Chapter Twenty Four.
Peril in a Poshtin.
Another fortnight passed, during which the officers had a day’s shooting as often as they could be spared; and, though the Colonel’s face grew more and more serious he made no further objection to these excursions so long as they were sensibly carried out, for he had realised how thoroughly the enemy avoided the higher portions of the mountains, the snow-line being rarely crossed; and when they did break through their rule, it was only in crossing from one valley to another, and it was necessitated by the pass which linked the two being more than usually high.
It was a bright, sunny morning, and glasses had been busy in the fort, for certain well-known signs suggested that the day would not pass without their hearing from the enemy, of whom glances were obtained, first in one well-known locality, then in another, which they seemed to affect as a matter of course, showing very little disposition to break out of their regular routine, while one tribe followed in the steps of another so closely that it was generally possible to prognosticate where the attack would be made, and make arrangements to foil it.
The officers were chatting together; and in the group where Drummond stood with his friends he started a good grumbling discourse, something after this fashion:
“It’s always the case. So sure as I overlook my tackle, and have a good clean up of the rifles ready for a long day amongst the muttons, some of these beggars come and plant themselves just in the way we mean to go.”
“Mr Bracy,” said an orderly, coming up and saluting, “the Colonel wishes to see you.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Drummond; “it’s to tell you that we are not to attempt a shoot to-day. Tell him, Bracy, that we had given it up.”
Bracy nodded, and went straight to the Colonel’s room, to find him busily writing.