That was enough. He set his teeth
and drew his long clean knife.
Wounds, bruises, pain, all mean nothing to a hillman when there is
murder in his eye, unless they be spurs that goad him to greater
frenzy and more speed. The troopers swaggered at a drilled man's
marching pace; the Afridi came like a wind--devil, ripping down a
gully from the northern hills, all frenzy.
Had he not seen red again, had only a little brain--work mingled in
his rage, he would have scored a clean victory and have been free to
wreak red vengeance on the rest. As it was, rage mastered him, and he
yelled as he drove the long knife home between the shoulders of one
of the troopers in front of him.
That yell was a mistake, for he was dealing with picked, drilled men
of birth and a certain education. The struck man sank to his knees,
but the other turned in time to guard the next blow with his forearm;
he seized a good fistful of the Afridi's bandages and landed hard on
his naked foot with the heel of an ammunition boot. The Afridi
screamed like a wild beast as he wrenched himself away, leaving the
bandages in the trooper's hand; and for an instant the trooper half
turned to succor his comrade.
"Nay, after him!" urged the wounded man in the Jat tongue; and,
seeing a crowd come running from four directions, the Sikh let him
lie, to race after the Afridi.
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