"Where away at this hour, horse-sellers?" cries he.
I answered offhand, hoping to keep him at a distance, for even in the fading light it was ten to one he'd recognise his own monarch if he came any closer.
"Amritsar, captain sahib!" says I. "We take my master's son to his grandmother, who is ill, and calls for him. Hurry, Yakub, or the child will catch cold!" This to Jassa, who was helping Dalip into his coat, and thrusting him up into the saddle. I swung aboard my own screw, with my heart pounding, ignoring the officer, hoping to heaven the Inquisitive brute would ride on after his troop, who had vanished into the twilight.
"Wait!" He was sitting forward, staring harder than over—and with a thrill of horror I realised that Dalip's coat was his ceremonial cloth of gold, packed by that Imbecile Mangla, and even in that uncertain light pro-claiming its wearer a most unlikely companion for three frontier ruffians. "Your master's son, you say? Let's have a look at him!" He wheeled his horse towards us, his hand dropping to his pistol butt—and the three of us acted as one man.
Jassa vaulted into his saddle and snatched Dalip's bridle even as I slashed my reins across the beast's rump, and Ahmed Shah dug in his heels and charged slap into the advancing Sikh, rolling him from the saddle. Then we were away across the maidan, Dalip and Jassa leading, Ahmed and I behind, with the led horses thundering alongside. There was a shout from the dusk, and the crack III a shot, and little Dalip yelled with delight, dragging his bridle from Jassa's grip. "I can ride, fellow! Let me alone! Ai-cc, shabash, shabash!"
There had been nothing else for it, with detection certain, and as I pulled out my compass and roared to Jassa to change course to port, I was reckoning that no great harm had been done. We were on fresh horses, while the gorracharra had been in the saddle all day; it would take time to mount any kind of pursuit from the city supposing they thought it worth while, with night coming down; the odds were they'd make inquiry first to see if any child of a wealthy family was missing, for I was sure the officer had taken us for common kidnappers—he'd never have risked a shot at us if he'd known who Dalip was. And if, by some astonishing chance, it was discovered that the Mahajara had taken wing—well, we'd be over the river and far away by then.
I called a halt after the first couple of miles, to tighten girths, take stock, and make certain of my bearing, and then we rode on more slowly. It was pitch dark by now, and while we might have trotted on a road we daren't go above a brisk walk over open country. The moon wouldn't be up for six or seven hours yet, so we must contain ourselves in the sure knowledge that the dark was our friend, and no pursuers could hope to find us while it lasted. Meanwhile we bore on south-east, with Dalip asleep in the crook of my arm—what with distress and elation, he was quite used up, and being lulled by "Tom Bowling" instead of Mangla's song didn't trouble him a bit.
"Is this how soldiers sleep?" yawns he. "Then you must wake me when it is my time to ride guard, and you shall rest …"
It was a wearisome trek, and a cold one, hour after hour in the freezing dark, but at least it was without alarm, and by the time we had put twenty miles behind us I was convinced that there would be no pursuit. At about mid-night we pulled up to water the horses at a little stream, and stamp some warmth back into our limbs; there was a faint starshine over the doab now, and I was remarking to Jassa that we'd be able to raise the pace, when Ahmed Shah called to us.
He was squatting down by a big peepal tree, with his sabre driven into the trunk just above the ground, and his finger on the foible of the blade. I exclaimed, for I knew that trick of old, from Gentleman Jim Skinner on the road above Gandamack. Sure enough, after a moment Ahmed shook his head, looking grim.
"Horsemen, husoor. Twenty, perhaps thirty, coming south. They are a scant five cos behind us."
If I'm a firm believer in headlong flight as a rule, it's probably because I've known such a horrid variety of Pursuers in my time—Apaches in the Jornada, Udloko
Zulus on the veldt, Cossacks along the Arrow of Arabat, Amazons in the Dahomey forest, Chink hatchetmen through the streets of Singapore … no wonder my hair's white. But there are times when you should pause and consider, and this was one. No one was riding the Bari Doab that night for recreation, so it was a fair bet that the inquisitive officer had deduced who our costly-clad infant was and that every rider from the Lahore garrison was sweeping the land from Kussoor to Amritsar. Still, we had spare mounts, so a sprain or a cast shoe was no matter; our pursuers must be riding blind, since even an Australian bushman couldn't have tracked us, on that ground; seven miles is a long lead with only fifteen to go; and there were friends waiting at the finish. Even so, having your tail ridden is nervous work, and we didn't linger over the next few miles, not pausing to listen, and keeping steadily south-east.
When the moon came up we changed to our remounts; Ahmed's ear to the ground detected nothing, and there was no movement on the plain behind us. It was fairly open country now, with a few scrubby thickets, occasional belts of jungle, and now and then a village. When I reckoned we had only about five miles to go, and still three hours to dawn, we eased to a walk, for Dalip had awoken, demanding food, and after we'd halted for a bite and there was still no sign of pursuers, it seemed sensible to go at a pace that would let him sleep. Of course, he wouldn't, and kept up such a stream of questions and drivel that I came close to fetching him a clip over the head. I didn't, mind you, for it don't pay to offend royalty, however junior: they grow up.
There was still no sign of the Jupindar rocks, and I guessed we'd come a degree or two off course, so I climbed the first tall tree we came to, for a dekko about. The moonlight gave a clear sight for miles around, and sure enough, about three miles to our left, the ground rose in a long slope to a summit of tangled rocks—Jupindar, for certain. And I was just preparing to swing down when I took a last look astern, and almost fell out of the tree.
We'd just come through a jungly strip, and behind it the doab lay flat as a flagstone to the horizon. Halfway across it, a bare mile away, a line of horsemen were coming at the canter—a full troop, well spread in line. Only regular cavalry ride like that, and only when they're searching.
I was out of that tree like a startled monkey, yelling to Jassa, who was standing guard while young Dalip squatted in the bushes—the little bastard must have had an orange cached somewhere, for he'd done his bit three times since midnight. A precious minute was lost while he got himself to rights, bleating that he wasn't done yet, and Jassa fairly threw him into the saddle; then we were away, drumming across the doab for those distant rocks where, unless Gardner had lied, friends were waiting.
There was a mile of scrub and trees before the rocks came into view, at the top of a long incline dotted with sandy hillocks—and there, far off on our flank, the first of the pursuing horsemen were clearing the jungle. A faint halloo sounded on the frosty air, and now it was a straight race for Jupindar before they could head us off.
It was going to be close-run, for with our south-east course having carried us wide, we were having to cut back at an angle, while the pursuing troop had only to make straight forrard. There was nothing in it for distance; the best horsemen would be first to the post—and these were lancers; I could make out the long poles.