Danger at Dahlkari Page 6

  “Someone’s coming,” Sally said in that flat, expressionless voice.

  She took hold of my hand. That curious, inexplicable calm still possessed me, as though this were a dream and I knew it was a dream and therefore couldn’t really be frightened. Stealthy footsteps approached. Someone moved slowly, cautiously toward the clearing. I stood stiff and rigid, frozen it seemed, unable to do anything but watch calmly as the curtain of flowering vines slowly parted. Sally was gripping my hand so tightly that it seemed she would crush my fingers into pulp. Neither of us made a sound as the tall Thug in white stepped into the clearing and stood there no more than five yards from us.

  He stared at us. He wore a white turban, and his face, clearly visible in the moonlight, was dark like polished mahogany, a mask of evil, the thin lips slowly curling in a smile of anticipation as he pulled the yellow scarf from his waistband, catching each end and stretching it taut between his hands. Legs spread wide apart, sandaled feet firm on the ground, he popped the rumal once or twice, testing its strength, and then that horrible smile vanished and he glared at us with savage resolution.

  “Kali,” he said, and then he screamed, “Kali!”

  A muscular arm shot out from behind him, swinging around his throat in one rapid, brutal curl that crushed the scream abruptly. The robed native reared back, squeezing with all his strength, and the Thug dropped the rumal and thrashed about in frenzied panic, on his tiptoes now, clutching at that merciless arm as the native leaned back, applying even more pressure. Gasping, gurgling, fighting for his life, the Thug jerked about like a puppet gone berserk, his feet no longer touching the ground. Arm wrapped murderously around his victim’s throat, the native reached under his robe with his free hand. I saw the knife blade flash in the moonlight as he raised it, saw it swing in the air for a split second before plunging into the Thug’s chest. His body jerked convulsively as the native drove the blade in deeper, twisting the handle with a savage precision, and then the Thug fell limp, the native’s arm still curled about his throat.

  It was a grotesque tableau, not real at all, something from a nightmare, and I was far, far away, seeing it through the haze of moonlight and shadow, everything gray and black and soft silver, without color, without substance. The native let the body drop to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs, a puppet with its strings cut, broken, lifeless. The native casually wiped the blade of his knife on the puppet’s white sleeve and then he caught both limp wrists in one hand and pulled the thing out of the clearing and into the jungle.

  “It’s over,” I said. I might have been telling her the hour. “There must have been just two of them. They wouldn’t have felt it necessary to send more.”

  “He was one of the ones who joined the caravan,” Sally remarked. “I recognized him. He was one of the ones talking to Ahmed night before last. I—I feel so strange.”

  “It’s over, Sally.”

  “I wanted to scream, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t move.”

  Neither of us said anything else for a while. I could feel that curious numbness disappearing. My skin felt prickly, stinging slightly, and I could feel the blood circulating in my veins. I felt light-headed now, almost dizzy, and I wanted to laugh. For some reason I wanted to burst into gales of laughter, but I didn’t. I sobbed, just once, a dry, painful sound that seemed to hurt my throat. Hysteria was so close, but I held it off, steadying myself, forcing back the waves of sensation threatening to sweep over me.

  Sally let go of my hand. She had been clutching it all this while. I flexed my sore fingers, watching as she stepped across the clearing to the spot where the Thug had been standing. She reached down and picked the yellow rumal off the ground, casually examining it.

  “How—how can you bear to touch it?”

  “It’s evidence,” she said calmly. “When we get to Dahlkari, they’re going to want to know everything that happened, every last detail, and this yellow scarf is evidence.”

  She folded the hideous cloth and thrust it into her skirt pocket. Then she sighed and pushed a wave of tarnished gold hair from her cheek.

  “I suppose we might as well try to get some sleep now,” she told me. “Our friend probably won’t be back for some time. It’ll take him a while to dispose of the bodies. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. We’ll need all our strength.”

