With expressions of mutual regard, the meeting broke up and the four riders made their way back to the head of the column. As the contingent of young warriors on foot drew level with them, on a word from James the Scouts closed in and established themselves on either side of the track. A bearded Rissaldar began to address the advancing horde.
‘He’s saying,’ said James, ‘that they have to leave their arms at the little checkpoint we’ve set up at the next stream crossing. They’re not allowed to carry arms through into British India. They know this perfectly well. It happens every year. I never think it’s tactful to mention it in the presence of their leaders since they must find it somewhat galling and our convention is that they and we pretend it isn’t happening and leave it to the lower orders to sort it out amongst themselves. “Diplomacy Lindsay” they call me!’
‘No joy with the Malik, I gathered?’ said Joe.
‘Afraid not. No sighting or report of them anywhere along their route and they’ve come, as we expected, straight down the caravan way from Kabul.’
‘You know he was lying?’
‘Of course. Nothing we can do about it though.’
‘I don’t believe this!’ Joe said with a desperate look around him at the tumbling rocks and crevices. “They’re up there somewhere! Watching our every movement through field glasses at this very moment!’
‘Could well be,’ said James. ‘And if not them, there’ll be others up there, one behind each crag keeping an eye on things. We’ll hang on for a while if you don’t mind, Joe. There’s someone in the caravan I always stay to greet.’
It seemed to Joe, looking up the track, as though the whole bottom of the pass had worked loose and was moving slowly towards them. Amidst the dust storm he saw the caravan separated into its component parts, sheep in hundreds – no thousands, camels, families on the march, three and four generations loaded on to the same camel. They stayed in place as the caravan rolled by almost overwhelming them with the noise and the stench of the goats and sheep and camels. Joe was amazed by the sight of so many camels each piled high with tottering heaps of trading goods, of tents and equipment and children. He laughed and waved as three children, each clutching a puppy, went by, small heads bobbing in rhythm with the camel’s stalking stride. From time to time they were the subject of inspection by the herd dogs, mastiffs, some as big as ponies, who approached with warning snarls, vicious eyes gleaming under matted black fringes. He cast interested sideways looks at the young Powindah girls who leapt from rock to rock herding the sheep, each with a rifle slung across her back. They went unveiled, tall, brown and beautiful, striding freely in their long brightly coloured dresses.
After an hour’s assault on the senses Joe thought he could see the end of the caravan coming into view. One or two camels brought up the rear in the company of a number of armed riders. These appeared to be mainly middle-aged men. ‘The veterans,’ Joe thought, admiring the careful deployment of protective measures throughout the caravan. As the last camel swayed by James moved closer and looked up expectantly at the rider.
‘Watch’er cobber!’ sang out a shrill voice.
‘Watch’er Maggie!’ James yelled back. ‘All well with you, Sweetheart?’
The figure on the camel, Joe now saw, had dusty grey hair which might once have been blonde. She turned a laughing face to them, as brown and folded as the hills, and shouted back, ‘All dinkie doo! Can’t complain, ducks! Can’t complain!’
‘James! Have I gone mad?’ said Joe. ‘Is this the Khyber or Koolgardie?’
‘That was Maggie,’ said James. ‘Strange place to find an Australian woman you might think until you know her story. When they discovered gold in Australia they also found they had a problem – the mines were in desert areas and the only transport that worked effectively was camels. Trouble is – camel driving is a very particular skill. They recruited dozens of young camel-handlers from this part of the world to do the job. As you’ve seen from this cavalcade, the average Powindah youth is a staggeringly good-looking chap and our Maggie fell for one… and she wasn’t the only one! She was a miner’s daughter and she fled the Australian outback for the Indian outback. She’s happy with them and they’re very happy with her. She’s become quite a matriarch – must be grandmother to half the tribe by now! Every year the British Government in the shape of the fort commander makes a point of checking on her welfare. Hey! What the hell! What’s this?’
He stopped in alarm as a young boy loitering behind the caravan emerged from behind a rock and with a cheeky yell of ‘Watch’er cobber!’ hurled a stone at Joe.
Joe felt the stone whiz by his left ear and land in the sand a few feet away.
Tensely James said, ‘Pick it up. Pretend to throw it back at him. He’ll slip back behind the rock and disappear. Shout something rude and put the stone in your pocket.’
Smoothly Joe slid from his horse, executing what he thought was a pretty convincing pantomime of an enraged British officer failing to get a shot at target. As they started back for the fort, Joe asked, ‘Are you going to tell me what that was all about?’
‘Think about it, Joe! If a Pathan boy wants to hit you with a stone, he most certainly will! You’ve seen a sample of their throwing skills on the cricket field! He was aiming to miss and he was obviously one of Maggie’s brood because he announced himself in Australian. Don’t touch the stone yet – eyes everywhere and I don’t want to get Maggie into trouble – but I’ll bet there’s more to it than you might think. We’ll have a closer look when we get back to the fort.’
Puzzled, intrigued and with the stone bumping tantalizingly against his hip he rode back and waited patiently while James dismissed the Mounted Infantry then walked with him to the ops room. There they found Fred Moore-Simpson and Hugh poring over the map.
‘There you are! Glad you didn’t go off with the gypsies too – we were beginning to get a bit anxious,’ Fred said cheerfully. ‘Hope you fellows have had better luck than we have. We’ve had to tuck the Bristol up for the night but we’ll fly off a dawn patrol first thing tomorrow morning. I have to say, today we’ve drawn a complete blank. We’ve marked the territory we’ve overflown if you’d care to take a look. Just a nil return, I’m afraid.’
‘Sounds as though you could all do with a reviving cup of tea,’ said Grace Holbrook entering with a large brass tray. She busied herself pouring out tea and handing round cups and, taking one for herself, she settled down in the armchair to turn the pages of Punch and listen.
‘We had no luck either,’ said James. ‘The Powindahs declared they hadn’t seen or heard any news of our target. The only thing of note was that a nomad boy threw a stone at Joe and missed. May be nothing but my imagination of course but let’s have a look, shall we, Joe?’
Feeling that an anticlimax was about to overtake them Joe fished the stone from his pocket and laid it on the map table. Hugh looked, mystified, from one to the other and said uncertainly, ‘Ah. The very stone, I take it?’
James peered closely at the triangular-shaped, unremarkable piece of shale, reached out and turned it over. The underside was flat and across it was scrawled, just distinguishable, a word in badly formed capital letters in heavy indelible pencil.
MARDANCOTAL.
‘Thank you, Maggie!’ said James fervently. ‘There! I told you – if he’d wanted to hit Joe, he would have done!’
Fred looked at him in puzzlement. ‘I say, do you mind telling us what’s going on?’
James explained who Maggie was and the trick she had played to give them this information. ‘Normally the old dear would just bellow out any information we needed and quite a lot we didn’t need but today she was silent and eager to hurry on. Friendly as ever but silent. The whole tribe must have been put under some pressure not to tell us what they knew! And it doesn’t take much wit to work out what the pressure was! The Powindah have to travel for hundreds of miles through Amanullah’s country. If they crossed him – or one of his lieutenants, let’s say Iskander – he could make their lives very unpleasant. I thought the old Malik was making quite a show of not telling us anything. Someone was watching him and us. Maybe one of our own Mounted Infantry, maybe someone up in the crags, most likely one of the three men of his escort. Now he’s squared with the Amir and his bully boys as far as appearances are concerned but Maggie – Maggie must have found out something she didn’t quite like the sound or sight of and found her own way of letting us know.’