he responded moodily. “I think the boat that follows in our tracks gains on us because it wears a sail. But how can we place a sail upon this turtle? Nay, perhaps it were best to swim our horses ashore.”

Khlit measured the distance to the bank and shook his head. Before they could gain land the following vessel would cut them off. He had noticed that it moved more quickly when tacking.

“If it is our fate to be taken in this pot,” ruminated Abdul Dost, “it will come to pass. What is written is written.”

“Look,” said Khlit.

The panshway that had passed them by had come out in the wake of the second boat and now both were heading downstream. Their brown sails fluttered as they were hauled by the crews. Behind them the green slopes of the Ghar rose to the blue sky. The broad bosom of the Jumna was spreading wider as the gorge opened out. They were nearly at their destination. But the pursuing vessel was within arrowshot.

Khlit drew his Turkish pistols from his belt and saw to the priming carefully. He rose and adjusted the saddlebags on his horse, despite the danger of being seen. Then he called to Abdul Dost.

“The riders of the nearest boat are running about the deck in confusion. They are crying out as if in fear.”

What Khlit said was true. To a man accustomed to sailing craft, it would have been evident before now that the crew were

endeavoring to make all possible haste, nursing the boat along against the wind, under the loud orders of the steersman. The crew were glancing back at the third vessel, which was following steadily some distance in the rear.

“They have a fear!” cried Abdul Dost.

The fleeing vessel was now abreast of them. Two men, dressed in the manner of merchants, gestured at them wildly from the after deck.

“Thags!” they cried. “Fools! Lift your sail and flee. Do you not see that the boat behind is a craft of the slayers. They follow, waiting for their prey.”

Khlit and Abdul Dost glanced at the swelling brown sail in their wake. The Muslim smiled ruefully.

“Verily, that is wisdom!” he cried. “But we know not how to bridle this boat for speed.”

“Fools!” said the merchant again. “It is death to linger.”

They cried shrilly at the crew who were fumbling with the sail. The two vessels had drifted almost together, for the other panshway had lost the wind.

“A handful of gold,” offered Abdul Dost, “to one of your men who will come to our boat and rein it for flight.”

Even in the danger of capture by the pursuing craft, he was not willing to venture on the merchant’s ship with the telltale chest. Inwardly he cursed Khlit’s obstinacy in leaving the treasure in the chest.

The coolies stared at him and glanced at each other. The two boats were now rail to rail. One of the crew leaped to Abdul Dost’s side.

He was a half-naked Mussulman coolie, his eyes rolling in excitement. He glanced sharply down into the lower deck, noting the tangled sail, the pile of skins, and the watching Khlit.

“I will aid you!” he cried. “It is time!”

Silently a half-dozen turbans appeared over the rail of the larger boat. Brown forms sprang down upon Abdul Dost, their naked feet bearing him to the deck, with the breath knocked from his

broad chest. No chance had the Afghan to draw weapon or even shout a warning to Khlit.

But the Cossack had seen. Instinctively—for he was never startled by sudden danger—he had grasped the halter of his pony, the beast being already weighted with his saddlebags, and freed it. He stepped back, drawing the horse with him to the boat rail opposite the point of attack.

The thought flashed upon him that Ram Gholab had said the thags never attacked without slaying. Abdul Dost was already under their feet and seemed doomed, for he lay passive, struggling with his breath. By a leap over the rail Khlit and his pony might perhaps have escaped into the water and reached the shore before the sailing craft could be brought about after them.

But the Cossack would not leave his friend. With an angry shout he drew his weapon and leaped forward. He had seen the treachery in a flash, too late. The panic on the other panshway was assumed. They had been cleverly surprised.

As he sprang, swinging his blade overhead, there was a hiss in the air. Something settled about his shoulders and drew taut. Striving vainly to strike at it with his sword, he was jerked to one side and thrown heavily.

A fleeting glimpse he had of the merchant—a slim, bearded fellow whose face was vaguely familiar. The man was pulling at the cord, the noose of which had closed over Khlit.

Savage hands struck at the Cossack. Others gripped his sword-arm. Several naked bodies pressed upon him. Struggling, he was cast face down and held firmly. The horses reared in fright.

Khlit expected momentarily the bite of a knife against his ribs or the tension of a cord about his throat. He struggled in grim silence, only to feel other ropes wound about his legs and around his body.

Then he was picked up bodily and thrown heavily into the other pan shway. A thud, and Abdul Dost lay beside him, likewise bound and breathing in great gasps.

“The horses!” cried the merchant’s voice. “They are valuable.” “Master, we cannot fetch them,” a coolie’s voice made answer. “Their fear is too great.”

