The Ambush
1484 Words
The next two days passed without incident.
Or at least that was how everyone else described them.
To Anand, every hour felt borrowed.
The caravan pushed southward across the final stretches of desert. The dunes gradually became lower. Patches of dry scrub appeared more frequently. Here and there, clusters of thorn trees interrupted the endless sea of sand.
Even the wind felt different.
They were approaching Banaskantha.
Salim Khan seemed pleased. One evening he pointed toward the western horizon and grinned.
“Another three days, perhaps four if the camels behave. Then Banaskantha.”
Several men cheered.
For the first time in weeks, the caravan could almost smell civilization ahead.
Only Anand remained silent.
The mathematical games stopped. The notebook that normally passed between him and Ramu remained closed. No more puzzles. No more arguments about equations. No more attempts to trick one another with impossible problems.
At first Ramu assumed Anand was exhausted. Then he assumed Anand was worried about home.
Then, after watching him sit alone for nearly an hour one evening staring at nothing, he began to worry.
Anand ate little. Spoke little.
Sometimes Ramu would discover him sitting beside the camels after everyone else had fallen asleep, simply staring into darkness.
Ramu asked but didn't get any answer other than exhaustion and thinking about the family, so Ramu pushed the caravan harder.
Whenever Salim proposed resting another hour, Ramu suggested leaving sooner.
Whenever the men complained about the pace, Ramu reminded them how close they were.
“If we keep moving,” he said one afternoon, “Anand will see his family sooner.”
Nobody argued after that.
Anand heard those words. Each time they struck like a knife.
Because every mile southward brought them closer to home. And every mile southward also brought them closer to the consequences of what he had done.
More than once he considered telling Ramu everything. The confession would rise into his throat. Then die there. Because once spoken, it could never be recalled. And because some small desperate part of him still hoped nothing would happen.
Perhaps the note would never be found.
Perhaps the men would fail to find the caravan.
Perhaps the entire thing would disappear into the desert.
At night he repeated those hopes like prayers.
During the day he watched the horizon.
Waiting.
The attack came one night shortly after the caravan had broken camp.
The moon was little more than a thin silver hook above the desert.
Most of the men were half asleep. Only the guides and camel handlers were fully awake.
The caravan moved slowly through the darkness. Leather water skins creaked. Harness chains rattled softly. Camels grumbled as they walked.
Ahead, Salim Khan rode at the front of the column. His mood had improved noticeably during the past few days.
Banaskantha was close. The dunes had begun to change. They were lower now, more scattered. Patches of thorn scrub appeared between them.
The desert no longer felt endless.
Then the first shot came.
The crack exploded across the night. A camel screamed. The entire column lurched sideways.
Another shot followed.
Then another.
Men shouted. Animals panicked.
“Raiders!”
Someone screamed.
“Raiders!”
Karim reacted first.
“Circle the camels!”
His voice cut through the confusion.
“Get them down!”
He seized the nearest lead rope.
“Down!”
The camel dropped to its knees. Others followed.
Salim Khan ordered.
“Baggage inside!”
“Move!”
Men rushed to drag crates, blankets, and trade bundles between the kneeling camels.
Within moments a rough defensive ring began to form.
The first attackers appeared over the dunes. Dark shapes against darker sand.
The Indian swords flashed beneath the moonlight.
They came at speed.
The first attackers struck the outer line.
Steel rang against steel.
A second group tried to force through a gap between two camels.
Bhura Ram met them with a spear, stopping them outside the circle.
The entire fight became hand-to-hand.
Men shouted.
Blades flashed.
Camels bellowed.
Dust filled the air.
Anand crouched inside the ring, unable to tell who was winning.
For several minutes the attackers hurled themselves against the caravan.
And failed.
They were aggressive, but the camel circle held.
Salim fought his way backward until he reached Chotu Kaka. Both men were breathing hard.
Salim wiped blood from his cheek.
“Do you see it?”
Chotu Kaka nodded.
Neither took his eyes off the fighting.
“These men aren’t desert people.”
“No.”