  I would never have thought it possible, but sleep I did, sinking into unconsciousness almost as soon as I stretched out on the ground with the blanket wrapped around me. I awoke once, startled, and I saw the native step into the clearing and move over to where he had been sleeping earlier. I shivered, cold, pulling the blanket closer about me, and when I awoke again the rays of brilliant sunlight streamed through the trees and the magnificent black stallion stood in the clearing and Sally was helping the native pack the saddlebags.

  “You’re awake,” she called brightly. “It’s a perfectly gorgeous day, Miss Lauren. Look at that sunlight!”

  I sat up, groggy, shielding my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Late,” she retorted. “Do get up, sleepyhead. We must get an early start, you know. If we move right along and don’t poke, we should reach Dahlkari late this afternoon. I can hardly wait. If you want to know the truth, I’ve had about enough of this. I’m ready for a change of scene!”

  Four

  The native stopped and motioned for us to dismount. I was vastly relieved, for we hadn’t stopped to rest all afternoon, had, in fact, stopped only one time all day long, to eat some stringy dried beef he had pulled out of the saddlebags. Although the sun hadn’t begun to go down yet, it must have been very late in the afternoon, I reasoned, stretching my limbs, glad to be off the horse at last. We had left the desert behind some time ago, burning sand giving way to rocky soil sparsely covered with grass, rocky soil eventually turning into a greener, richer area with trees and small hills scattered with wildflowers.

  “My bottom will never be the same,” Sally complained. “I don’t care if I never see a horse again as long as I live.”

  “I wonder where we are?” I said.

  “I don’t know, but at least we’re out of that dreadful area of desert and jungle. Dahlkari can’t be far.”

  “Dahlkari,” the native said, pointing toward a wide pathway directly in front of us. It wound over a gradually sloping hill wooded with frangipani trees abloom with waxy rose-pink flowers. “You go,” he added in that deep, gutteral voice.

  “Dahlkari must be somewhere on the other side of the hill,” I remarked to Sally. “He seems to want us to go on ahead.”

  “Dahlkari,” he repeated. “You go.”

  Then, abruptly, he swung himself up into the saddle, his loose robe billowing.

  “But,” I protested, “your reward—English soldier McAllister, many rupees. You must come with us. You can’t just—”

  The native shook his head, his harsh face expressionless. Brushing a spray of raven locks from his forehead, he clicked the reins and rode away toward the north, leaving Sally and I both dumbfounded. We watched the sleek, powerful black horse galloping away, and then horse and rider disappeared in the distance, and we looked at each other in dismay.

  “I—I don’t understand it,” I said. “Reggie would have given him a very generous reward. He must have known that. Why would he just—ride away like that?”

  “I have a good idea,” Sally replied.

  “There’s no logical explanation. He brought us this far, then just—”

  “He probably wouldn’t dare show his face at the English garrison, Miss Lauren. The man’s undoubtedly a rogue, if not an out and out criminal. He’s probably wanted. The way he killed that man last night—he did it so coldly, so professionally, as though he’d had plenty of practice. The English would probably clap him in irons the minute they saw him.”

  “Then why did he rescue us? Why did he protect us? He didn’t have to bring us here. He could have just—”

  “Who knows?” Sally said philosophically. “Let’s just thank our l
ucky stars he did. We’ll never see the man again, and it’s just as well. He was spooky, downright spooky.”

  I shook my head, bewildered. Sally patted her hair.

  “We’d best start walking, Miss Lauren. Dahlkari might be further off than we think. There’s not too much daylight left.”

  We followed the pathway over the hill, trees close on either side, and an hour later we were still walking. Flat expanses covered with light jade grass alternated with lightly wooded areas, the sky a pale blue-gray overhead. There was no sign of the village. I was thirsty again and incredibly weary, my whole body sore and aching, but still I walked, wondering if this ordeal was ever going to end. Sally was just as exhausted as I, her vivacity sadly dampened. Another half hour or so passed, the light beginning to fade, and then Sally suddenly grabbed my arm, her brown eyes wide with excitement.