“Dogs! Then do two of you man the boat that has them. Sail it to shore. Your death if the horses are not landed safely.”

With that the merchant scrambled down beside Khlit. In his arms was the ebony chest. He shouted an order and the square sail was hastily dressed. The boat swayed and lunged forward as it caught the wind. Several of the coolies had leaped back after the merchant. Khlit had a glimpse of the sail running up on the panshway he and Abdul Dost had occupied.

Khlit wondered why they had not been slain. Surely they were helpless. He had strained fruitlessly at his cords and now lay passive. Abdul Dost was glaring at their captors.

The merchant had set down the box and was regarding them complacently.

“Well done!” said a smooth, familiar voice.

Khlit rolled over upon his other side to peer at the speaker. Under the overhang of the cabin sat a stout man, wearing the cloak and long, gray tunic of a Mussulman trader. A broad face beamed upon the surprised Cossack and a pair of pig eyes puckered in a smile.

In spite of the tradesman garb, Khlit recognized Ameer Taleb Khan.

His first impression was relief that they had not fallen into the hands of a thag band. His second was a swift foreboding that all was not well. But he lay silent, thinking. Why was the ameer so costumed? Why had he and Abdul Dost been attacked? The Muslim, who had also seen their captor, found his voice readily.

“Is this the manner that you greet your riders, Taleb Khan?” he snarled. “By Allah and the ninety-nine holy names! It was ill done. My ribs are cracked. Unloose us!”

Taleb Khan’s smile broadened. He sat on his heels upon a comfortable rug, a water jar and dish of sweets at his side. Now he lifted a sugared date carefully and placed it in his mouth. He

seemed well pleased with the situation. The merchant sat down beside him, and Khlit knew him to be Mustafa Mirza, also disguised after a clumsy fashion.

“Peace!” ejaculated the servant of the ameer. “Make your tongue gentle in addressing your master.”

Abdul Dost worked to a sitting position, stifling a grunt of pain. He had been roughly used.

“Is this a jest? Do not those dirty garments offend your nicety, Mustaf a?”

The mirza scowled.

“Nay, it is no jest. We have taken two thieves in the act.”

“Thieves!” Abdul Dost grappled with this new thought. “The thieves are behind you in the pursuing boat. You named them thags.”

“It is the truth—most like. They had evil faces and they stared at us as they passed. But then my men were below deck. Now the thags have seen our number and weapons and they have headed about, up the river, being wise—as you are not.”

A glance showed Abdul Dost that this was so. The third boat was but a diminishing square of sail, already rounding a bend of the Jumna near the shore. His own boat followed close behind that of the ameer.

“Wherefore have you done this thing, Taleb Khan?” The Afghan was still bewildered. “There was no need to set upon us. Here is the gold and the jewels in the chest.”

“Aye, the chest.” Taleb Khan stroked its black surface fondly and eyed the bronze clasp. “Well do I know my treasure chest.” He shook his head moodily. “Aye, a pity. I deemed you worthy of trust. Yet is the treasure of my box gone.”

“Gone?” Abdul Dost gaped, but Khlit’s eyes grew hard under the shaggy brows.

“Aye—vanished. Stolen!”

“Nay!” cried the Afghan roundly. “Look within and you shall see the jewels and gold mohars. Even so. Did I not see them with my eyes?”

“I doubt it not. You coveted the wealth with your eyes. And you took it. It is written that the fate of a stealer of the goods of another man shall be like to the reward of a jackal.”

“But look within the chest and see the truth.”

The ameer glanced tentatively at the watching coolies and shook his head.

“No need,” he observed, “to verify your guilt. You have stolen the treasure entrusted to your care. I—watchful in the affairs of the Mogul—have caught the thieves. But the treasure is gone. A pity. The vizier will grow great with wrath. Already he rides hither, not an hour from Pawundur. He will deal with you as you deserve, being a faithless servant.”

Khlit sat up, biting his mustache.

“Harken, O ameer,” he said bitterly. “In all things we have done as you bade us. We are not thieves. We journeyed in the path back to Pawundur by the boat as you ordered.”

“I?” The official’s brows went up. “Did I mention a boat? I think not—Mustafa!”

“Nay,” amended that person promptly, “you bade these low-born ride back by the trail. I heard it.”

“A lie!” cried Abdul Dost.

Taleb Khan and Mustafa laughed; they rocked on their heels with mirth; they looked at Khlit and Abdul Dost and the skin of their smooth faces grew wrinkled with mirth.

