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THE WOLF OF
KABUL - AFGHANISTAN
First episode taken from
Rover and
Wizard
January 25th
1964.
Along
the untamed North-West Frontier of
India two
dauntless men were famed, even among the brave, for their
bravery.
Of all the
British outposts along the North-West Frontier of India in the 1930’s,
there was none so smart and spotless as Fort Kanda, which stood right at
the east end of the Khyber Pass. The flag that flew on the fort was always
perfectly clean. The floors of the fort were scrubbed every day. There was
not a single rifle in the fort with a speck of rust on it, and even the
pots in the cookhouse were polished like mirrors. The man in charge of the
fort was Colonel Laurie, who was a stickler for
cleanliness.
One day
into this perfect fort strolled someone who looked like a tramp. This
newcomer flopped off the back of a skinny mule, and strolled up to the
sentry at the gates. He walked with his hands thrust deep into his
pockets, and a battered sun-helmet stuck on the back of his head. “Hello,”
he said cheerfully. “I’m Bill Samson—where’s the Colonel?” The sentry
looked the ragged figure up and down. Then, with a snort, he pointed the
way to the Colonel’s quarters, and the strange figure ambled into the
fort. He paused a few yards away and removed one of the dirty canvas shoes
which had formed his footwear. From between his first and second toes he
extracted a stone and threw it carelessly away. Then he fumbled in his
pocket and produced an old briar pipe, stuffing it with tobacco and
lighting up, tossing the lighted match on the spotless parade ground.
“Blimey!” spluttered a Cockney soldier, peeping out of the guardhouse.
“The Colonel will half-murder him for that. Who is the cove, anyway?”
“That’s the famous Bill Samson,” said an older soldier, who had been on
the frontier for some years. “His real job is surveying the frontier and
making maps of the mountains and passes, but he knows the native languages
and customs so well he always gets the job of busting up any trouble among
the Afghan and Pathan tribes. The natives call him the Wolf of Kabul. Bill
Samson was at that moment sauntering into the office of Colonel Laurie.
The Colonel gaped at the sight of his visitor. “Who are you?” he shouted.
Bill Samson pretended not to hear the question. He took off his jacket and
flung it over a table. Clad in shirt and shorts, he flopped down into the
Colonel’s pet chair and placed his feet up on the table. He smiled in a
friendly way to the indignant Colonel. “I believe you sent a message to
headquarters saying that two tribes up here are getting dangerous,” he
said. “Yes, I did,” the officer replied shortly. “What about it?” “I’ve
been sent here to bust up those tribes,” the Wolf of Kabul returned
calmly. “My name’s Bill Samson.” The Colonel could only stare. His fort
was threatened by a native rising. He had asked for help, and headquarters
had sent this one tramp! “Shir Muhammud and Gunga Khan have joined forces
and declared a holy war. Isn‘t that right?” went on the
visitor.
“Their troops
are in the mountains just west of here, and they intend to wipe
Fort
Kanda off
the map as their first move. These two chiefs have been harmless up to now
because they’ve always been fighting against each other,” he continued. “Now
they have joined forces and have become a danger. That’s right, isn’t it?” “It
is,” was the stiff answer. “The two chiefs have sworn blood-brotherhood and are
gathering their men. They are about ten thousand strong.” Colonel Laurie gave
his moustache a fierce twirl. His hands were itching to take a grip on this
young fellow and hurl him out of the room. But the Colonel knew something of
Bill Samson’s history. Bill had not been nick-named the Wolf of Kabul for
nothing. Bill was not an army man, but he was the most useful man in
India to
the army. Pompous officials hated him because he had no respect for their
dignity. The lower ranks liked him because he openly preferred their company.
Colonel Laurie swallowed hard as he gazed at this remarkable young fellow.
PRIVATE
CHUNG—AND CLICKY-BA
Just then there
was a tap on the door of the outer office. A Sepoy entered one of the native
soldiers of the British Army in
India.