  “Soldiers!” she exclaimed.

  “Wh—what? Where?”

  “Over there, riding across that slope. Look at the uniforms! They’re British, Miss Lauren. Glory be, they’re British!”

  Sally began to shout and wave her arms like someone demented, and the band of riders changed their course and came riding toward us, pulling up a few feet away. There were six of them, the blond lieutenant on his large white horse obviously in charge. He was excessively handsome, extraordinarily impressive, undeniably British with those deep blue eyes.

  Sally and I both began talking at once, almost hysterically, and the lieutenant raised his arm, silencing us, then, stern, severe, a professional soldier, ordered two of his men to dismount. He dismounted himself, and I saw that he must have been at least six feet two, a radiant creature in his dark, polished boots, clinging white doeskin breeches and the tailored scarlet jacket with swinging gold epaulettes. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Michael Stephens and said he was at our service.

  “We’re on our way to Dahlkari,” I told him. “We were with a caravan. It was attacked by Thugs. We—we were the only survivors. I’m Lauren Gray, and Lieutenant Colonel McAllister is my guardian and—”

  “You can explain later. I’m sure you want to see your guardian as soon as possible.”

  “You—you’re with the garrison, then?”

  “Indeed I am. I’m your guardian’s aide.”

  “Thank God,” I said. “You have no idea what we’ve—”

  “Later,” he said gently.

  Then he took my hand and helped me mount one of the horses, his sergeant performing a similar service for Sally. Lieutenant Stephens swung back into the saddle with graceful ease and, turning to the two men whose horses we had taken, told them they could walk back to the garrison. In a matter of moments we were riding east at a comfortable gallop, the lieutenant and his sergeant in the lead, Sally and I directly behind them, the other two men bringing up the rear. I was dazed now, and I felt weaker and more vulnerable than I had felt since the ordeal began, perhaps because it had come to an end and I could at last let down my guard.

  The sun had started to go down now, and a faint haze had settled over everything as though the air itself had been stained with a soft violet-blue, long purple-black shadows spreading ahead of us as we rode, passing more fields, more wooded sections. The haze had thickened considerably by the time we reached the village, and it was clothed in shadow, lamps making warm golden squares. It was larger than I had imagined it to be, more small town than village and, because of the proximity of the British, far more prosperous than most. A river ran sluggishly alongside the village, and as we reached the outskirts I saw women with pitchers moving langourously toward it. There were water buffalo as well.

  Beyond the village, the ground began to rise in a gradual slope, and there, dominating the hillside, stood the English garrison, larger even than the village with tall, shady trees and large white houses washed with pale blue shadows, their windows ablaze with dark orange reflections as the last sun rays faded in the west. The barracks and military buildings were white, too, and as we drew nearer I could see the parade ground and the polo field. I heard hearty male laughter and the sound of children playing and, as we reached the top of the slope, India seemed to recede. We were in England again with English sights, English sounds. When I saw the Union Jack waving proudly atop a tall silver pole in the center of the main green, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  Lieutenant Stephens helped us dismount. Men came to lead our horses away, and the lieutenant led us on foot past barracks, past club house and mess hall toward the green. I was amazed at the flowers. They seemed to bloom everywhere—daisies and peonies and chrysanthemums and every variety of rose growing alongside more exotic, less familiar blooms. The green had plush, beautifully manicured grass, impressive houses facing it on all four sides. Each house had its own private gardens, flagstone paths leading up to the front doors, and the immense trees with their spreading boughs created an atmosphere of snug intimacy. There were powerful oaks and enormous gray banyan trees with thick, twisted roots exposed, teaks and tamarind and mangroves, too. The commanding officer’s house was, naturally, the most impressive of the lot, large and rambling, two stories high, surrounded by long, cool-looking verandas. The grounds were spacious, shaded by over a dozen trees, rather untidy gardens on either side and in back. It was all so homey and comfortable and English that I could hardly hold back my tears as Lieutenant Stephens ushered us up the front steps.

