Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

pull at the whisky-bottle and passed it over. “Now hear me⁠—unless any other man thinks he knows more.”

The challenge was not taken up.

“We go to Shamlegh when the moon rises. There we will fairly divide the baggage between us. I am content with this new little rifle and all its cartridges.”

“Are the bears only bad on thy holding?” said a mate, sucking at the pipe.

“No; but musk-pods are worth six rupees apiece now, and thy women can have the canvas of the tents and some of the cooking-gear. We will do all that at Shamlegh before dawn. Then we all go our ways, remembering that we have never seen or taken service with these Sahibs, who may, indeed, say that we have stolen their baggage.”

“That is well for thee, but what will our Rajah say?”

“Who is to tell him? Those Sahibs, who cannot speak our talk, or the Babu, who for his own ends gave us money? Will he lead an army against us? What evidence will remain? That we do not need we shall throw on Shamlegh-midden, where no man has yet set foot.”

“Who is at Shamlegh this summer? The place was only a grazing centre of three or four huts.”

“The Woman of Shamlegh. She has no love for Sahibs, as we know. The others can be pleased with little presents; and here is enough for us all.” He patted the fat sides of the nearest basket.

“But⁠—but⁠—”

“I have said they are not true Sahibs. All their skins and heads were bought in the bazaar at Leh. I know the marks. I showed them to ye last march.”

“True. They were all bought skins and heads. Some had even the moth in them.”

That was a shrewd argument, and the Ao-chung man knew his fellows.

“If the worst comes to the worst, I shall tell Yankling Sahib, who is a man of a merry mind, and he will laugh. We are not doing any wrong to any Sahibs whom we know. They are priest-beaters. They frightened us. We fled! Who knows where we dropped the baggage? Do ye think Yankling Sahib will permit down-country police to wander all over the hills, disturbing his game? It is a far cry from Simla to Chini, and farther from Shamlegh to Shamlegh-midden.”

“So be it, but I carry the big kilta. The basket with the red top that the Sahibs pack themselves every morning.”

“Thus it is proved,” said the Shamlegh man adroitly, “that they are Sahibs of no account. Who ever heard of Fostum Sahib, or Yankling Sahib, or even the little Peel Sahib that sits up of nights to shoot serow⁠—I say, who, ever heard of these Sahibs coming into the hills without a down-country cook, and a bearer, and⁠—and all manner of well-paid, high-handed and oppressive folk in their tail? How can they make trouble? What of the kilta?”

“Nothing, but that it is full of the Written Word⁠—books and papers in which they wrote, and strange instruments, as of worship.”

“Shamlegh-midden will take them all.”

“True! But how if we insult the Sahibs’ Gods thereby! I do not like to handle the Written Word in that fashion. And their brass idols are beyond my comprehension. It is no plunder for simple hill-folk.”

“The old man still sleeps. Hst! We will ask his chela.” The Ao-chung man refreshed himself, and swelled with pride of leadership.

“We have here,” he whispered, “a kilta whose nature we do not know.”

“But I do,” said Kim cautiously. The lama drew breath in natural, easy sleep, and Kim had been thinking of Hurree’s last words. As a player of the Great Game, he was disposed just then to reverence the Babu. “It is a kilta with a red top full of very wonderful things, not to be handled by fools.”

“I said it; I said it,” cried the bearer of that burden. “Thinkest thou it will betray us?”

“Not if it be given to me. I can draw out its magic. Otherwise it will do great harm.”

“A priest always takes his share.” Whisky was demoralizing the Ao-chung man.

“It is no matter to me.” Kim answered, with the craft of his mother-country. “Share it among you, and see what comes!”

“Not I. I was only jesting. Give the order. There is more than enough for us all. We go our way from Shamlegh in the dawn.”

They arranged and rearranged their artless little plans for another hour, while Kim shivered with cold and pride. The humour of the situation tickled the Irish and the Oriental in his soul. Here were the emissaries of the dread Power of the North, very possibly as great in their own land as Mahbub or Colonel Creighton, suddenly smitten helpless. One of them, he privately knew, would be lame for a time. They had made promises to Kings. Tonight they lay out somewhere below him, chartless, foodless, tentless, gunless⁠—except for Hurree Babu, guideless. And this collapse of their Great Game (Kim wondered to whom they would report it), this panicky bolt into the night, had come about through no craft of Hurree’s or contrivance of Kim’s, but simply, beautifully, and inevitably as the capture of Mahbub’s fakir-friends by the zealous young policeman at Umballa.

“They are there⁠—with nothing; and, by Jove, it is cold! I am here with all their things. Oh, they will be angry! I am sorry for Hurree Babu.”

Kim might have saved his pity, for though at that moment the Bengali suffered acutely in the flesh, his soul was puffed and lofty. A mile down the hill, on the edge of the pine-forest, two half-frozen men⁠—one powerfully sick at intervals⁠—were varying mutual recriminations with the most poignant abuse of the Babu, who seemed distraught with terror. They demanded a plan of action. He explained that they were very lucky to be alive; that their coolies, if not then stalking them, had passed beyond recall; that the Rajah, his master, was ninety miles away, and, so far from lending them money and a retinue