“Private Chung
is in trouble again, sir,” he said. “Fetch him in!” barked the Colonel, going to
his desk. There entered three Sepoy’s with fixed bayonets. A native sergeant
swaggered at the head of them, and the prisoner came along in the rear.
Fort
Kanda’s
commander groaned with despair as he looked at the prisoner. Chung was the black
sheep in that otherwise perfect fort. He was a squat man, almost dumpy, and had
enormous shoulders and very long arms. His ugly face was broad and flat, with
greasy, black hair hung over his low forehead. He was dressed in the uniform of
a Sepoy private, but there was no smartness about his uniform. Chung was a
mountain man from the
Eastern
Himalayas. “Master,” he
said, his beady eyes filled with sadness. “I am full of humble sorrow. I did not
mean to knock down four men. The clicky-ba merely turned in my hand, my lord!”
“What is the charge, and what is a ‘clicky-ba’?” demanded the Colonel, looking
at the native sergeant. “Sahib, a ‘clicky-ba’ is what this ignorant fellow calls
a cricket bat,” replied the sergeant. “It was with one he did the damage which
placed four men in hospital. Sahib, he is very bad.” “Read the charge,” roared
the Colonel. The sergeant did so. It said that Chung was being taught the game
of cricket, a sport ordered by the Colonel himself. Private Chung had been
stumped, but he refused to leave the wicket. On an attempt being made to remove
him, he had used the bat as a club and cracked the heads of four of the
fielders. He had then wept bitterly and been easily disarmed. “Truly it is as
the sergeant says,” sighed the prisoner. “It was strange what the clicky-ba did.
I would like always to be armed with such a weapon. Master, will you give me a
clicky-ba instead of a rifle?” “I’ll give you imprisonment for a week, and then
you’ll be kicked out of the Army!” roared the Colonel. “Take him away.” “I hope
sweet perfumes will always be in your nostrils,” murmured Chung humbly as he was
marched out. Colonel Laurie groaned, and turning swiftly, found Bill Samson at
his elbow. “I like that man Chung,” Bill said. “I want a servant like that—a
born fighter. I’ll take him over to
Afghanistan and
end this little affair we were talking about.” “Take Chung?” howled the Colonel.
“He’d knife you.” “No he wouldn’t. I know that type,” insisted the young fellow
cheerfully. Then he became suddenly grave. “Listen,” he went on, “there are
plenty of spies who know I’ve come up here. So I’m going right back to
headquarters, and I’ll slip into native disguise. I’m going to the mountains to
join Shir Muhammud, and I’ll stir up more trouble for those people than you can
guess.” He tapped the surprised officer on the chest in a familiar manner. “I
shall come back to your fort in a few hours. I shall be disguised as a native.
I’ll insult one of your sentries, and you must lock me up in the cells with
Chung. “Tonight you will allow Chung and me to escape,” he continued. “The
Afghan spies will learn all about the escape, and we’ll be received with open
arms by them, and I shan’t be suspected for what I am.” “You’ll get killed,”
commented Colonel Laurie dryly. Bill Samson shrugged and stalked out. A few
minutes later his mule was plodding away from
Fort
Kanda. An
Afghan on a distant hill watched him through a stolen telescope, and smiled when
the white man disappeared. The watcher thought that the Wolf of Kabul had gone
for good!
TEA-SET
MYSTERY
Bill
Samson returned to
Fort
Kanda late in the
afternoon. He was disguised as a young Hillman, with a row of bristling knives
in his belt. At the gates he kicked the sentry, and was arrested after a
struggle and taken to the cells. They put him in the same cell as
Chung. Nobody but the
Colonel knew the secret of it all. The whole affair was for the purpose of
fooling any spies who might be about. Before sunrise, however, the bugles were
blowing the alarm. The guard over the cells had been found neatly trussed with
his own turban-cloth, and Chung and the disguised Bill Samson were missing. So
was a very fine cricket bat belonging to Colonel Laurie, and a silver tea-set
much prized by the Colonel’s wife. The cricket bat was being twirled between the
stumpy fingers of Chung as he strode happily through the hills by the side of
Bill Samson. They were rapidly approaching the Afghan frontier, where a row of
coloured posts marked the limits of
British
India. Suddenly Bill
Samson halted and looked back. An army mule patrol was hot on their heels. It
had been sent out by Colonel Laurie, who had decided a joke was a joke, but the
theft of his wife’s tea-set was not a laughing matter. “That Colonel’s a
senseless idiot,” muttered Bill Samson. Then a flash came from among the rocks
on the Afghan side of the line. Bill Samson grinned. They were being watched.