“Nay, O harken to the low-born snatchers of goods—the faith-less messengers!” they said in concert. “Did not you steal the panshway from the landing place of the shrine? Did you not slay the thrice-blessed snake of the shrine? Nay, for you stole down the river, thinking to outwit us and escape from Pawundur. Verily, but we were watchful.”

While Abdul Dost stared, the truth began to glimmer into the shrewd brain of the Cossack. He spat vigorously.

“So—we have been tricked, mansabdar,” he growled, shaking his head like an angry dog. “Doubtless Ram Gholab helped in the trick. And Kehru—”

“The boy rode to us,” explained the mirza, taking pleasure in the discomfiture of his prisoners and wishing to while away the hour before they should land. “Thus he had been ordered. He rode swiftly by the byways that he treads like an antelope. A good half-day he came before your slow boat. Ai, we knew that you were no sailors.”

At this Abdul Dost subsided into silence, for he understood now the trap that had been set. Taleb Khan had sent them to Ghar meaning to give them over to the agent of the Mogul as stealers of the gold. The ameer had sent others on the mission but they had been slain by the unexpected activity of the thag bands that were rife in the valley.

He saw now why Taleb Khan had not wished to go himself or to send a body of soldiery for the gold. The covetous official had desired to keep the wealth that should be paid to his master. He had devised this stratagem to provide men to accuse of the theft. Khlit and Abdul Dost had no friends in Pawundur. Their case would be decided long before they could get word to the Rawul of Thaneswar. The Mogul’s justice was swift, and the Afghan had no proof here among the lesser agents of the throne that he had once served Jahangir, Lord of Lords.

Khlit was reasoning along similar lines, but unlike his friend he did not sulk in silence. He was curious concerning the manner of their betrayal; also he fancied he saw certain weak spots in the scheme of Taleb Khan which might be useful.

“Thus,” he said slowly, gaining time to think, “Ram Gholab was ordered to send us into your hands?”

He spoke almost admiringly, as if he could relish the superior cunning that had trapped him. Taleb Khan stared, then leaned back upon the ebony chest with a smile. Verily this aged wanderer was providing excellent sport for his enjoyment.

“Not so, O wise owl. Ram Gholab is a fool of fools—a dotard who is bemired in his own magic of the snake. He believes that he truly serves the Mogul!” The ameer broke off cautiously. “That

is, he is no agent of mine. He was ordered to send the message of your departure, believing that I would safeguard your journey. Aie, it was well thought upon. Also he was ordered to send you by the ship.”

Taleb Khan, relishing his words, had lowered his voice to a whisper so that the coolies might not hear. A faithless man him-self, he did not trust others.

“And Kehru likewise. He came to my tent like a fledgling warrior upon a mission of state. Naught he knows of your theft.”

“Then,” mused Khlit, “this tale of the slayers is but a tale. We saw them not.”

“Oh, there is some truth in it, most wise old owl. Aye, there be bands of thags hereabouts. But two swift riders, strangers like yourself, could have passed through them unmolested. They seek lesser prey. Yet Ram Gholab has heard much of their doings and his solitary musing has made them great, like huge shadows cast by a small fire at night.”

Whereupon Taleb Khan wearied of his sport and rose to give heed to the landing of the boat at the ghat. Khlit also had food for thought. He was silent while the vessel was worked to the shore and the sail dropped.

It was mid-afternoon and the heat was great when he and Abdul Dost were led over the sands to the Pawundur road. Behind them the coolies brought their horses. Taleb Khan mounted one, for he was bulky and the heat irked him. Mustafa led the way.

At the crossroads were the tents of some merchants, likewise a stained crimson canopy at one comer of the caravansary. The ameer’s round tent had been pitched in the enclosure, and under the open fly slaves had set meat and drink for the refreshment of their master.

When Taleb Khan was partaking of the food, seated upon his carpet, Khlit nudged Abdul Dost. They were seated, still bound, near their captors, but at one side of the tent opening in the full glare of the sun.

“Take heed,” he whispered, “and watch. There is something that the ameer does not yet know.”

“What matter?” asked the Afghan moodily. “Ram Gholab spoke truly concerning our fate. We know the treachery of the ameer. Will he let us live? Nay. Already he has planned the manner of our death and but awaits the coming of the vizier who is nearby, so the coolies said.”

But Khlit caught the wandering eye of Taleb Khan. The ameer was refreshed by food—while Khlit and Abdul Dost were suffering the first pains of a long fast—and he was restless because of the excitement of his attempt to defraud the Mogul. He was restless, looking for diversion, and his eye strayed to the rug under which the box had been placed for concealment. Perhaps he meant to open it, but the Cossack’s words arrested him.