Salim’s voice was low.
“They fight differently.”
Another attacker went down.
A third immediately took his place.
Too disciplined.
Too organized.
Chotu Kaka and Salim exchanged a glance.
Something about this felt wrong.
Then a voice rose from the attackers.
Clear.
Sharp.
Impatient.
“Stop wasting time!”
“The chest!”
“Find the chest and withdraw!”
The words cut through the chaos.
Anand heard them.
For a second the battle vanished— the shouting, the camels, the gunfire— Everything disappeared.
They found the note.
Dear God.
They found the note.
Inside the camel circle, Ramu raised his head abruptly.
He had dug the hole and hidden the chest since the circle formed and just patted the final layer of sand flat.
They were not the bandits. They were sent by the British.
And they were here not for anything else, but the machine.
And now, these people lost their patience.
A rifle cracked.
Then another.
Not far away, Bhura Ram suddenly cried out.
A strange sound.
High.
Trembling.
Almost like a song.
Then it ended.
Somewhere in the corner, Madan kept himself as low to the sand as possible and moved fast.
A gap opened near the rear of the circle. Without thinking, he scrambled through it and ran.
Just reach the dune.
Just reach the dune.
Nobody can hit me there.
The sand ridge was only a short distance away.
Close enough.
Safe enough.
He threw himself behind it.
For a moment relief flooded through him.
Then something struck the slope above. The dune shuddered.
Madan looked up, still recovering from the freight.
The crest of the dune seemed to move.
A wall of sand collapsed. It came down with a deep rushing roar.
Madan screamed once. The desert swallowed the sound. And him.
Another rifle shot cracked through the darkness.
Anand turned.
Too late.
Something blurred across his vision.
Gopal.
The boy had moved before anyone else.
Perhaps he had seen the rifle.
Perhaps he had only seen danger moving toward Anand.
Even Gopal himself might never have known.
For a second he looked almost surprised. Then blood blossomed across his chest.
He staggered backward.
His knees folded.
He hit the ground hard.
“Gopal!”
Chotu Kaka roared from somewhere nearby.
His sword crashed against another blade.
He did not even have time to reach the boy. Another attacker was already upon him.
The old trader fought like a cornered animal, but his eyes kept darting toward Gopal’s motionless body.
The rifle fire grew heavier.
Karim slammed the man into the sand and tore the rifle from his hands.
He knew this weapon.
His brother had taught him on rifles like this outside the Bombay cantonment. He had cleaned them, practiced with them, and dreamt about carrying one himself.
Impossible.
Bandits did not carry rifles like these.
Karim seized the attacker’s collar.
“How do you have this?”
The man struggled.
Karim shook him harder.
“How do you have a British rifle?!”
A gunshot cracked behind him.
Karim jerked violently. Then collapsed.
Near the center of the circle, one attacker finally broke through. He slipped between two kneeling camels and landed hard inside the defensive ring.
He crouched low, scanning the piles of baggage. His eyes swept across the crates, blankets, and bundles.
Ramu watched him. Then his stomach suddenly tightened.
The attacker stepped directly onto the patch of freshly disturbed sand.
Ramu’s heart stopped.
He could see that the man’s foot sinking slightly into the loose sand. One more step. Perhaps two. That was all it would take.
Instinct took over.
Ramu raised his right arm, throwing his fist to the man.
Just one second.
The blade came down.
The sword flashed.
For one impossible instant he felt nothing.
Then the world exploded.
His arm was gone.
The severed limb landed in the sand several feet away.
Ramu and Anand’s scream rise together, echoed across the desert.
Everything seemed to stop.
Even the attackers stared.
Then, from somewhere beyond the dunes, another sound appeared.
A distant cry.
Then another.
Camel bells.
Voices.
Many voices.
A caravan.
Someone was approaching.
The calls grew louder.
Closer.
The attackers hesitated.
One of them cursed.
Another shouted immediately:
“Withdraw!”
“NOW!”
The entire group ran toward the same direction. Within seconds they were disappearing into the darkness between the dunes.
- Writer