“This will help a lot,” he muttered, and then he turned to Chung. “You shall use
clicky-ba to send away these foolish Sepoys,” he said shortly. “My lord, it will
be a joy,” grinned the Hillman cheerfully. He dropped out of sight among the
rocks as the Britisher hurried on to the Frontier. The patrol, which was under
the same native sergeant as had accused Chung before the Colonel, charged down
towards the boundary. Then, with a terrible yell, Chung sprang out of his
ambush. The brightly-varnished cricket bat rose and fell with a dull thud on the
man’s head, sending him sprawling. Another man went down with a back sweep.
Chung crooned a little song as he aimed mighty swipes, but he was careful to use
only a part of his enormous strength. He did not want to kill the soldiers. The
sight of his old enemy, the sergeant, angered him a little, however. The native
advanced on him with fixed bayonet, but a single sweep of clicky-ba knocked the
weapon out of the sergeant’s hands. The man turned to jump clear. But Chung
scored a boundary hit on the seat of his attacker’s military shorts, lifting him
a yard into the air. The rout of that native patrol was terrible. Although the
men would have faced Afghan knives, a cricket bat was very different, and Chung
was an expert in the use of it. The retreat to
Fort
Kanda was
a disgrace, and Bill Samson grinned when he thought of what Colonel Laurie would
say. Chung came racing through the rocks, bending low to escape the bullets sent
after him by the injured sergeant. He reached his master and stood before him
very humbly, leaning on the handle of the bat. “My lord, I am full of sorrow.
Truly, I did not intend to make it unpleasant for the sergeant to sit down. I
swear that clicky-ba turned in my hand and did this evil thing.” “Call me not
lord,” said Bill Samson. “I am Ali. Remember, my real name means death to us
both.”
TOWN OF
DANGER
They
crossed the boundary line and soon they were climbing a narrow pass leading to
the desert and the town of
Kohi, which was the
headquarters of the rebellious chiefs. As they rounded a large rock, halfway up
the pass, a number of wild hillmen rose silently on either side of them and
menaced them with rifles. They were the
Afghans whom Bill Samson had noticed when Chung was fighting the patrol. “Where
do you go?” they asked. “To Kohi and the noble Shir Muhammud,” the disguised
Bill Samson replied. “We would fight in his holy war, for—by Allah—we hate these
British dogs. We have just escaped from the prison of
Fort
Kanda. “It
is true that two men were imprisoned there and escaped,” nodded the Afghan
leader. What proof have you that you are these ones?” Bill Samson laughed as he
emptied the contents of a sack on the ground. Our rolled the silver tea-set of
the Colonel’s wife. He had bagged it for a tight corner like this. “Of a truth
you are the ones we expected,” nodded the leader. “But what is it your brother
carries? Is it that with which he scattered the soldiers?” “Ho, indeed it was
with this,” boomed Chung, whirling the cricket bat. “I have cracked many skulls
with clicky-ba. Aie! When clicky-ba is in my hand I like to fight—and to slay.”