“If a bridge is built with a hole in the middle, is it safe to walk upon, Taleb Khan?”

The ameer was surprised. He did not quite know what to make of the graybeard who sat bound by his tent, but who faced him as one chieftain to another.

“Not so,” he responded, motioning the slave behind him to stir the air with his fan of peacock plumes.

“Then is your plan like to a bridge, Taleb Khan. You will fall through the hole and perhaps die. The Mogul deals swiftly with a faithless servant.”

“Aye. You and your comrade will be slain on this spot by the vizier and your heads will be put in a cage. The cage will be hung outside the walls of Delhi by the caravan gate.”

“And what of you, Taleb Khan?” Khlit’s voice was stern. “Think you the vizier will not see the hole in your scheme? He will ask why you sent two riders for the revenue at Ghar instead of going yourself. What will you answer?”

The ameer lay back luxuriously upon the rug. His eyes twinkled. He hesitated, then spoke, for the pleasure of his stratagem was still strong upon him.

“With words I will not answer, O unfortunate one. You know not the officials of the Mogul.”

“One we know,” observed Abdul Dost grimly. “It is sufficient.”

Taleb Khan waved his hand airily. The Afghan’s dark face flushed and the veins stood out in his forehead.

“By the tomb of Mohammed!” he cried softly, for he was a proud man. “There be chieftains at court who count the name of Abdul Dost, mansabdar, warrior of Akbar—may he rest in peace—among their friends.”

“Akbar rests in peace. Likewise, who will know the blackened skin of a severed head for that of Abdul Dost? We will permit the ravens to pick at your eyes and the carrion birds to tear your lips—a little. Thus your friends will not know you. Have you a name?” He looked around for Mustafa and saw him not. “Nay, we know not your name.”

Khlit pressed his arm warningly upon the Afghan’s knee. Threats were useless against the ameer. “You have not said,” he remarked, “how you will cross the hole in the bridge.”

The ragged turban—for the ameer had not desired to exert himself sufficiently to change his garb—of Taleb Khan nodded affably.

“I like your wit, graybeard. It is delightful as the pretty trick of a wanton woman. I shall cross the hole with a gold plank. Ten ounces of gold will I put into the hand of the vizier. He has his price. Who has not? A jewel—a blood ruby—for the head treasurer over the vizier, and my tale will not be doubted. As for the Mogul: if he asks, there will be the two heads—yours—of the thieves to show.”

“Will that content him?”

“Why not? He knows Pawundur is restless.”

Taleb Khan smiled, pleased with his own shrewdness.

“Many will tell,” he added, “if need be, of the theft of the panshway and how you sought to escape. Death of the Prophet! Shall I not keep the gold I labored to wring from this heathen land?

The villagers are like barren curs, so wretched are they. Only by seizing the wives and virgins of the dead men did I obtain the full quota of wheat and grain.”

Khlit looked at him inquiringly.

“Aye, it was cleverly done. Mustafa saw to it. And when we had the quota, the women were returned, although, of course, some were no longer virgins. My men must have some sport, for they are weary with this cursed land.”

“And the tax of the merchants?”

“I sold them the grain at double price. Those that bought not were hung for traitors. Few were hung.”

It was a pleasant day for the ameer. He felt the full tide of success reward his efforts. And to crown his delight came Mustafa to the tent, pulling after him the slim form of Daria Kurn, veiled.

“A nautch-woman have I found, Lord,” explained the mirza, “within the soiled tent. Oh, a fair woman with soft eyes.”

“Bare her face!”

Mustafa jerked the veil from the cheeks of the dancing girl. The cheeks were kohl-stained. The beautiful eyes glanced swiftly, sidewise, at Taleb Khan. The ameer crowed joyously and straight-way forgot Khlit and Abdul Dost.

“A prize, Mustafa, a prize! Come, my precious jade, my splendid dove! Dance and let your feet be light. I am weary.”

Daria Kurn looked slowly about the tent at the watchers who had crowded into the shade at the coming of Mustafa.

“I will not dance,” she said sullenly.

“Sing then, my bracelet of delight, my pretty trinket of love. Sing!”

“Lick your palm!”

Taleb Khan scowled at this abrupt refusal of his request. He was accustomed to having his commands obeyed. Mustafa struck the nautch-woman on the cheek. Straightaway she fastened her slender fingers in his beard, screaming with anger, one side of her sharp face crimson.

The mirza bellowed with rage and felt for his sword. Daria Kurn scratched his hand. Many coolies and followers of the mer-

chants came running from their sleep at the outcry and formed a staring ring about the two struggling figures. Taleb Khan lay back on his rug, the better to laugh, for he was stout.

