Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 4. Whole No. 143, October 1955

The Stone on Abdul’s Head by D. MacClure

An off-the-trail, change-of-pace story about an Afridi sniper, one Feroz Khan, who (if he said so himself) was the greatest marksman in the world... The author is a Canadian newspaperman who lived in India for several years — hence the locale and authentic flavor of his prize-winning tale. At the time Mr. MacClure sent us “The Stone on Abdul’s Head,” he had just sold an on-the-spot Indian piece to “True” — an article on the Todas of the Nilgiris Hills, whom the author considers “The Happiest Males on Earth.” So you see, Mr. MacClure obviously knows his stuff. His hobbies? Easy to guess: traveling when, he can, and shooting and fishing anywhere in the world.

No need to hurry, Sahib. The gazelle is dead. When we have reached the body you will find that my bullet has entered its skull at a point two fingers below the left ear.

How am I so certain? Because I am Feroz Khan, the greatest marksman in the world — Feroz Khan on whom Allah has bestowed eyes keener than a hawk’s, hands steadier than the hills, and a judgment of the tricks of wind and light such as no other man possesses. Is it not said of me in the Furious Gomal that when my bullets miss, stones will fall upwards to the sky? And have I not just given proof of my skill by dropping a running gazelle at four hundred yards in a poor light? Not that I call that a difficult shot!

The Sahib asks me what I would call a difficult shot? To drop a hawk on the wing with a single bullet or to knock the tail off a darting lizard is not easy, even for an Afridi sniper. Has the Sahib ever tried to shoot a moth at twenty yards, or to drill a particular blade of corn in the centre of a field when the wind is blowing from the east?

One day I will do those tricks for the Sahib’s pleasure. Not this day because I have a sore eye and my hands are shaking by reason of the fever I had last night, and were I to fail the Sahib would laugh at me and say I was merely a boaster. Some day when I am feeling well I will do them, and the Sahib will see for himself that I am no liar.

The best shot I have ever made? It puzzles me to answer that question. When all are perfect how can one make a choice?

Thinking back, I remember one occasion, Sahib. I will tell you about it while we make a detour to the gazelle’s body.

Usually a shot is fired to slay an enemy, is it not? But in the case of the shot of which I am thinking that was not so. I had to fire to save life and not to kill. My skill was the test of the innocence of a man wrongfully accused.

He was my friend, my “bhai-band” — blood-brother. Abdul Hakim was his name. We were of the same age and we lived in the same village. I speak of some years back when my skill with a rifle was not as great as it is now.

Even then I wasted fewer bullets than any other Afridi sniper in the Gomal, and as the Sahib is aware, bullets to us are more precious than rubies. I had a Government rifle, a Springfield of the latest pattern, which I had chanced to find lying on the “maidan” — the plain — where an American regiment had camped. Yes, Sahib, “found” was the word I said... I picked it up from the sand where some tired soldier had dropped it, and I kept it for myself.

Second only to Abdul Hakim, my blood-brother, I loved that rifle. Day and night it never left my hand. If I put it down for a moment I felt as if I were naked. It became, as it were, part of my own body. To lift it to my shoulder and take aim was as easy as crooking my finger.

I passed hours in polishing it and cleaning it and handling it. I had found a large quantity of ammunition at the same spot I had found the rifle, and I used it without stint for practice — always at targets that other men vowed were impossible to hit. When I missed, I tried again and again until the bullet found its mark. That is the way to learn to shoot.

Then it chanced there was a theft in the village. An old woman was robbed. A pot of money was taken from her hut while she slept, and she made complaint to Nir Din, who was then the chief. In our Afridi villages theft is a graver matter than it is under the law of the Pakistan Government. It is held to be a worse offense than killing, and the penalty is death by strangulation.

Nir Din was a wise and just man. He sent every man, woman, and child outside the village, only himself and a few of the leading men remaining. They made a search. Suspicion had already fallen on my blood-brother, and his was one of the first huts they visited. The earth beneath his bed had been disturbed recently, so they dug there and found the pot with a little of the money still remaining.

Black evidence against Abdul Hakim, was it not, Sahib? Too black, for had he really been the thief he would never have left the money where it could so easily be found. Besides, P knew for a certainty that he was innocent. On the night, and at the time the money had been taken, he had been with me in the hills shooting leopard. But I was the only man who could prove he had been there.