“You are a great man,” said the Afghan, and Chung swelled with pride. “It is
so,” he beamed, tossing the greasy fringe of hair out of his eyes. “At
Fort
Kanda I
killed four men with as many strokes.” “Oh, Chung, you are a very great
truth-twister!” whispered Bill Samson in his ear. Then he looked round at the
murderous hillmen who surrounded them, and drew a long knife from his belt. “My
brother is but a boaster—I am a fighter,” he said. “Who will test me?” Although
Afghans are brave and very proud, not one man moved forward to fight Bill. There
was something in the blue eyes of the Wolf of Kabul that made the wild hillmen
mutter and turn away. “You are sleepy dogs,” Bill Samson laughed carelessly and
tossed the knife so that it stuck deep into the broad face of clicky-ba. “Where
is Shir Muhammud?” he demanded. “I go to join him. I do not care for that fox
Gunga Khan—I would as soon fight him as fight the British.” The Afghans muttered
in their beards, for they were all Gunga Khan’s men and hated Shir Muhammud like
poison. The fact that they took it quietly and helped the pair on their way to
Kohi had showed the danger that lurked at the gates of
Fort
Kanda. The
rival chiefs had joined together in a holy war, forgetting their enmity for the
time being. When they entered the little hill town of
Kohi at
sundown, they found it packed with thousands of armed warriors, all sworn to
friendship in their holy war against the British. It was the hour of prayer, and
a mullah, standing on the high tower of the mosque, preached war on
Fort
Kanda, and
then the conquest of
India. Ten
thousand men flung back their heads at the call from the mullah, and howled like
wolves, the lust for battle burning in their eyes. Bill Samson made his way
through the wild hillmen quite cheerfully, laughing at the very idea of
danger—even asking for trouble by the insulting words which he showered on the
followers of Gunga Khan. So he came to the open courtyard where Shir Muhammud
squatted on a pile of carpets and stroked his long beard. From time to time the
great chief looked round suspiciously at his old rival, who occupied another
divan by his side. The two chiefs had a violent hatred for each other, and for
ten years they had fought each other, until they had joined their forces to
sweep the British off the frontier. They could not, however, completely forget
the past. Bill Samson caused some more ill-feeling when he marched in and
emptied the silver tea-set at the feet of Shir Muhammud. “I took them from
Fort
Kanda as a
present for you, lord,” he said gaily. “By Allah, I will fight for you—I and my
brother. We are your men.” And he turned his back on Gunga Khan with such open
disgust that the Afghan paled with rage. Shir Muhammud stroked his beard and
chuckled. “Stand beside me,” he said. “I give you my blessing.” There was a gasp
of rage from the rival chief seated on the other divan. The Wolf of Kabul had
managed to make nearly five thousand enemies—the followers of Gunga
Khan!
DEATH
SQUARE
It
seemed as if Bill Samson had acted like a madman in making an enemy of Gunga
Khan, the other chieftain. Even Shir Muhammud advised him in a whisper to keep
to the palace and not leave it until they marched on
Fort
Kanda. As
for Gunga Khan, he was so angry that he quarreled with Shir Muhammud and then
swept away with his followers to another part of the town Shir Muhammud went
away with his chieftains, and Bill Samson and Chung were left alone. “Do you
fear a knife in your body?” Bill asked. “My lord,” smiled the hillman, “it would
be a strange knife that would pass beyond click-ba. Whom do we go to kill?”
“Ourselves perhaps,” laughed the young fellow, stepping boldly into the street.
Kohi was a town of winding alleys sheltered by high, white walls. There were no
lights and they stumbled over holes cut in the ground to serve as drains. Soon
they reached a narrow street leading to the bazaar, in which many fierce hillmen
chanted songs of battle. Bill Samson promptly broke in with a famous hill tune,
which was the battle song of Shir Muhammud. He was still singing when the fun
began. A party of Gunga Khan’s followers, forgetting the vows of peace laid down
by the priests, took their knives and silently drifted out of the bazaar. It was
time the insolent stranger was put out of the way. Coming round a bend leading
into a dark square, Bill Samson and Chung walked right into them. “Go with
Allah!” Bill called boldly. A huge bearded hillman seized him by the front of
his robe, however. “Dog,” he hissed, “we have had too much of your insolence.