“Master,” came a stifled voice from behind Khlit, “I have your curved sword and the scimitar of the Muslim warrior.”

Schooled by bitter experience, the Cossack did not turn his head. He recognized the voice of Kehru. Abdul Dost sat up abruptly.

“I took the weapons from the low-born slaves who tended the horses. They know it not.” The whisper of the boy trembled with eagerness. “I hid them in an antelope skin and I crawled hither. For I heard them talk of how you were to be slain. I know not why you are bound. But you gave to me a round-bellied pony without flaw, and I am your man. Aye—your warrior.”

Mustafa had freed himself from the angry woman and drawn his dagger. In his rage he would have slashed the painted face of Daria Kurn, but Taleb Khan cried him halt.

“Would you spoil me this gem, Mustafa—this oasis in the sands of Hindustan? Nay, touch her not. I have not laughed so much in a fortnight!”

Khlit glanced sidewise at the throng. Intent on the spectacle of the woman, the bystanders had no eyes for him. He sat with Abdul Dost slightly back from the group, near to the side of the tent. Legs bandaged and naked rose about him. Slowly he rose to a kneeling position until his feet and bound limbs were behind him and concealed from view of those within the tent.

“Bid the boy look to see if any watch from the caravansary,” he whispered to Abdul Dost, who had quickly assumed a similar position.

“No one watches,” informed Kehru. “Those who have not come hither sleep.”

Hope was arising like the rush of fresh water in the parched body of Abdul Dost. He lifted his dark head for the first time in many hours and felt the burning of the sun across the back of his neck.

“Allah is good,” he said.

Khlit glanced at him warningly. They were in a throng of full thirty men. Others rested in the nearby tents. Around all ran the stone wall of the caravansary. Guards were at the entrance. Their position, despite the unexpected aid of the boy, was little short of deadly. Both he and Abdul Dost seized upon the thought at the same instant.

“Sever our accursed cords silently, from beneath,” whispered the Afghan from still lips. “But let them rest as they are, once they are loosened. Then leave our swords in the skin. Seek the horses—”

“Pick out our mounts,” added Khlit, “and the pony. Bring them to the rear of the tent swiftly.”

He thought of the vizier, riding toward the caravansary with his followers, and leaned forward slightly to glance into the tent. Daria Kurn was tossing fragments of beard disdainfully into Mustafa’s purple face. She swayed mockingly before him, poising bird-like on her toes.

Taleb Khan sat up and stroked his mustache.

“Sing!” he cried. “By the footstool of God! So fair a form must have a voice like to that of the nightingale.”

“Am I a bazaar scavenger,” stormed the woman, “to lift my voice before coolies?”

“But—”

“The sun is hot.”

“I will pay a gold mohar.”

“I will sit by your knee, in the shade of the tent, my lord.”

With a smirk Taleb Khan piled high the cushions at his side. Daria Kurn tripped forward swaying and seated herself daintily. He clapped his hands.

“Wine!” he ordered. “Snow cooled—the best of Shiraz!” “Aye, wine!” cried the girl. “Wine for the pleasure of my lord.” She stroked his cheek and he lay back against the cushions,

well-content. The discomfiture of Mustafa had only made Daria

Kurn more desirable in his eyes. Was not a woman of spirit more fitting to attend him than a whimpering maiden of the people?

Khlit felt a light tug at his hands and the cords loosened. His feet likewise were free. A glance assured him that Abdul Dost also had only the severed thongs upon his wrists and that the antelope skin was upon the sand behind them within arm’s reach, and something bulky under it.

Kehru had vanished silently, leaving only the prints of his naked feet.

Then Mustafa, smarting under his ordeal, saw fit to wreak his ill humor upon the captives.

“Aye, bring wine,” he growled, “and let it be poured upon the beards of these thieves. Thirst shall teach them the first lesson of their crime.”

He knew that neither of the warriors had tasted drink for the space of many hours during which they had lain in the sun.

Catching a goblet from a slave, he strode over to the two, his eyes gleaming wickedly. Khlit measured him silently, cursing the ill luck that had drawn Mustafa’s attention upon them. The men in the crowd laughed carelessly.

“Guard well that wine, Mustafa,” cried the Cossack quickly. “For I will truly drink of it and my thirst shall be eased—by your hand.”

“Wherefore?” grunted the mirza, hesitating.

Khlit had spoken as if by authority.

