Plentywood herald. [volume] (Plentywood, Mont.) 1908-current, 1931-01-15
IN THREE PARTS-PART ONE


THERE had been rain earlier in the
afternoon, rain guSty and cool.
washing the peaks and valleys, the
fallow and the Now no speck
Of dust was on this fine. broad world,
as clean as if it had been newly created
by the Lord Allah. The land was sink
ing into the calm which evening ever
brings to our hills. and so-with the
days work done, and well done-there
was music and rejoicing and throaty
laughter in the hujra, the communal
hall of the Kara-Bayrak tribe of At
ghans, that faced the simple village
mosque with its pride of stout walls
and sloping roof, freshly matched, and
massive, corbel-stepped gables.
Here they were gathered; the strong,
ruddy, bearded peasants, with their
wives and mothers, their daughters and
sisters, women of the free north, thus
unveiled. high-colored, wide-bosomed-
and they drank tea favored with wild
herbs. they munched dried sunflower
seeds, and snapped news Of the coun-
tryside, while Akbar Jan. perched in
the nook of a window, shut his eyes as
he played on his seven-stringed Tartar
fiddle, pumping with ecstacy from the
source of melody that aye dubbed in
! his heart.
Ancient central Asian Tits he
thrummed: The Wind That Shakes
the Fir Trees" and Fly, Hawk, Fqy!"
and "Kandahar, the Kings Town"
Then somebody hummed. Somebody
raised a rough voice in song.
Soon they all were singing-singing
the old songs-the songs of feud; the
stirring songs Of heroes; the songs of
foray and raid and great loot; the
songs OF grim strife which might re-
mind a gray-beard of former days
when he had stalked about the world
with naked dagger always on hip, and
which, belize, might put his wife's
mind on the bitter, black grief that
people are born to-until Hamdi Cur
Khan, the young chief Of the Kara
Bayrak, clapped his hands and there
was silence.
Enough of such tunes!' he said, and
his eyes sought those of red-haired
Hirfa, who would not look his way.
Play us a dance, oh fiddler"
yes, a dance!" came the chorus.
"A dance, oh son Of the world"
Give us The Miller of Samar-
kand!"
So THE Miller Of Samarkand" it
waS-a melody with a twist to it and
a cunning quirk that set feet to tap
ping and supple hips to swaying and
silver anklets to ringing like bells /.
and no girl there was here around
whom the lads f1ocked more thickly,
like bees to the honey pot, asking for
the favor Of a dance, than Hirfa, the
only daughter of Mehmet Var, the
mutton butcher-and, by the same
token, no girl who gave more quick
and curt refusal.
She was the prettiest ~hereabOuts,
with a slim, strong height like a young
pine, her hair like waves of red copper
rolling over the snow of her forehead,
and a riddle in her gray eyes which
gave the notion to a man to look again
and never to look away, and, as to
the stiff haughtiness Of her, saying,
Il do not wish to dance" to this
hllQ 4 w llOI Cdlt w QdllCC w llltU-
why, there was no reason for it at all
to believe the grandmothers who squat
ted about the walls, talking in whis-
pers.
"Wah," angrily asked one. what
does she think she is-she with her
airs and graces? Yesterday, the tell
ing goes, our chief offered her his
hand in honorable marriage-offered
her the pick of his fine cattle as a
wedding portion"
And she refused?"
Indeed"
THE Lord His mercy!"
Hamdi Cur Khan, the chief, was
telling Hirfa in an undertone that her
face was like a battling, sweet melody
floating on the current Of a far wind,
that all Allah's mountains must have
stood around to shelter her birth, and
that q glance of her gray eyes was
like the sudden u~nsheathing Of a
bright sword blade.
Hirfa laughed.
"Blade?" she echoed mOckingly.
"Ah," with a sweeping, contemptuous
gesture that included half a dozen OF
the younger men who were near
what do you know of blades and the
brave welding of blades? You sing
of war-the old songs-oh, yes-so
boldly. But you speak softly and turn
tail when steel clanks and the drums
beat!'
1t was the truth.
1t had been the truth since, almost
half a century earlier, in the days when
Hamdi Cur Khan's grandfather had
been chief, a Persian dervish, a holy
man, had gone through these northern
hills, proclaiming the gospel OF peace
from village to village.
Peace, oh Moslems! Let us have
peace!" had been his everlasting
prayer.
81 bring the word of forgiveness, oh
brothers." he had preached. THE
word of gentle happiness! The word
of Allah the King!"
at first the villagers had sneered at
this amazing creed. They had said:
Yours is a new Alfalfa weak AL
lah-a sickly Allah wrapped in cotton.
Ours is the Allah of hard daring. Be
pleased to leave our hills, oh creature!"
But the Persian had not left. He
had continued to proclaim the blessings
of peace; had done it SO fervently and