Therefore, it is your duty to kill them
all like locusts, else they will swallow up you and your cattle and your
wives and your children, and, speaking generally, the whole bally show.
We may be killed, but if we keep them back even for a little God will
bless us. So be steady at your posts."
The garrison was soon dispersed, the guns in readiness, pointing up the
valley. It was ten o'clock by Thwaite's watch ere the last click of the
loaders told that Bardur was awaiting an enemy. The town behind was in
an uproar, men clamouring at the gates, and seeking passports to flee to
the south. Chinese and Turcoman traders from Leh and Lhassa, Yarkand
and Bokhara, with scared faces, were getting their goods together and
invoking their mysterious gods. Logan, who had returned from Gilgit
that very day, rode breathless into the yard, clamouring for Thwaite.
He received the tale in half a dozen sentences, whistled, and turned to
go, for he had his own work to do. One question he asked:
"Who sent the telegrams?"
"Haystoun and Winterham."
"Then they're alone at Nazri?"
"Except for the Khautmi men."
"Will they try to hold it?"
"I should think so. They're all sportsmen. Gad, there won't be a soul
left alive."
Logan galloped off with a long face. It would be a great ending, but
what a waste of heroic stuff! And as he remembered Lewis's frank
good-fellowship he shut his lips, as if in pain.
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