Men drop out of sight there. This one did. Or, no, I shouldn't say that. He went up out of sight. You see, he was carried.
Yes, right out of the city up toward the top of the world - at least that's what the natives thereabouts call the mountains, where the spurs of the Thian Shan meet the Himalayas. About five thousand men saw him go.
And not one of 'em cared to follow.
It sounds just like a story, of course. The white man - we'll call him that for want of a better name - was sitting in a corner of the serai with his back to the mud wall smoking a pipe and watching the other inmates - a fine lot they were, too - when a big black-faced native in sheepskins, blind in one eye, got up and went over to him.
"Effendi," the fellow said, "your slave who is the dust beneath your feet (he meant himself) has heard that there is danger and trouble in store for you here. Will the effendi ride hence at once and swiftly?"
The white man laughed and said he liked it where he was. At this the chap of the sheepskins went out of the serai and began to run as if the devil were after him, through the twisting alleys of the bazaar, out past the mosque and up the road to the hills.
In an hour, after he'd eaten a little dinner, the white man was knocked out. Not actually, of course, but by fever or food poisoning. It was so quick in coming, it must have been poisoning.
He still sat in the corner of the serai with his rifle across his knees and his face drawn with pain. He couldn't move except to put his finger on the trigger of his piece and watch the crowd in the serai with his eyes. This was necessary, because his servant had left him and he hadn't tried to get word to the few Europeans who were nearby in the new Kashgar.
A Kashgar crowd is harmless for the most part; but not when a foreign barbarian with his kit and rifle is helpless in their hands. Well - this chap kept watching the crowd and the crowd watched him. Waiting for him to die, most likely, so they could appropriate his kit and rifle.
Then a curious thing happened.
Those in the serai heard the trample of the camels of a caravan outside, in the alley. They heard the bells of the camels. And the leader of the caravan, the man who holds the nose cord of the first animal in the line, was the one-eyed chap in sheepskins.
The caravan had come down the road from the hills. Nothing unusual in that, of course, because caravan transport is the only way of moving goods in Central Asia and a half dozen of 'em go through Kashgar every day. But this particular caravan didn't have any boxes or anything but a score of dark-skinned hillmen for riders.
It might have come in to the bazaar to load up - only it didn't. The caravan moved down out of the hills in the dust, to enter the bazaar. It stopped just for a moment outside the serai, and the riders took the white man away with them.
That was exactly what they did. Set him on a camel; then the whole string turned and went off with the one-eyed beggar in the lead. They had crossed the old bridge over the moat and disappeared into the dust before the bazaar knew what was happening.
Yes, that particular white man went up out of sight. At least, he was never seen again.
Now, what do you think of it all?
Genre: Literary Fiction
Yes, right out of the city up toward the top of the world - at least that's what the natives thereabouts call the mountains, where the spurs of the Thian Shan meet the Himalayas. About five thousand men saw him go.
And not one of 'em cared to follow.
It sounds just like a story, of course. The white man - we'll call him that for want of a better name - was sitting in a corner of the serai with his back to the mud wall smoking a pipe and watching the other inmates - a fine lot they were, too - when a big black-faced native in sheepskins, blind in one eye, got up and went over to him.
"Effendi," the fellow said, "your slave who is the dust beneath your feet (he meant himself) has heard that there is danger and trouble in store for you here. Will the effendi ride hence at once and swiftly?"
The white man laughed and said he liked it where he was. At this the chap of the sheepskins went out of the serai and began to run as if the devil were after him, through the twisting alleys of the bazaar, out past the mosque and up the road to the hills.
In an hour, after he'd eaten a little dinner, the white man was knocked out. Not actually, of course, but by fever or food poisoning. It was so quick in coming, it must have been poisoning.
He still sat in the corner of the serai with his rifle across his knees and his face drawn with pain. He couldn't move except to put his finger on the trigger of his piece and watch the crowd in the serai with his eyes. This was necessary, because his servant had left him and he hadn't tried to get word to the few Europeans who were nearby in the new Kashgar.
A Kashgar crowd is harmless for the most part; but not when a foreign barbarian with his kit and rifle is helpless in their hands. Well - this chap kept watching the crowd and the crowd watched him. Waiting for him to die, most likely, so they could appropriate his kit and rifle.
Then a curious thing happened.
Those in the serai heard the trample of the camels of a caravan outside, in the alley. They heard the bells of the camels. And the leader of the caravan, the man who holds the nose cord of the first animal in the line, was the one-eyed chap in sheepskins.
The caravan had come down the road from the hills. Nothing unusual in that, of course, because caravan transport is the only way of moving goods in Central Asia and a half dozen of 'em go through Kashgar every day. But this particular caravan didn't have any boxes or anything but a score of dark-skinned hillmen for riders.
It might have come in to the bazaar to load up - only it didn't. The caravan moved down out of the hills in the dust, to enter the bazaar. It stopped just for a moment outside the serai, and the riders took the white man away with them.
That was exactly what they did. Set him on a camel; then the whole string turned and went off with the one-eyed beggar in the lead. They had crossed the old bridge over the moat and disappeared into the dust before the bazaar knew what was happening.
Yes, that particular white man went up out of sight. At least, he was never seen again.
Now, what do you think of it all?
Genre: Literary Fiction
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