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Cumner’s Son
by
The Colonel was not to be moved. “I’d ride the ninety miles myself, if my place weren’t here–no, don’t think I doubt you, for I know you all! But consider the nest of murderers that’ll be let loose here when the Dakoon dies. Better a strong robber with a strong robber’s honour to perch there in the Palace, than Boonda Broke and his cut-throats–“
“Honour–honour?–Pango Dooni!” broke out McDermot the gunner scornfully.
“I know the man,” said the Governor gruffly; “I know the man, I tell you, and I’d take his word for ten thousand pounds, or a thousand head of cattle. Is there any of you will ride to the Neck of Baroob for me? For one it must be, and no more–we can spare scarce that, God knows!” he added sadly. “The women and children–“
“I will go,” said a voice behind them all; and Cumner’s Son stepped forward. “I will go, if I may ride the big sorrel from the Dakoon’s stud.”
The Colonel swung round in his chair and stared mutely at the lad. He was only eighteen years old, but of good stature, well-knit, and straight as a sapling.
Seeing that no one answered him, but sat and stared incredulously, he laughed a little, frankly and boyishly. “The kris of Boonda Broke is for the hearts of every one of us,” said he. “He may throw it soon–to-night–to-morrow. No man can leave here–all are needed; but a boy can ride; he is light in the saddle, and he may pass where a man would be caught in a rain of bullets. I have ridden the sorrel of the Dakoon often; he has pressed it on me; I will go to the master of his stud, and I will ride to the Neck of Baroob.”
“No, no,” said one after the other, getting to his feet, “I will go.”
The Governor waved them down. “The lad is right,” said he, and he looked him closely and proudly in the eyes. “By the mercy of God, you shall ride the ride,” said he. “Once when Pango Dooni was in the city, in disguise, aye, even in the Garden of the Dakoon, the night of the Dance of the Yellow Fire, I myself helped him to escape, for I stand for a fearless robber before a cowardly saint.” His grey moustache and eyebrows bristled with energy as he added: “The lad shall go. He shall carry in his breast the bracelet with the red stone that Pango Dooni gave me. On the stone is written the countersign that all hillsmen heed, and the tribe-call I know also.”
“The danger–the danger–and the lad so young!” said McDermot; but yet his eyes rested lovingly on the boy.
The Colonel threw up his head in anger. “If I, his father, can let him go, why should you prate like women? The lad is my son, and he shall win his spurs–and more, and more, maybe,” he added.
He took from his pocket Pango Dooni’s gift and gave it to the lad, and three times he whispered in his ear the tribe-call and the countersign that he might know them. The lad repeated them three times, and, with his finger, traced the countersign upon the stone.
That night he rode silently out of the Dakoon’s palace yard by a quiet gateway, and came, by a roundabout, to a point near the Residency.
He halted under a flame-tree, and a man came out of the darkness and laid a hand upon his knee.
“Ride straight and swift from the Kimar Gate. Pause by the Koongat Bridge an hour, rest three hours at the Bar of Balmud, and pause again where the roof of the Brown Hermit drums to the sorrel’s hoofs. Ride for the sake of the women and children and for your own honour. Ride like a Cumner, lad.”
The last sound of the sorrel’s hoofs upon the red dust beat in the Colonel’s ears all night long, as he sat waiting for news from the Palace, the sentinels walking up and down, the orderly at the door, and Boonda Broke plotting in the town.