# The Camp of the Snake/Chapter 10
### CHAPTER X
#### THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF

WE WERE caught by the first burst of rain in the clearing and by the time we staggered in through the entrance of the big tent our clothes were soggy with water. The tent was dark, Moorcroft's servants being still A. W. O. L., and he felt his way into the study to the lamp that stood on his desk, while I put down the rifle and went after him for a rag, to wipe it off.
Out of the darkness a match flared up and someone else lighted the lamp. It was Larry Dixon, and when he put the shade in place and turned toward us I saw two of his natives squatted against the side of the partition. They were all spattered a bit with rain, so I guessed they had just arrived.
"Where's dear Arnold?" smiled Dixon.
If ever a man seemed worked up to tear things wide open Dixon was that man. His sunken eyes smouldered and twitched and two red spots burned in his cheeks. He may have had a shot of his favorite stuff, opium or bhang, but the loose folds of skin about his mouth and his puckered lips were traces of the experience he'd come through. The mask was off his face, to stay off.
"I've precious little time to waste on you two," he snarled. "Where's that cub?"
"He is not here," responded Moorcroft calmly, wiping the water off his glasses.
"That's a lie! You've hounded me enough, Moorcroft. Now you're coming with me to the tomb in the grove and if your cursed Chitralis try any more trickery, you'll be the one to suffer."
"Precisely," nodded the little doctor. "And you. No man could break into the screen and come out alive."
How much Dixon remembered of his experience I don't know, but it couldn't have been much. Just then I heard Gordon's step behind me, and her voice.
"Captain Dixon! Is it true that you ordered Anim Dass to put Mr. Cobden out of the way?"
The one thing that hurt her most was that he should have had a native for a sidekick. His eyes half closed and his teeth clicked shut. What he would have said I don't know, and Gordon, after a look at his face, was past caring by then. It was the little doctor who laid all cards on the table, after a quick glance at Dixon.
Moorcroft rummaged in the mess Arnold had made of his papers and drew out a small slip with a few words scribbled on it.
"Just a minute," he said gravely. "Miss Carnie perhaps will believe this now. I hope it will save her from a heartless scoundrel. And it may prove to be a timely bit of news for you, Dixon."
It was a telegram, dated three days ago, which ran:
YOUR ADVICE AS TO CHITRAL SITUATION RECEIVED. IT IS URGENTLY IMPORTANT THAT THE TOMB AND ITS GROVE SHOULD NOT BE MOLESTED. THEY ARE UNQUESTIONABLY THE PROPERTY OF THE RAJAH BABUR EL-SULAIMAN. FRIENDSHIP OF HILL TRIBES AT STAKE. CALCUTTA PARTNERS OF TIMBER ENTERPRISE COMING TO TAKE OVER. C. I. D. SENDING REPRESENTATIVE TO ARREST DIXON, WHO IS BELIEVED TO BE HEAD OF GANG OF NATIVE THIEVES DELHI.
The telegram was addressed to Moorcroft, and signed by the Resident of Kashmir. C. I. D. stood for the Criminal Investigation Department.
"Apparently, Dixon," went on the doctor quietly, "your precious pair of conjurers who robbed Mr. Smith at the hotel are not your only servants. Did you want his money or his papers?"
One of the breaks in the storm came just then, and we could hear the rumble of the river down below, and the snapping of the canvas under the gale. I heard something more, the sputtering roar of a motor with cut-out open a considerable distance off. Dixon caught it, too.
He had been glaring at Moorcroft, his lips moving in a kind of whisper. Until now there had been nothing against him but Moorcroft's suspicions—and the tale of Anim Dass who was dead, so that didn't count. Seeing that telegram, however, and realizing that he was being tracked down roused the devil in him.
There was a way out for him and his quick brain grasped it before I did. With a snarl he jerked a revolver out of his belt and fired at Moorcroft. The slender man went down as if his legs had been pulled out from under him. And Dixon had the gun pulled down on me before I'd got mine out from its sling. Miss Carnie saved me that time, by stepping between us and Dixon snapped something at the two natives that sounded like:
"Missy-sahib, lao!"
They were on their feet and caught her by the arms, hauling her to one side, while she struggled to win free, calling Dixon a coward, which he wasn't, exactly, whatever else he might have been.
"I'll have use for you, Gordon," he muttered, watching for a chance to wing me. "A hostage, across the frontier—Miss Carnie, you know—worth a few hundred pounds, what? Ah, Smith!"
When the girl was pulled to one side we both shot, almost together, and both of us missed. I had stepped back as I pulled the trigger, into the next compartment, which was dark. One of the Hindus had been pulling a knife, to throw it, and I wanted to shift to new ground.
The minute I reached the waiting room the lamp in the study was blown out. I listened and heard nothing at all until Gordon called out clearly.
"They will kill you, in the tent, Mr. Smith. Go to Arn——"
Somebody cut her off but her advice was good. I slipped out the front entrance a short ways and knelt down, trying to watch the black square of the opening against the gray blurr of the wind-whipped walls. Then came a flash of lightning and I saw Dixon walking toward me, his gun poised. We shot so close together that it was impossible to hear my bullet strike. My coat jerked and something cold as ice grazed the tender skin over a rib.
That bird could shoot, and I changed position again, waiting for the next display of lightning, and getting madder all the time.
