Jack took a deep breath of air fresh from the Afghan hills and watched the man walking past. He moved with the long stride of a Pashtun hillman, assured, arrogant, not willing to bow his head to anybody, Afghan or Briton. The Pashtun -Jack thought he was a Wazir but was not sure - looked neither to left nor right, ignoring the British column as if it was not there. The long jezail across his back was old-fashioned, but still deadly, while the sun glinted on the n***d blade of the Khyber knife in his belt.
Jack called a greeting, with the harsh Pushto language coming easily to him despite his years away from the Frontier.
“May you never tire.”
The man walked on, saying nothing, with the sun glinting on the brass bands around the barrel of his jezail.
“We"re back on the Frontier,” Jack s
