The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [514]
Even with the aid of binoculars the light was still not strong enough to allow the five men on the hill-top to detect much detail in the shadowy, treeless maze of ridges and ravines that lay below them, or to pick out Ali Masjid from the hills that surrounded it. But the higher ranges were beginning to catch the first glimmer of dawn and to stand out clearly against the paling sky.
There was frost on the higher hills, and behind them, very far away, Wigram could see the gleam of snow and the white soaring peak of Sikaram, queen of the Safed Koh. It would be winter soon, he thought; the nights would be bitterly cold, and once the snow began to fall the northern passes would be blocked. He wouldn't have said, himself, it was a good time to start a war in a country like Afghanistan…
Glancing round at his companions he noticed for the first time that though Stewart, Scott and Colonel Jenkins were all lying at full length among the rocks, elbows propped on the ground as they raked the hills and ridges with their binoculars, Cavagnari alone had remained standing, and unlike the others, showed no interest in the scene ahead. His tall figure, outlined against the sky, conveyed a curious impression of tension, and his head was cocked a little on one side as though he was listening for something; and instinctively, Wigram too began to listen, straining his ears to pick out some unexpected sound in the dawn silence.
At first he could hear nothing but the hiss and whisper of the autumn wind through the rocks and the yellowing grasses, but presently he heard another sound: a faint click of metal on stone, followed by the unmistakable rattle of a displaced pebble rolling away down the hillside. Apparently Cavagnari had heard it too, and Wigram realized suddenly that this was something that the older man had been expecting; for though he made no movement the tension seemed to leave him.
Someone was climbing up towards them from the opposite side of the ridge, and now the others were aware of it too. Colonel Jenkins had dropped his binoculars and there was a revolver in his hand, while Scott and Stewart were on their knees and reaching for their own weapons; but Cavagnari checked them with an imperative gesture, and they waited, all five of them, making no sound and holding their breath to listen, while dawn broke over the plains below and the far snows flushed pink in the first glow of the new day.
The unseen climber was obviously an experienced hillman, for considering the difficulties of the terrain he was making excellent progress up the precipitous slope, and as though to prove what little effect the altitude and strenuous exercise had upon him, he began to hum the Zakmi dil, which is an old song that all Pathans know. Not loudly, but hissing it through his teeth -for Asiatics do not whistle.
The tune was no more than a thread of sound, but in that dawn stillness it was clearly audible, and hearing it Cavagnari gave a sharp sigh of relief and motioning to his companions to stay where they were, walked quickly forward and down the hillside. The melody broke off and a moment later they heard him give the Pathan greeting, ‘Stare-mah-sheh,’ and receive the conventional reply, and rising to their feet, looked downward and saw him in conversation with a lean, bearded tribesman who was armed with an antiquated matchlock and girt about with a bandolier stuffed full of brass-topped bullets.
It was not possible to hear what the two were saying, for after that first greeting their voices dropped to a murmur, but it was clear that Cavagnari