Arslan by M. J. Engh Page A

say anything; he just started to pack a little toilet kit. Hunt didn't have very many belongings. Still, he managed to put off his departure till after supper, dawdling through his preparations and taking individual leave of every animal on the place. Arslan wasn't there.
    And when Arslan came in at last, not half an hour after he finally left, he didn't mention Hunt.
    A little after dark (it would have been about eight—there was no Daylight Saving Time this year) we heard a single rifle shot, not far away. On the couch Arslan swung himself upright, his face gone hard, and spoke an order. Two soldiers jumped to put out the lights, and another one rushed past me and out of the door. I heard low voices, running feet, one cautious shout; then in scarcely a minute the man was back with a word to Arslan, the door was shut, the lamps being lit again.
    “What's the matter?” I demanded. But Arslan was giving more orders, brisk and easy. One man disappeared through the kitchen door, another up the stairs. Luella came in from the kitchen, white-faced. There was a pause. We were all on our feet, except Arslan.
    He knew too damned well what was coming, and I knew it, too. Anger was building up in me like compressed air, so tight I could hardly hear the slow steps on the porch. A guard held the door open for Hunt and closed it after him.
    He looked straight towards me. “Would you mind if I came back, Mr. Bond?” His voice was clear, level, and bitter.
    “As far as I'm concerned you are back, Hunt, and always welcome.”
    Luella came to him anxiously. “What happened, Hunt?”
    “Forget it.” He was leaning against the door, his little bag in his hands. His eyes flared at me as he burst out, “He's willing to take me back— on conditions! How about that? If you've got any conditions, I'd appreciate hearing them now.”
    “No conditions, Hunt,” I said. “Never.”
    Luella gasped wordlessly, and I followed her look. Hunt's left pant leg was streaked with wet from thigh to ankle; the blood dribbled silently off his shoe onto the rug. “Yeah,” he said. She was trying to help him away from the door, but he leaned against it stubbornly. “I can walk very well, thanks.” His eyes were alight with fury. I touched Luella's arm, and she stepped back.
    It was Arslan's turn now. He stood up at last, and Hunt limped across the room and allowed himself to be let down onto the couch. Arslan was on his knees beside him in an instant, ripping open the pant leg with his knife.
    Luella surprised me. “You get your hands off him!” she snapped. “You're the one that had him shot!”
    “My own fault,” Hunt said calmly. “I know the curfew rule. I'm surprised, though,” he added to Arslan. “I thought you had better marksmen. Or don't they shoot to kill?”
    Arslan glanced up appreciatively. “Not to kill, no. To immobilize. It is often desirable to question those who break rules.”
    “I wasn't even immobilized,” Hunt said tightly.
    “Yes. The sentry will be reprimanded.” The guards were reappearing with water, bandages, medicines. There was a well-rehearsed air about the whole thing. “For your information, Hunt,” Arslan was saying, “I have given standing orders not to fire on you unless you should actually attack me. Otherwise you would have been shot as soon as you left your parents’ house. But the man who fired was unable to recognize you in the darkness. I consider him justified.”
    “How about a doctor?” I said.
    “Unnecessary. It is a very simple wound.”
    Maybe it hadn't quite been rehearsed. Conceivably—just conceivably—the shot had been accidental. But, to whatever extent he had manipulated for it, I didn't doubt that this was exactly the scene Arslan had planned. But Hunt had come to my house for shelter, and I'd given it, without conditions. That was what mattered.
    I went to see Arnold Morgan first thing the next morning. He looked half relieved to see me and half belligerent. “Did Hunt get