Kim - Rudyard Kipling (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📗

dreamland when his ears caught a whisper, thin and sharp, above the monotonous babble round the fire. It came from behind the iron-skinned horse-truck.

“He is not here, then?”

“Where should he be but roystering in the city. Who looks for a rat in a frog-pond? Come away. He is not our man.”

“He must not go back beyond the Passes a second time. It is the order.”

“Hire some woman to drug him. It is a few rupees only, and there is no evidence.”

“Except the woman. It must be more certain; and remember the price upon his head.”

“Ay, but the police have a long arm, and we are far from the Border. If it were in Peshawur, now!”

“Yes⁠—in Peshawur,” the second voice sneered. “Peshawur, full of his blood-kin⁠—full of bolt-holes and women behind whose clothes he will hide. Yes, Peshawur or Jehannum would suit us equally well.”

“Then what is the plan?”

“O fool, have I not told it a hundred times? Wait till he comes to lie down, and then one sure shot. The trucks are between us and pursuit. We have but to run back over the lines and go our way. They will not see whence the shot came. Wait here at least till the dawn. What manner of fakir art thou, to shiver at a little watching?”

“Oho!” thought Kim, behind close-shut eyes. “Once again it is Mahbub. Indeed a white stallion’s pedigree is not a good thing to peddle to Sahibs! Or maybe Mahbub has been selling other news. Now what is to do, Kim? I know not where Mahbub houses, and if he comes here before the dawn they will shoot him. That would be no profit for thee, Kim. And this is not a matter for the police. That would be no profit for Mahbub; and”⁠—he giggled almost aloud⁠—“I do not remember any lesson at Nucklao which will help me. Allah! Here is Kim and yonder are they. First, then, Kim must wake and go away, so that they shall not suspect. A bad dream wakes a man⁠—thus⁠—”

He threw the blanket off his face, and raised himself suddenly with the terrible, bubbling, meaningless yell of the Asiatic roused by nightmare.

“Urr-urr-urr-urr! Ya-la-la-la-la! Narain! The churel! The churel!”

A churel is the peculiarly malignant ghost of a woman who has died in childbed. She haunts lonely roads, her feet are turned backwards on the ankles, and she leads men to torment.

Louder rose Kim’s quavering howl, till at last he leaped to his feet and staggered off sleepily, while the camp cursed him for waking them. Some twenty yards farther up the line he lay down again, taking care that the whisperers should hear his grunts and groans as he recomposed himself. After a few minutes he rolled towards the road and stole away into the thick darkness.

He paddled along swiftly till he came to a culvert, and dropped behind it, his chin on a level with the coping-stone. Here he could command all the night-traffic, himself unseen.

Two or three carts passed, jingling out to the suburbs; a coughing policeman and a hurrying foot-passenger or two who sang to keep off evil spirits. Then rapped the shod feet of a horse.

“Ah! This is more like Mahbub,” thought Kim, as the beast shied at the little head above the culvert.

“Ohé, Mahbub Ali,” he whispered, “have a care!”

The horse was reined back almost on its haunches, and forced towards the culvert.

“Never again,” said Mahbub, “will I take a shod horse for night-work. They pick up all the bones and nails in the city.” He stooped to lift its forefoot, and that brought his head within a foot of Kim’s.

“Down⁠—keep down,” he muttered. “The night is full of eyes.”

“Two men wait thy coming behind the horse-trucks. They will shoot thee at thy lying down, because there is a price on thy head. I heard, sleeping near the horses.”

“Didst thou see them?⁠ ⁠… Hold still, Sire of Devils!” This furiously to the horse.

“No.”

“Was one dressed belike as a fakir?”

“One said to the other, ‘What manner of fakir art thou, to shiver at a little watching?’ ”

“Good. Go back to the camp and lie down. I do not die tonight.”

Mahbub wheeled his horse and vanished. Kim tore back down the ditch till he reached a point opposite his second resting-place, slipped across the road like a weasel, and recoiled himself in the blanket.

“At least Mahbub knows,” he thought contentedly. “And certainly he spoke as one expecting it. I do not think those two men will profit by tonight’s watch.”

An hour passed, and, with the best will in the world to keep awake all night, he slept deeply. Now and again a night train roared along the metals within twenty feet of him; but he had all the Oriental’s indifference to mere noise, and it did not even weave a dream through his slumber.

Mahbub was anything but asleep. It annoyed him vehemently that people outside his tribe and unaffected by his casual amours should pursue him for the life. His first and natural impulse was to cross the line lower down, work up again, and, catching his well-wishers from behind, summarily slay them. Here, he reflected with sorrow, another branch of the Government, totally unconnected with Colonel Creighton, might demand explanations which would be hard to supply; and he knew that south of the Border a perfectly ridiculous fuss is made about a corpse or so. He had not been troubled in this way since he sent Kim to Umballa with the message, and hoped that suspicion had been finally diverted.

Then a most brilliant notion struck him.

“The English do eternally tell the truth,” he said, “therefore we of this country are eternally made foolish. By Allah, I will tell the truth to an Englishman! Of what use is the Government police if a poor Kabuli be robbed of his horses in their very trucks. This is as bad as Peshawur! I should lay a complaint at the station. Better still, some young Sahib