When the flash came I was looking toward the tent, and I glimpsed one of the natives crawling along the ground, knife in hand. I pulled down on him and heard the bullet strike this time, just before Dixon's gun barked and a weight landed on my right forearm, and every nerve in me turned around a few times.
That jar and the crack that followed it told me a bone in the arm was out of commission. I took the revolver in my left hand and crawled to one side. A couple of dim flashes, high up in the clouds showed me that Dixon was coming forward again. I heard him laugh and knew that he'd seen something to his liking.
"I doubt if you'll have as much burial as Anim Dass, Mr. Smith," he whispered.
I knew better than to risk a shot at the sound, with the gun in my left hand. The pain in my right arm was beginning to make me dizzy, and I figured the edge of the cliff must be close behind me. Dixon must have seen it. The lightning had suspended operations, but the clouds were drifting away and the moonlight was growing stronger all the time.
Dixon's figure began to take shape, a few paces away, and I nerved myself for another shot, knowing it might be my last, and praying that it would do enough damage to keep him from carrying off the girl. The wind was whining in the brush, and the air seemed to vibrate with it, when the last clouds rolled away from the moon.
I had Dixon along the sights, but I never pulled the trigger. His arm was swaying in front of him and his face was turned up to the sky. Behind him, and all around the clearing, I saw a throng of turbaned natives squatting—all except one man.
He was an old man. His thin arms were lifted over his head and he was looking up into the silvery space over the jutting heights around us. I could see jewels gleam in his turban, and his long cloak made him look like some kind of a priest. Somewhere in the grove a drum was booming, and the beat of it kept time with the roaring of blood in my ears.
Dixon's arm jerked spasmodically and the revolver dropped from his fingers. He half turned as if trying to run out of the semi-circle of squatting figures. Then he cried out and caught at his throat.
The old man pointed out over the valley, and I shivered. The same force that had disarmed Dixon was driving him away from me toward the edge of the precipice. I could see all the Chitralis looking at him and then, pushing back and struggling as if a resistless wind was driving him ahead, Dixon stumbled to the edge of the cliff. Flinging up his arms he dropped out of Sight.
I must have been more than a little faint, because a half dozen moons seemed to come down from the sky and dance around the clearing. When they went away the old man and his tribe had gone and Miss Carnie was standing in the tent entrance calling me anxiously.
In the study I found Dr. Moorcroft calmly bandaging up his right chest, where Dixon's bullet had ripped through.
"Hullo Smith! The rajah of Chitrali was just here—motored up from Delhi to see what the trouble was. Said you'd drop in presently. Fine old specimen, isn't he?"
With a glance at my arm, he pulled off my coat and shook his head. His injury prevented his setting the broken bone and he said cheerfully that he'd have to send me down to the nearest army post to be patched up by a surgeon. All at once he smiled.
"Understand anything of native customs now, Smith? Or are you still wishful to go up against the occult power of a whole people with a revolver in your hand?"
"I won't meddle, thank you," I told him.
He was a strange fellow. Becoming serious, he stared at me thoughtfully.
"Do you know, Smith, I fancy your meddling saved me my life and Miss Carnie an extremely unpleasant ordeal—to say nothing of her brother."
"Tell me just one thing, Dr. Moorcroft," I begged. "What was the idea of the native who raided my berth and brandished a knife in my ear on the train. Was that Dixon's doing?"
"No, he smiled, "mine. The chap was one of my servants, and I felt confident that the incident would discourage you from getting into further trouble. I was wrong."
He told me that he was worried about Gordon Carnie. The girl was about at the end of her rope, with a fever that might develop in her brain. She was determined to leave the grove at once. Moorcroft agreed that she ought to be taken down to the hill settlement at Simla or some such place, and out of these surroundings.
Just then we were hailed from the entrance. There stood Arnold Carnie, my rifle in hand, blinking like a sleepy owl. We had a laugh out of that and it did us good. When we gave him a sketch of what had happened he was indignant.
"Why in thunder didn't you blighters wake me up? Smith, it wasn't a bit fair. You got the first buck, and all the fighting."
I cheered him up a little by showing him how to get the water out of that fool carbureter in the car, by warming up the motor. After that he bundled up his sister and stowed her in the rear seat, while I took the wheel. Arnold wasn't much of a hand at driving, and it was up to me to coax that bus about a hundred miles to civilization.
And it was a whale of a ride down that muddy mountain trail, over the rock bridges and around washouts, with the prospect of skidding after Anim Dass and Dixon if the brakes were put on too suddenly—and with only one hand to manage the wheel and the gears. The sun came up and the mist rolled around us like a sea. Miles overhead the sun gleamed on the snow of the mountains we were leaving.
Yes, it was a morning for the gods, and a ride of rides. By the time we reached the first bungalows and the buffalo carts and palms Gordon Carnie was sleeping in her brother's arms and we knew that the danger of brain fever was past. When we stopped I felt sorry that it was over.
IT'S A dusty morning in May, and the street cars are raising a steady bedlam on Woodward. There's a glint of green out where Belle Isle is, and the sun is warm on the pavements. I saw a straw hat today, and the windows are opened at last.
There's a letter from Arnold Carnie in the mail, asking me to come out for a summer's shooting in the high hill country, north of Kashmir, and he promises real game this time. I can't afford to go and maybe I ought to stay sitting at the desk, but by thunder I'm going.
When the red gods call a fellow, he takes the next train out, or feels sorry the rest of his life. What are the red gods? Well, some say the hunting call; others, wanderlust. But I'm through trying to explain things.