Taleb Khan paid no heed. He was staring greedily at Daria Kurn, who knelt above him, her dark eyes straying about the throng, her lips humming softly the words of a song. The subdued light in the tent glimmered on her bare arms and waist. The fat hand of the ameer wandered among the strands of her brown hair. It pleased his vanity to play with this woman before his followers.

Khlit threw back his head and laughed, laughed with a ring of real merriment.

“Wherefore? Why, Taleb Khan has been robbed!”

The ameer ceased his gallant efforts and glared at the Cos-sack. Khlit sat back upon the loose cords of his feet. The woman glanced at him once with the cold anger of a startled snake.

“Robbed!” Taleb Khan was uneasy; those who covet gold are ever quick to fear theft. “How? When? The man is mad!”

“Not long since. I have watched the woman,” growled Khlit. “Ho! It is a good jest. The thief has had his gains lifted from him.”

“Verily,” said Daria Kurn musically, “the sun has made him mad.”

She smiled upon the bewildered ameer and loosened the girdle about her waist. It was a thin, silk girdle, redolent of musk. Her hand strayed artlessly to the ameer’s stout fist, and Taleb Khan’s frown lightened. Not so Mustafa.

“No madness is it,” he grumbled, “to beware of the craft of such a she-jackal. Speak, graybeard—what have you seen?”

Khlit, listening for sound of horses’ hoofs moving behind the tent, made answer boldly.

“I have seen what the ameer will pay well to hear. I have seen the gold taken from the ebony chest. I have seen Taleb Khan robbed of his treasure. If he would know where the gold has gone, he must bargain with me.”

Mustafa uttered a round oath. The faded eyes of Taleb Khan widened slowly and his mouth opened. He glanced uneasily at the outline of the chest on the farther side of Daria Kurn. He grunted and extended a tentative hand to the rug, across the knees of the nautch-girl. Then he hesitated.

He glanced at those who watched. It would not be well to bare the treasure to the sight of these merchants and their servants, if it were actually in the chest, for some would go to the vizier with the tale.

Then Taleb Khan would be obliged to pay a heavier bribe for the vizier’s silence—heavier, that is, than if the official really thought that the ameer had been robbed of the revenue. For the vizier would be forced to pay the merchant for the information.

But, he thought hastily, what if Khlit’s words were true? He flushed and stared narrowly at the woman. She took his hand in hers and kissed it.

“You have lied!” he muttered to the Cossack.

But his tone was far from assured. Suppose the gold was actually gone? The woman was artful.

“I have not lied,” Khlit’s mustache twitched in a smile. “The bags of gold are gone. What I have seen, I have seen.”

With a cry Taleb Khan snatched the rug from the ebony box. His avarice had overcome his caution. He fumbled with the bronze lock. The men pressed nearer.

Khlit saw a noose descend over the head of Taleb Khan and close about his throat.

Daria Kurn had sprung erect. In both hands she held the girdle that she had slipped around the ameer’s neck. It had been knotted cleverly. She tugged with all the strength of her slender frame, placing a slippered foot against the back of the man. Taleb Khan’s round face changed from red to purple. The cry that had started in his throat choked to a gurgle.

At the same instant, Khlit’s hand darted behind him. He had felt the touch of muslin against his cheek. He flung himself back-ward.

“Your sword, Abdul Dost!” he shouted, and his words were tense with peril.

For simultaneously with the strangling of the ameer he had seen nooses appear magically from nowhere and drape about the throats of Mustafa and the followers of the ameer. He had acted without waiting for more.

The man who had sought to strangle Khlit had been, perhaps, a trifle slower than his companion thags, believing that his victim was bound. He held an empty noose. He had not long to dwell upon his mistake.

Khlit’s sword flashed up as the Cossack lay on the ground and the man’s legs were cut from under him. He sank down groaning,

but Khlit was no longer under him. A second stroke cut through the thag’s waist to his backbone.

The strangler who had stood beside Abdul Dost had thrown his noose over the Muslim’s head and drawn it tight. Yet the Afghan was hardly slower to act than Khlit. He caught the cord firmly in one hand and grasped his sword from under the antelope skin with the other.

The thag yelled in alarm and plucked his knife from his girdle. He lifted it to spring on Abdul Dost. He struck at the Afghan, but only the bloodied stump of an arm reached the chest of the mansabdar. The hand and the knife fell to earth.

Abdul Dost was one of the most expert swordsmen in Hindus-tan. Although slow to think, he, like many men of great physical activity, was alert to move. Having rendered their assailants harmless, he and Khlit glanced hastily about the tent.

