But the moon was getting low and Khyber would be dark again in half an hour, for the great crags in the distance to either hand shut off more light than do the Khyber walls. The mist, too, was growing thicker. It was time to make a move.
King rose. "Pack the mule and bring my horse!" he ordered and they hurried to obey with alacrity born of new respect, Darya Khan attending to the trimming of the mule's load in person instead of snarling at another man. It was a very different little escort from the one that had come thus far. Like King himself, it had changed its very nature in fifteen minutes!
They brought the horse, and King laughed at them, calling the idiots—men without eyes.
"The saddle?" Ismail suggested. "It is a government arrficer's saddle."
"Stolen!" said King, and they nodded. "Stolen along with the horse!"
"Then the bridle?"
"Stolen too, ye men without eyes! Ye insects! A Stolen horse and saddle and bridle, are they not a passport of gentility this side of the border?"
"Aye!"
"I am Kurram Khan, the dakitar, but who in the 'Hills' would believe it? Look now—look ye and tell me what is wrong?"
He pointed to the horse, and they stood in a row and stared.
"Shorten those stirrups, then, six holes at the least! Men will laugh at me if I ride like a British arrficer!"
"Aye!" said Ismail, hurrying to obey.
"Aye! Aye! Aye!" agreed the others.
"Now," he said, gathering the reins and swinging into the saddle, "who knows the way to Khinjan?"
"Which of us does not!"
"Ye all know it? Then ye all are border thieves and worse! No honest man knows that road! Lead on, Darya Khan, thou Lord of Rivers! Do thy duty as badragga and beware lest we get our knees wet at the fords! Ismail, you march next. Now I. You other two and the mule follow me. Let the man with the belly ache ride last on the other horse. So! Forward march!"
So Darya Khan led the way with his rifle, and King's face glowed in cigarette light not very far behind him as he legged his horse up the narrow track that led northward out of the Khyber bed.
It would be a long time before he would dare smoke a cigar again, and his supply of cigarettes was destined to dwindle down to nothing before that day. But he did not seem to mind.
"Cheloh!" he called. "Forward, men of the mountains! Kuch dar nahin hai!"
"Thy mother and the spirit of a fight were one!" swore Ismail just in front of him, stepping out like a boy going to a picnic. "She will love thee! Allah! She will love thee! Allah! Allah!"
The thought seemed to appal him. For hours after that he climbed ahead in silence.
