• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

The track wound in and out of the mountainside following the meanderings of the river. A couple of furlongs further up the road a narrow bridge had been erected across the river which was not more than seventy feet in width at this point. The bridge was of the kind called sanga by the hill people, which means a wooden bridge or a bridge of planks, contrasted with jhula, a rope bridge. The pier of the bridge on the left bank was formed by an isolated rock that jutted out precariously from the cliff side.

Taking out the pen-case telescope from my pocket, I focused it on the cliffs on the other side of the river. I tracked their whole length, as far as they were visible, but save for a solitary lammergeyer feeding on a dead lamb, detected nothing. But, 'one has checked nothing unless one has double-checked everything,' as we say at the Department. So once again I raised the telescope to my eye and commenced vigilant observations, mumbling to myself all the while. A deplorable habit — but one that I had unconsciously acquired over the years in an attempt to commit to memory all that I was observing.

'What's that? Rather a funny-looking rock there. Looks more like a bally topee than anything else. By Jove, it is a topee ... how the deuce an' all did it get there? ... Gosh! There's a head under it too ... let's have a better look. Oh, damn this beastly focus knob. It's too tight. Damn Lurgan ... aah ... that's better. Now ... What! Ferret-Face! O Shaitan!'

The head disappeared behind a rock just as I laid eyes on it, making me a bit unsure whether I had really seen it in the first place. I rushed back and told Sherlock Holmes what I thought I had just seen.

'Hmm,' he frowned,'that fellow's getting to be a regular stormy petrel. We must leave this place at once. It is too exposed.'

'Yes, Sir! I will make preparations for departure at once. Arre, Kintup. Idhar aao.'

I explained the situation to Kintup and the others. Kintup (admirable fellow) was a veteran of many adventures and unperturbed by such unexpected contingencies. He immediately set about preparing for our speedy departure. The others followed his worthy example. Barely was the last mule loaded when Gaffuru, the Argon, cried out, pointing to the road below, the one we had passed just a short while ago.

'Dekho sahib! Riders.'

About a mile away, on the road below, a cloud of dust moved rapidly towards us. I whipped out my special telescope and focused it on the sight of a company of the most desperate looking bandits, armed to the teeth, whipping their shaggy ponies furiously.

'Look, Mr Holmes!' I cried, handing him the telescope. 'We are in mortal peril of life and limb.'

'So it would seem,' he replied, cool as a cucumber. He handed me back my telescope and, going over to one of the pack mules, pulled out a Martini-Henry rifle we had concealed, pro re nata, under its pannier. He began to load it rapidly. 'Get those mules moving up the track quickly. If we manage to cross the bridge before they get to us, we have a slight chance of holding them off from across the river.'

I at once perceived that Mr Holmes's plan was the only feasible course of action. Yet, it was a good three furlongs to the bridge, probably more, and the mules would slow us down a great deal — and in the meanwhile the riders would be catching up with us, fast. It would be touch and go, at best.

'Arre! Chalo! Choo, choo!'

Kintup, Jamspel and Gaffuru whipped the animals up the track while Sherlock Holmes, with his cocked rifle, and myself with my nickel-plated revolver, followed as rearguards. The road was, at this point, cut into the side of a near perpendicular cliff, winding in and out, following the twists and turns of the savage river a hundred feet below.

We had not covered more than a furlong when suddenly a crackle of rifle fire echoed from across the river and the rock face by our side spurted dust and stone chips. Our ponies reared and skittered with fright.

'By Thunder!' cried Holmes,'they have some marksmen across the river.