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

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.

The Second Children’s Hour

“Well?” by Rebecca Weiner