Tallantire drove his spurs into a rampant skewbald stallion with china-blue eyes, and settled himself for the forty-mile ride to Fort Ziar.  Knowing his district blindfold, he wasted no time hunting for short cuts, but headed across the richer grazing-ground to the ford where Orde had died and been buried.  The dusty ground deadened the noise of his horse’s hoofs, the moon threw his shadow, a restless goblin, before him, and the heavy dew drenched him to the skin.  Hillock, scrub that brushed against the horse’s belly, unmetalled road where the whip-like foliage of the tamarisks lashed his forehead, illimitable levels of lowland furred with bent and speckled with drowsing cattle, waste, and hillock anew, dragged themselves past, and the skewbald was labouring in the deep sand of the Indus-ford.  Tallantire was conscious of no distinct thought till the nose of the dawdling ferry-boat grounded on the farther side, and his horse shied snorting at the white headstone of Orde’s grave.  Then he uncovered, and shouted that the dead might hear, ’They’re out, old man!  Wish me luck.’  In the chill of the dawn he was hammering with a stirrup-iron at the gate of Fort Ziar, where fifty sabres of that tattered regiment, the Belooch Beshaklis were supposed to guard Her Majesty’s interests along a few hundred miles of Border.  This particular fort was commanded by a subaltern, who, born of the ancient family of the Derouletts, naturally answered to the name of Tommy Dodd.  Him Tallantire found robed in a sheepskin coat, shaking with fever like an aspen, and trying to read the native apothecary’s list of invalids.

‘So you’ve come, too,’ said he.  ’Well, we’re all sick here, and I don’t think I can horse thirty men; but we’re bub—­bub—­bub blessed willing.  Stop, does this impress you as a trap or a lie?’ He tossed a scrap of paper to Tallantire, on which was written painfully in crabbed Gurmukhi, ’We cannot hold young horses.  They will feed after the moon goes down in the four border villages issuing from the Jagai pass on the next night.’  Then in English round hand—­’Your sincere friend.’

‘Good man!’ said Tallantire.  ’That’s Khoda Dad Khan’s work, I know.  It’s the only piece of English he could ever keep in his head, and he is immensely proud of it.  He is playing against the Blind Mullah for his own hand—­the treacherous young ruffian!’

’Don’t know the politics of the Khusru Kheyl, but if you’re satisfied, I am.  That was pitched in over the gate-head last night, and I thought we might pull ourselves together and see what was on.  Oh, but we’re sick with fever here and no mistake!  Is this going to be a big business, think you?’ said Tommy Dodd.

Tallantire gave him briefly the outlines of the case, and Tommy Dodd whistled and shook with fever alternately.  That day he devoted to strategy, the art of war, and the enlivenment of the invalids, till at dusk there stood ready forty-two troopers, lean, worn, and dishevelled, whom Tommy Dodd surveyed with pride, and addressed thus:  ’O men!  If you die you will go to Hell.  Therefore endeavour to keep alive.  But if you go to Hell that place cannot be hotter than this place, and we are not told that we shall there suffer from fever.  Consequently be not afraid of dying.  File out there!’ They grinned, and went.