To me, and to Abdul Hakim himself, the matter was clear. He had an enemy, a lying dog called Shere Makmud. There had been a quarrel about a woman. Both Shere Makmud and my blood-brother had desired her. She had favored Abdul Hakim, and this trick was Shere Makmud’s revenge.

He was the son of evil, that Shere Makmud! Pock-marked and as ugly as a camel, a coward in a fight and a disgrace to the Afridi clan. Yet he had great cunning and a tongue that could babble like a stream when the snows are melting. Even I, who knew that he was speaking lies, could hardly disbelieve him when he swore he had seen Abdul Hakim stealing away from the old woman’s hut that night.

He brought witnesses too. His relations and other base ones whom he had bribed to support his perjury. One claimed he had seen Abdul enter the hut, another that he had watched Abdul dig the hole and hide the money, another that he had heard Abdul boasting of the theft.

Thus did they swear in the “durbar” before Nir Din and the elders. They vomited their lies like poisoned jackals. As I listened, I thought I could see the death cord being twisted around the throat of my blood-brother.

Nir Din looked as if he believed their words. But just before he passed sentence he called for anyone who could testify to Abdul’s innocence. And I was the only one who came forward, for I was the only one who knew for a certainty where Abdul had been that night.

It was my word against that of a dozen. And I had no golden tongue such as Shere Makmud possessed. It was bullets I was fluent with, not words. I gave my evidence, lying on the ground at Nir Din’s feet and sobbing as I spoke. I was but a boy, and my heart was bleeding at the thought of the injustice.

But Nir Din mocked me. He thought I was lying to save my blood-brother, and did not question me with easy words as he had done Shere Makmud and his friends. Instead, he spoke insultingly of my shooting. He asked me if I had ever hit certain targets at certain distances, and I answered truthfully that I had, he laughed aloud and called me a boaster and a liar.

He looked at Shere Makmud and his friends, and they also laughed, seeking to curry favor with the chief. They were like jackals fawning round a lion. Then Nir Din turned to me and said:

“The feats you claim to have performed with your rifle are impossible — therefore you are condemned out of your own mouth as a liar. How then are we to believe what you tell us concerning Abdul Hakim? If your tongue lies about such a little matter as your skill at shooting, how much more must it lie when the life of your blood-brother is at stake!”

The words angered me. I answered hotly that I spoke the truth about both my skill and Abdul’s innocence.

Nir Din bent and lifted a pebble from the ground. It was round and white, and not quite as large as a hen’s egg. He held it up so that all could see it, and he asked if any man would undertake to hit that stone with a single bullet, firing at a range of four hundred yards.

There was laughter at the question. At four hundred yards the stone would appear but a tiny white speck even to a man with the eyesight of a hawk. If he hit with a single bullet it could only be by accident.

Nir Din turned to me and spoke tauntingly:

“What has Feroz Khan, who claims to be the greatest shot in the Gomal, to say about this matter?” he asked. “Surely Feroz Khan with his magic skill and his magic rifle can hit this great rock at such a short distance!”

Sahib, I was young and foolish and my blood was on fire by reason of the way they had mocked me. Although in my secret heart I felt no certainty about the matter, I answered boldly that I could hit the stone with ease.

My words were greeted by the laughter they deserved. Those were Afridis who had heard me, fighting men who had carried firearms since they could walk. They knew that my claim was but an empty boast. And they shouted to the chief that he should put me to the test.

Nir Din raised his hand to command silence. He answered in a loud voice so that all could hear:

“Against the evidence of a dozen men Feroz Khan has sworn that Abdul Hakim is innocent of the theft. Also, he has claimed that he can do the impossible with his rifle, and it is in my heart, therefore, to expose him as the liar he most assuredly is.

“I will give him a chance to fulfill his boast. Tomorrow Abdul Hakim will be tied to a post so that he cannot move, and this stone will be placed upon his head. If Feroz Khan can knock the stone off with a single bullet, without grazing the skin, I will take it as a sign from Allah that his blood-brother was innocent of the theft. If he misses the stone by aiming high or wide, Abdul Hakim will die with the strangling cord round his neck according to the custom; and if the bullet flies low and kills Abdul Hakim we will know that he was guilty and that Allah himself has dealt justice... Feroz Khan, you have heard my words. Do you agree to make the test?”