  An Indian houseboy led us into a foyer with dark varnished paneling and shabby Oriental carpets. Lamps shed warm golden blossoms of light, and a staircase with faded rose carpeting curled up to the second storey. I caught a glimpse of myself in the large mirror with an ornate frame, but I was too exhausted to care how I looked. The lieutenant spoke to the houseboy in a quiet voice. The houseboy nodded several times and peered at Sally and me with alarmed curiosity and then led the three of us down a hall to a huge, airy office with enormous windows facing the back and side gardens. There was far too much furniture, the furniture too heavy, and the place was literally awash with books and papers, military maps and prints covering all available wall space. The room smelled of leather and dust and tobacco, and there were several lamps with green glass shades, one of them on the gigantic desk with a littered top at which Lieutenant Colonel Reginald McAllister sat, pouring over a heavy ledger and looking highly disgruntled as we entered the room.

  He didn’t bother to look up, didn’t look up, in fact, until Lieutenant Stephens stepped over in front of the desk, stamped his boots in military fashion and presented a brisk salute.

  “Stephens? What’s this? What is it now? More drunken behavior in the barracks? Another brawl? I’m busy, man, busy! Be quick about it! Can’t you see I have things to do? Are the natives starting to uprise? Just give me the essential details. I’ve—” He cut himself short, seeing Sally and me standing behind the lieutenant. “I say, it can’t be. Lauren? Lauren? But we’re not expecting you for several days, girl! Dollie will have conniptions, that’s what she’ll do. She’s been making such preparations, has talked of nothing else—”

  He stood, tall and lean and incredibly well preserved for a man of his years. His short-clipped brown hair was beginning to gray, as was his neatly trimmed mustache, and with his piercing gray eyes, sharp nose and tan, weathered complexion he did indeed look formidable, particularly when he took up his monocle and screwed it into his left eye. Fierce and rugged, he had a stare that would make subalterns tremble in their boots, and he had the deep, thundering voice to go with it. Few suspected that beneath that querulous, snappish façade hid a kindhearted soul as tender and sentimental as they came. Reggie loved to bluster, but it didn’t fool anyone who knew him well.

  Hands on hips, Sally stared at him, not certain yet just how to take him.

  “What’s the meaning of this!” he bellowed. “Explain yourself, girl! Explain yourself at once! And what on earth happened to your clothes? You always were a rowdy tomboy, running around, getting in the way, getting into scrapes, but you’re a gr
own woman now! You look like you’ve been climbing trees again. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? And who’s this cheeky hoyden you’ve got with you?”

  Sally bristled. She shot him a venomous look. Reggie leaned over the desk to get a closer look at her.

  “What’s your name, girl!”

  “Sally,” she spat, “and I’m not afraid of you!”

  “You’re not, eh?”

  “Not at all, you—you bully! How dare you talk to Miss Lauren like that! You’re a thick-skulled, insensitive oaf, and—”

  Reggie grinned, taking to her immediately. “Spirit!” he cried. “I do love a lass with spirit. Can’t stand these mealymouthed maidens always jumping at their own shadows and havin’ the vapors.”

  “There’s been a spot of trouble, sir,” Lieutenant Stephens said quietly. “It seems the young ladies were traveling with a native caravan and it was attacked by Thugs. Everyone else was slaughtered.”

  “What? What’s this? You were supposed to travel with Lieutenant Parks. It was all arranged. I send him and his men to Delhi especially to meet you, and you were traveling with a band of natives?”

  “Lieutenant Parks got the measles,” I said calmly. “It would have been several days before we could leave and I wanted to get here as soon as possible. Yasmin Singh was leaving with his caravan, so—”

  “Measles? Measles did you say? He’s almost thirty! And he let you leave like that? He didn’t try to stop you? I’ll have his hide, that’s what I’ll do!”

  “Everyone in Delhi tried to stop us,” I replied, and my voice had begun to tremble now. “I—I was so impatient and Yasmin Singh agreed to let us accompany him and—and—”