was coming down the Khyber in a hurry. One of the mules brayed until
the whole gorge echoed with the insult, and a man hit him hard on
the nose to silence him.

King legged his horse into the shadow of a great rock. And after
shepherding the men and mules into another shadow, Ismail came and
held his stirrup, with the leather bag in the other hand. The bag
fascinated him, because he did not know what was in it, and it was
plain that he meant to cling to it until death or King should put
an end to curiosity.

King drew his pistol. Ismail drew in his breath with a hissing sound,
as if he and not King were the marksman. King notched the foresight
against the corner of a crag, at a height that ought to be an inch
or two above an oncoming horse's ears, and Ismail nodded sagely.
Whoever now should gallop round that rock would be obliged to cross
the line of fire. Such are the vagaries of the Khyber's night echoes
that it was a long five minutes yet before a man appeared at last,
riding like the night wind, on a horse that seemed to be very nearly on
his last legs. The beast was going wildly, sobbing, with straggled ears.

Instead of speaking, King spurred out of the shadow and blocked
the oncoming horseman's way, making his own horse meet the other
shoulder to breast, knocking most of the remaining wind out of him.
At risk of his own life, Ismail seized the man's reins. The sparks
flew, and there was a growled oath; but the long and the short
of it was that the rider squinted uncomfortably down the barrel
of King's repeating pistol.

"Give an account of yourself!" commanded King.