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Hardly had Mr Holmes uttered these words when a bullet ploughed into the side of my wretched pony, which stumbled a few paces to the edge of the track and then collapsed with a piteous whinny. I myself tumbled ignominiously on the ground like a bally football, and would probably have rolled right off the road and plunged over the cliff and into the river, had not Mr Holmes quickly dismounted and providentially come to my aid. In the veritable nick of time, when I was just commencing my fatal descent over the cliffside, he grabbed me by the back of my collar and hauled me away from the precipice.

'Thank you for most timely assistance, Sir,' I managed to gasp.

'Not at all,' he said, as we hurriedly crawled behind a protective rock. 'I really cannot afford to lose my invaluable guide just at the beginning of this journey.'

More rifle fire bracketed us. Sherlock Holmes returned a few shots, but unfortunately his pony panicked in the noise and confusion and ran off. So both of us were now sans cheval. The main body of riders had by now come very close. Some of them had dismounted and were firing at us. It was an extremely alarming situation — let me assure you dear reader — to have all those deadly projectiles zooming around us like maddened bumble-bees. But by resourceful usage of boulders, rock faces and other cover available for concealment thereof; and also as Sherlock Holmes's standard of marksmanship was of a very high order — which somewhat dampened the initial ardour of the overboldened rascals — we managed not to sustain any injury for the time being.

There was a sharp bend in the track before us that prevented us from seeing the bridge. I hoped that our men had managed to get the animals across safely.

'The blighters are closing in, Sir,' I shouted above the crackle of another fusillade by the enemy.

'I see them,' he replied, reloading his weapon methodically. 'We have to move before they get close enough to be able to rush us. Now listen, Huree. As soon as I begin firing, I want you to get up and start running. Don't even pause before you get around that bend. Ready? Now off you go!'

Mr Holmes commenced an effective rapid fire that caused the opposition to keep their heads low. I sprang up from behind my boulder, banged off a few wild shots myself from my revolver, and bounded up the track — my bally legs exerting themselves eighteen annas to the rupee. Sherlock Holmes fired a few more shots and then came running after me.

Swarms of lethal missiles whizzed and crackled around us during our precipitous flight. It seemed to be an agonisingly slow and endless run, but I finally approached the bend, and with one last tremendous burst of energy, flung myself gratefully around that crucial corner.

I was just going to heave a massive sigh of relief when a shockingly unexpected sight caused me to renounce, forthwith, all further hopes of a continuing corporeal existence.

As implacable as death, Ferret-Face stood in the middle of the track. The first thing I noticed about him was the very large Mauser automatic pistol in his right hand, which seemed to be pointed straight at me.

'Angels and ministers of grace defend us.'

Behind him, in full battle array, were the wildest looking bunch of Thibetans I had ever seen. They were scattered about the road and hillside, behind boulders and tree-trunks, but their rifles, muskets and jingals1 were charged and cocked, poised for firing. Sherlock Holmes came charging around the corner, nearly colliding into me, and was also confronted with this deadly impasse.

'What the Devil . . . ' he exclaimed, but realising the gravity of our predicament he composed himself admirably. With steady hands he lit his pipe and calmly proceeded to smoke as if he had not a care in the world. Ferret-Face raised his pistol. I saw his finger tightening around the trigger and I thought of the little palm-lined village in lower Bengal where I was born. Tears welled up in my eyes.

There was a loud bang followed by a sharp volley of rifle-fire and the boom of discharged muskets.