They saw a strange sight. Mustafa’s lean form was writhing helplessly on the sand. Taleb Khan leered at them like a hideous toad, his fat arms waving weakly and more weakly to catch the perfumed girdle of Daria Kurn which was draining his breath. The dozen followers were suffering a like fate.

“Gurkha men dina!” screamed an angry voice. “Strangle!”

Dhurum Khan pointed at Khlit and Abdul Dost in a frenzy. Except for the unexpected resistance of the two supposedly bound men, all had gone well with the thags.

In their guise of merchants, they had assembled unsuspected at the caravansary during the absence of Taleb Khan and his followers upon the river.

They had waited by the mirza’s empty tents, knowing that the men must return to their camp. Quietly they had joined the throng about Daria Kurn when all eyes were upon the woman. They had awaited their opportunity, each strangler standing be-side his victim with their habitual calmness.

Only two men had survived the massacre. These faced the thags, sword in hand.

“Attack!” cried Daria Kurn. “Fools! Bunglers! They are but two.”

Several half-naked thags leaped forward with drawn knives at Khlit and Abdul Dost. The mansabdar stepped to meet them. He was smiling and his eyes were alight.

The first slayer dropped to the sand with his skull split under the folds of his turban. The second had his throat nearly cut through by a swift half stroke. The rest hung back, fearing the tall Muslim who seemed to joy in a conflict.

Khlit gazed about the scene of battle curiously. He wondered at the swift action of the thags. A moment since Taleb Khan and his men had been alive. Now they were in the last death throes, kicking and gasping on the sand.

The thought came to him that Taleb Khan had paid dearly for his disguise. Probably the slayers had thought him an ordinary merchant.

“Back to back!” he growled to Abdul Dost.

The two placed themselves in readiness. They knew better than to flee. By now figures were running from the nearby tents. Dhurum Khan had planned his masterpiece of death. All the unfortunates who slumbered in the tents had awakened from their dreams only to slip struggling into a deeper sleep.

His guards posted at the gate in the wall would have cut down any who escaped the stranglers. But no one ran from the tents except the thags.

“Oh, cowards!” The shrill voice of Daria Kurn reviled her companions. “Will you let two stand unhurt? Give me a sword!”

Khlit swept the crowd with an appraising glance. He was glad that no bows were to be seen—not knowing that the thags always worked with noose and steel, which were silent and left no traces. But momentarily the number around them grew, as the stranglers left their other victims to hasten to complete the killing.

In the unwritten law of thaggi, the ritual of Kali, it was unheard of to permit any of the destined victims to escape. If one died all must die.

Jaim Ali caught the arm of Daria Kurn as she was rushing upon the two warriors with streaming hair.

“Let me strike!” she wailed. “Mine—and Dhurum Khan’s— was the plan. They are marked for my sword.”

“True it is,” the boy cried, “that you are the one whose counsel we sought. We are your servants, O Daria Kurn, beloved of Kali.”

He swung a long noose in the air, stepping toward the waiting two. But the woman would not be denied. She darted forward, and seeing this the thags under Dhurum surged after her.

“We must complete the work,” they whispered to each other. “If not, we are doomed. The evil omen of the slain woman is bearing fruit.”

“Aye, the evil omen,” chanted Dhurum Khan, hearing.

“Ho!” laughed Abdul Dost. “The slayers come—faithless followers of the Prophet. The low-born cooks taste of the feast they have prepared!”

Knives and short swords were ill weapons against the two finest sword-arms in Hindustan. At each sentence the Afghan, now thoroughly warmed to his work, struck aside a leaping thag. When he struck, men crumpled to earth.

Jaim Ali’s noose closed over Khlit’s blade and arm, but Abdul Dost cut the cord and sent the youth reeling with the same blow. Daria Kurn sprang at him, and her knife caught in his cloak, biting into his chest.

Khlit had never slain a woman. He turned his blade as he cut at the mistress of the thags and she was knocked senseless. But Dhurum Khan, thinking to take advantage of the opening, was slain swiftly.

The thags hesitated at sight of the bodies on the earth. They gave a wailing cry of grief. It was drowned in the quick tumult of rushing horses.

“Mount, master!” cried the voice of Kehru. “The horses come behind you!”

The trained ears of the two warriors located the horses without obliging them to turn their heads. The slayers looked up, startled at sight of the three mounts trotting from behind the tent. Kehru,

unnoticed by the thags because he had been hidden among the animals during the massacre, had acted swiftly and well.

Khlit and Abdul Dost leaped back as one man and grasped the manes of the passing horses. Neither warrior needed aid of the stirrups to mount. The Cossack, in fact, landed standing on the saddle, a favorite trick, and gave a yell of triumph. It was good to be mounted again.

