Pir Baksh placed his hand to his leg and indicated the nature of the wound. One of the Gurkhas bent down, sliced off some of the cloth with his kukri, and burst out laughing.
“The kafar (coward)!” he cried to his companions.
The bullet had grazed the rebel’s thigh, tearing off a little strip of skin. Feeling the sharp sting, Pir Baksh had clapped his hand to the spot and drawn it away covered with blood. Concluding that he was done for, he had tumbled over and howled.
“Get up!” said Tynan brusquely. “You’re not hurt.”
Turning to the Gurkhas he motioned them to lead the way. Picking up the four muskets, the party set forth, the prisoner in the midst rendered very unhappy by the knowledge that a loaded musket was within a few inches of his backbone, and he dreaded carelessness on the part of the Gurkha. The precaution was unnecessary, for the roaring lion of half an hour ago was now as harmless as a dove.
An hour’s walk brought them within sight of camp fires, and before long they had passed the sentries, and Tynan was in the commandant’s tent. He was a small wiry man of about twenty-five, tough as whip-cord.
“Hullo!” he cried, holding a lantern above his head so that the light fell full upon Tynan’s face. “Who are you?”
“Ensign Tynan of the 193rd. I’ve just been rescued from a gang of cut-throats by these two men of yours. They tackled four and killed three.”
“Take the prisoner to the guard-tent.”
The Gurkha saluted and retired, and the officer continued: “Now, Mr. Tynan, you’ll be hungry, so just fall to. If you’d come half an hour ago there would have been a better spread.”