The Wandering Falcon Read Online Free Page B

shape and rising out of the ground while the men sat. In the last few days they had come upon two travelers who had heard that the government was willing to hold discussions with them under a flag of truce, and to suspend hostilities while the talks lasted. In their whispered conversation they felt that Jangu, who was closest to the chief, would raise the subject on an evening of his choice.
    They all knew that this was the evening they had to decide the one important thing that each one had been thinking about while keeping his mind veiled from the rest.
    Roza Khan’s dry, rasping cough suddenly shattered their reveries. He cleared his throat and spat over his shoulder. “Which way do we go tomorrow?” he asked, looking around him. “Jangu,” he said, staring toward his right. “You tell me what you think, Jangu.”
    The reply came from the man sitting next to his elbow. “Sardar,” responded Jangu, “there is no simple answer. Let us talk about the things we know. Then I shall tell you about the things I alone know. After that, we shall make a decision.”
    â€œYes, let us do that,” responded Roza Khan.
    Jangu Khan went on: “First, we all know the seed from which the trouble has grown. The officers of the district chose to remove and arrest the chief of our brother tribe. We allow the right to make and unmake chiefs only to ourselves. We do not accept the power of anyone else to decide who our chief shall be or shall not be. That is the cause, and we cannot help but fight for such a cause. Indeed, it is a cause of conscience.”
    â€œConscience!” the old man’s voice broke in. “Jangu, do not talk to me of conscience. What kind of a guide is it when it comforts the evil man in his labors no less willingly than another who struggles against wrong. Never have I seen a man truly troubled by his conscience. Conscience is like a poor relation living in a rich man’s house. It has to remain cheerful at all times. It has to remain cheerful at all times for fear of being thrown out. Our cause is right, because we think it is right—but never depend on conscience, yours or another man’s.”
    As he finished, two voices broke in eagerly. “Sardar,” they pleaded, “please, let Jangu continue.”
    There was no impatience, only pleading, in their voices, but the old man felt immeasurably sad and lonely behind his curtain of darkness. They do not understand, he thought. I hope to God there are people as full of doubts about right and wrong on the other side as I am. “Continue, Jangu,” he said wearily.
    â€œSo,” Jangu went on, “six new moons have we seen since the trouble started. In this time, so many things have happened—mostly evil. Our crops have been burned, our grain stolen, and our animal flocks sold away or slaughtered. We have pointed our guns at them, and they at us. We have killed, and so have they. By now, even their airplanes hold no terror for us. All this we know, but now I shall tell you some things you do not know.”
    He had the full attention of the small audience now.
    â€œYes, Sardar. This you must know. Last week, I met a Baluch who is a charcoal burner near the big salt lake in the north. He told me that in our absence from our homes, our families have been made prisoners by the authorities. They—our women and children, even those remotely related to us—are living in jails. Bred and brought up in the deserts, they are now living and sleeping in evil-smelling dark rooms in the city.”
    A murmur swept the group of men.
    â€œYes,” continued Jangu. “Our sardar is right in what he said. The men who did this remain glorious creatures in their own conscience.”
    He paused for a while and then went on again: “But I also heard another thing, which you do not know. This same Baluch told me that the officers have offered a safe conduct for us to hold parleys