“That is well for thee, but what will our Rajah say?”
“Who is to tell him? Those Sahibs, who cannot speak our talk, or the Babu, who for his own ends gave us money? Will he lead an army against us? What evidence will remain? That we do not need we shall throw on Shamlegh-midden, where no man has yet set foot.”
“Who is at Shamlegh this summer?” The place was only a grazing centre of three or four huts.”
“The Woman of Shamlegh. She has no love for Sahibs, as we know. The others can be pleased with little presents; and here is enough for us all.” He patted the fat sides of the nearest basket.
“But—but—”
“I have said they are not true Sahibs. All their skins and heads were bought in the bazar at Leh. I know the marks. I showed them to ye last march.”
“True. They were all bought skins and heads. Some had even the moth in them.”
That was a shrewd argument, and the Ao-chung man knew his fellows.
“If the worst comes to the worst, I shall tell Yankling Sahib, who is a man of a merry mind, and he will laugh. We are not doing any wrong to any Sahibs whom we know. They are priest-beaters. They frightened us. We fled! Who knows where we dropped the baggage? Do ye think Yankling Sahib will permit down-country police to wander all over the hills, disturbing his game? It is a far cry from Simla to Chini, and farther from Shamlegh to Shamlegh-midden.”
“So be it, but I carry the big kilta. The basket with the red top that the Sahibs pack themselves every morning.”