IN THE GORGE.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 230, 28 September 1936, Page 15

IN THE GORGE.

(By SIMPSON STOKES.)

A BULLET wliacked viciously against the rock overhead and fell, a flattened mass of hot metal, close to Watson's hand. Bikhar Singh and the surviving Sikh fired simultaneously in reply, while Standwell nursed his shattered wrist and groaned. His whole body felt as if it were on fire, and his thirst rose to a crescendo of torture. From where he lay in the narrow cave, crouched beside Watson, he could sec below, through a peephole in the hastily-constructed saiitjar, the flowing waters of the Mastuj sparkling with a thousand reflections. But the way to the water was the way of death, and the mutilated bodies of the liaik and Standwell's sepoy servant, hacked to mere heaps of oloodstahied tatters, interposed their grisly warnings. On the opposite side of the river the cliffs rose high in precipitous spurs separated by large ston3 shoots, and the rough road from Bunshid, which was the only feasible path for a relieving party from the fort, lay like a wavy ribbon along the lower slopes, vulnerable to rolled boulders and rifle fire wherever it passed the bases of the shoots. * * * * The annals of the North-West frontier could show no more desperate situation than that of the four survivors of the ambush, parched with thirst, faint witlj hunger and fatigue, and with but a few rounds of ammunition wherewith to stave off the assault which had been threatening all the ' weary afternoon. Watson's face was caked with dust and sweat. His head ached intolerably with the heat of the sun and the heat of the rocks. The tumultuous beating of tom-toms and the shouts of abuse and challenges to the Feringhis and "misbegotten eons of pigs" to c'ome out and fight had died down. But somewhere to the right out of his line of vision, he knew that they were gathering to the attack which would surely come before dark. His thoughts began to wander. For a moment he fancied himself back at Simla on leave, talking to Edith in the dusk on the verandah; thrilling to the soft cadences of her melodious contralto voice. 4 What aeons away from [this deathtrap in which Edith's husband lay beside him helpless, unable to fire a shot in self-dcfence! He had hated Standwell till this moment —hated him for no other reason than that he was Edith's husband. But now there was no room for hatred —only for sympathy and fellow feeling. It was terrible to hear those suppressed groans which Standwell was trying so hard to stifle. Dreadful . . . enough to send a man mad. So intense was Watson's longing for succour that the very wish produced aural delusions. His disordered senses were thus stirred by the imagined wild thrill of a bugle s •Hiding the advance, and the loud cheering of Sikhs in at the double down the Bunshid road. But the road stretched bare and silent on the other side of the river, and the vultures were busy. < * » » » He wondered how in would all end, and cold fear gripped his bowels as some grim lines of Kipling's came confusedly to his mind. What was it? Something about being left wounded 011 Afghanistan's plains, and not letting the women cut up your remains. That's how it went . . . "just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains . . . and go to your God like a soldier." But this wasn't 011 any plains. It was in a narrow gorge by the Mastuj River. And what would Edith Standwell do when she heard the nawß ? For whom would she weep most. Iter indifferent husband or her ardent lover? What need to ask? But there mustn't be any tears. Why should they die? Oh, Almighty God! Get us out of this mess and let us straighten things out with Edith. . . Then a horrible thing happened— agonising—Standwell started to sob. Great, shaking sobs from the dried-up hell of his throat and mouth—each one coming out gustily find quavering away into a sort of shuddering gasp. Bikhar Singh turned towards him and rose to his knees. "I will dress the sahib's wound," he was saying, but his turban showed above the sangar and a crashing volley laid him low, followed by a tremendous outburst of tom-toms, pipes and discordant l shouting, as though the very stones of the gorge were audible in mad outcry. The remaining Sikh took one glance at the body of his subadar. "See, sahib," lie said to Watson, "the handiwork of those dogs and • sons of dogs." He stoically added the dead man's store of ammunition to his own heap, and resumed his watchful survey of the river banks. Standwell's face was now dreadfully contorted with the struggle to subdue his sobs of anguish. At last his writhing lips were able to frame words: "You —you —won't let them —get me —alive, Tony." He indicated the revolver lying in his open holster. "Two rounds, Tony. One for each of us. Promise—promise you'll —you'll put me out quickly, old man— when they ruslr. Remember what they did—Hay ward." Watson nodded, and touched the unw.ounded wrist, as Standwell lapsed into merciful unconsciousness. Grim jest of fate! Forced to promise to shoot Edith's liiisband, when he had actually toyed with such a thought many times, in the security of the cantonments when he had nothing much to think of except the torment of his love for Edith! And now to do it in cold blood . . . to be implored . . . His mind refused to analyse things any more. The mention of Hayward brought upon him an overmastering horror which he could not s{w.ke off. The hillmen had used knives and burning splinters . . . Ugh! The sun sank lower in the sky—down to the level of the broken crest-line opposite. As though it had been a signal, there came a sudden burst of rifle fire. Next moment the rocks were swarming with gesticulating figures, white-clad, blue-clad, others in nondescript garb —rushing along the lengthening shadows of the cliffs towards the cave.

Another swarm appeared from the flanks, scrambling across Watson's line of vision. He felt it was useless to fire, though the Sikh was lying prone, intent upon the surging foe, the muzzle of his rifle spitting death. So —the time had come! A sensation as though his inside had been suddenly flooded wiih ice-cold water; a long-

(SHORT STORY.)

drawn intake of breath, and a hammering at the temples assailed Watson as the realisation came to him. He turned on his elbow and looked down at Standwell, who was breathing stertorously, his eyes closed. Edith's husband —out of the way at last in that grim, ironic way which was to remove his rival at the same time. There was not a moment to lose. Watson snatched the revolver from its liolster, placed it to the temple of the unconscious man, and fired! The report of the heavy service weapon crashed loudly in that confined space, and the Sikh turned his head. As he saw what had happened his soft brown eyes held an incredulous look, which changed to bewilderment, then to unutterable reproach;' Even in his haste Watson felt the implication of that look. * * * * But what should the Sikh know of his promise to Standwell? Besides, there was no time for regrets. Out in front there was a pandemonium of shots and shouting, and rushing figures as in a nightmare. With set face and lips compressed, Watson turned the revolver against himself, but in the very act of pressing the trigger he saw t!ie Sikh rise to his full height and shout aloud, snatching off his turban and wildly waving its loosened folds like a streamer waved at a earnival. Then Watson saw that the tribesmen were running past their rocky shelter, and that the firing came from the Bunshid road. It was tlu Sikhs from the fort nearby, and a moment later a subaltern and half a dozen of his doughtywarriors could be seen splashing through the waters and clambering up the slope. The revolver dropped from Watson's nerveless hand. Ho stared dumbly at his rescuers, his mouth sagging open, and the torments of the damned in his soul. The Sikh had stopped waving. He had dropped his turban, and now stood ri"idlv as a statue, his arms folded. He was staring fixedly at Watson, over the bodies of Standwell and the subadar, and the reproach in his eyes was, more than Watson could bear.