Sahib, what could I do except agree? Had I refused, my blood-brother would have lost even that poor chance of his life being saved.

So I agreed. Outwardly my face was bold, but there was no confidence in my heart. It was such a little stone, and how could I, under such a load of anxiety, shoot my best? A man must have an easy mind if he would shoot straight.

I passed the night cleaning my rifle and offering prayers to Allah that he would defend the innocent. When the sun was fully risen they took me to the place where the test was to be made. Abdul Hakim had been bound to a post so that he could not move a finger, and Nir Din himself placed the white stone upon his head.

At four hundred yards distance I lay down and sighted my rifle at the stone. Behind me stood Nir Din and the elders of the village, and with them was Shere Makmud and the other men who had given witness. And these false ones grinned and whispered to each other as they watched.

I had planned to fire quickly, but my heart was beating so fast that my hands shook. The pebble danced about the foresight like a tiny white midge. Perspiration ran down my forehead and blinded my eyes. At last I lowered the rifle in despair without having touched the trigger.

Sahib, you should have heard how Shere Makmud and the dogs that were his friends yelped their glee! They thought I was afraid to fire, and by Allah they were right, but that wasn’t for them to know!

It was as if a devil came into my heart when I heard their laughter. I turned to Nir Din and asked him if he would grant me a favor.

He asked me what I wished, and I answered, “Nir Din, it is in my heart to shame these fools. In their ignorance they think it is impossible to hit the stone at this range. Shall we move back another hundred yards so that I can show them the marksmanship of Feroz Khan?”

And Nir Din answered, “It is your choice. Since you think the test is too easy we will increase the range.”

So we moved back another hundred yards to the foot of a hill that stood beside the plain. And again I lay down and took my aim.

Now I could no longer see the pebble save as the faintest blur of white upon the darkness of Abdul Hakim’s hair.

It came into my mind to aim low, thus saving my blood-brother from death by strangulation. But the beating of my heart made my rifle waver like a branch in the wind. And I was lying on soft sand that gave no firm rest for my elbow.

At last I lowered the rifle a second time, and Shere Makmud and his friends yelled like jackals chasing a fox, asking me why I did not fire, and if I thought the range was still too short.

Sahib, it was as if the blood within me turned to fire when I heard their taunts. Turning to the chief I asked if I might go up to the top of the hill and prove my marksmanship by hitting the stone from there?

Laughing, he gave permission. It was a small hill, but the sides were steep. I climbed up alone.

It was my last chance, Sahib. I swear that neither before nor since has a man aimed a rifle with greater care.

I made my body, as it were, part of the rock on which I lay. I cleaved to it with my chest, my knees, the inside of my thighs and feet. I thought of the sun and the wind and the distortion of the glare beating up from the sand. While I made the calculations I prayed to Allah, and my forefinger tightened on the trigger as slowly as the tendril of a plant curling round a twig.

I held my breath. I think even my heart stopped beating. And then — gently, lingeringly, as if I were kissing the lips of a “houri” — I dispatched the bullet. But before it had left the barrel I knew that it would never hit the pebble.

I had aimed short and a little to the left. Very short, if the truth be told. Instead of winging its way above the plain to where Abdul stood, my bullet struck the sand close to the foot of the hill... Ay, but before it struck that sand it had passed through Shere Makmud’s head.

Before Shere Makmud’s body had touched the ground his brother somersaulted into the air with my second bullet through his spine. I was firing faster than a man could wink. My third bullet brought down Shere Makmud’s father, and my fourth and fifth sent yet two more of the lying dogs to howl at the gates of Paradise.

Ho, ho, Sahib! If only you had been present to see! There was no cover where they could hide. Had I wished, I could have killed them all with ease. When I shouted to them and asked if they were satisfied with the progress of the test, they answered on their knees with their hands raised in the air.

With one voice they cried that Abdul Hakim was innocent, and they besought me not to fire again lest once more I should miss the pebble!

Sahib, behold the body of the gazelle. Shot through the neck instead of where I said. Blame the fever, Sahib — the fever that made my hand shake.