His wide coat-skirts flapped out and his gray hair swayed be-hind him as he headed straight for the caravansary gate, his horse at a round gallop.

Kehru chortled joyously and dug his bare heels into the flanks of his pony. The guards at the gate were without bows. One ran forward uncertainly, but dodged back at the sweep of the Afghan’s blade.

They were through the gate and the broad road to Pawundur stretched before them. Within a few moments—so swiftly they went—they met the cavalcade of the vizier with his servants and soldiers.

Straightaway, at the tidings they brought, the cavalcade broke into a gallop and gained the crossroads just as the sun reached the level horizon of Pawundur plain. At the gate they halted— Khlit and Abdul Dost and the vizier, who rode a mule and was attended by two slaves who had held a sunshade over him during the heat of the day.

“Allah!” said the vizier.

It was a strange sight. Tents, animals, ropes, bales of goods, and men were gone as if swept away in the brief interlude by a magic hand. The level gleam of the setting sun shone redly on the stretch of sand.

Upon the sand in grotesque and grim attitudes lay Taleb Khan, Mustafa and their men, coolies and officials alike. No wounds were to be seen on their bodies—save for a certain redness about the throat and bulge of the staring eyes. Their weapons were taken from them, but their common garments, assumed as a

disguise, remained. The vizier went from one to the other and paused at the round body of Taleb Khan.

“By the thrice-blessed name of God!” he said, and was silent. “It is written that those who don the garb of trickery shall drink the cup of deceit. Where is the revenue of Pawundur?”

Khlit dismounted and showed him the ebony box in the sand by the dead ameer.

“Herein was the revenue of Pawundur,” he said.

Abdul Dost had already related the tale of the thag attack, saying nothing however of the treachery of Taleb Khan. A righteous man, the mansabdar was loath to speak ill of the slain.

In the chest were numerous rocks, and nothing more. Again the vizier looked about the caravansary and stretched out his arms in resignation. The tale of the crossroads—and he read it with his own eyes—was complete. He ordered his followers to make camp and bury the bodies. But Khlit would not linger in the caravansary. He sought out Kehru and led him to the vizier.

“Here is a stripling, O man of the Mogul,” he said, “who will make a brave warrior. Take him into the service of the Mogul and it shall one day profit you.”

Whereupon he mounted and lifted a hand in farewell. At the gate he turned in his saddle.

“Perhaps,” he called, “you may find the revenue of Pawundur —in the villages from here to the border. But seek it not after the manner of Taleb Khan.”

The vizier had a tender skin. He knew of the thags. He did not care to seek the revenues of Pawundur. Nevertheless, in time strange tales came to him, and he wondered.

After this fashion the tales came to be told in the bazaars and the highways of Pawundur. Abdul Dost had been thinking as he rode beside Khlit away from the caravansary and turned his horse’s head into the road that led to the North.

“Eh,” he pondered, “it was a clever thought—your thought to cry ‘robbery’ to Taleb Khan. Did Daria Kurn verily take from the chest that which was within?”

Khlit shook his head.

“Then it was a lie. It was a good lie, full-tongued. It was fated to save our lives.”

“It was not a lie.”

For a dozen paces the Afghan considered this. He was puzzled. Either the thags had taken the gold and gems from the chest, or they had not. This was as clear to him as his horse’s ears before his eyes. He told this to Khlit.

The Cossack leaned forward and silently drew a handful of gold from one of his saddlebags—the bags that had rested at his saddle peak since their departure from the boat. From the other sack he pulled out a jewel or two mixed with grain and oaten cakes.

“The treasure of Taleb Khan!” said Abdul Dost, staring.

“Aye,” responded Khlit. “Taleb Khan. On the boat I had a thought that the wealth would be safer in these bags. So I took it—when you looked the other way—from the chest. I would have rendered it truly to Taleb Khan, but he seized upon us.”

Abdul Dost drew rein for his sunset prayer.

“Verily,” he mused, “the fate of the ameer was a strange fate. What is written, is written. Not otherwise.”

Thereafter, at each village they passed, the inhabitants gathered around them while a tall Ferang, dressed much like a wild wolf, scattered handfuls of gold among them, laughing the while, and spurred away before they could prostrate themselves in gratitude or rob the two warriors.

And at the final village of Pawundur province, the dark-f aced Afghan who rode with the Ferang showed a double handful of fine gems, red rubies of Badakshan and blue diamonds of Persia. He replaced the jewels in his girdle.

“Say to the vizier,” he cried, “that this is the price of the guilt of one who was named Taleb Khan.”