Tonight you praise Gunga Khan, or you die. Say this— ‘Gunga Khan, lord of the
hills, greatest of chiefs.’ Now, hasten, for my knife thirsts for thy blood.” He
held the long blade to Bill Samson’s throat, yet the reply was a short laugh.
“Gunga Khan, the old hill fox in his burrow!” said the young fellow. His fist
shot up at the same time, catching the giant on the beard and cracking his jaw.
He snatched the deadly knife from the hillman’s hand, and drew another from his
sash. Bill Samson crouched and faced the howling pack, his lips drawn back from
his even, white teeth. With howls of rage, Gunga Khan’s followers closed in, but
two of them were down before they knew what had hit them. They lay senseless on
the ground with crushed skulls. The terrible Chung and his cricket bat were in
action. Even Bill Samson was scared, and kept a wary eye on the man. Chung was
just as likely to hit him as the Afghans. The knives Bill himself held were red
to the hilts. Not for nothing was Bill Samson known as the Wolf of Kabul, and
his gleaming knives as his fangs. Finally the Afghans turned and fled,
terror-stricken, clicky-ba chopping down any who were a little late in turning.
Even then the hillman was not satisfied, and made to go after them, roaring like
a mad beast. Bill Samson caught him by the arm and heaved him back, knocking
some of the fight out of him. “My lord,” said Chung, looking at the heaps of
dead and dying, “this is a very terrible thing. I am all sadness. Truly
clicky-ba turned in my hand, and I knew not what it did. I swear I did not
intend to kill. My lord, I killed at least fifteen, and I am humbly sorry!” But
the mad look came back as he shook the hair from his eyes and glared round. Just
then two parties of Afghans burst into the square from either side, and another
terrible fight began. The Britisher and his servant had landed in Gunga Khan’s
section of Kohi. As a result, there was nobody to help them, although Bill
Samson roared the battle-cry of Shir Muhammud from time to time. He had come
down to try to stage a fight like this, but he had thought he was nearer to Shir
Muhammud’s camp. Since this part of his plan had gone wrong, it would likely
mean death to Bill Samson and Chung. A fierce band of screaming men surged round
them. Chung was bleeding from many wounds, but this just made him fight all the
harder. The Britisher had lost a dagger, thrust deeply into the throat of one of
the attackers. For the first time he drew a revolver from his sash and dropped
six men with as many shots. He clubbed the gun and crashed it down on the hard
heads of the Afghans, while clicky-ba hit anything and everything. Of course,
that great defence could not last, for more and more of Gunga Khan’s men were
arriving. A terrible sweep from a heavy scimitar crashed through Bill Samson’s
guard, and the broad of the blade landed on his head, sending him senseless to
the ground. Immediately Chung jumped across his master’s body, his screams and
wolf-like howls striking terror into the hearts of the fearless Afghans. They
got him at last, however, with a huge sheet which they flung over Chung and
clicky-ba. Twelve men struggled to hold him down, but it took them all their
time, such was his terrible strength. Then above the din called a commanding
voice— “Kill them not! Gunga Khan has ways of his own to punish those who insult
him and break the laws of the mullahs.”
THE POISON OF
THE WOLF
Bill
Samson was carried, limp and senseless, in the arms of a single hillman. It was
startling to think that this young fellow, so slight in build, had killed ten
men and wounded a dozen more.
As for Chung,
they put ropes on him and dragged him along like a mad bull. He still roared
defiantly and fought to free himself. One of Gunga Khan’s men had gone ahead to
warn his master. The chieftain rubbed his hands with glee when he heard that the
stranger who had openly insulted him in the presence of Shir Muhammud had been
caught. So Bill Samson and Chung were dragged along to a small mosque which
belonged to a sect that was the most fanatical in all
Afghanistan.
They flung the Britisher down on the flagstones inside the mosque, and tied
Chung to a pillar for safety. An old mullah with a long white beard stared at
them coldly. Bill Samson wore the yellow turban of the Sunni sect, the rivals of
the mullahs of the mosque. Then Gunga Khan appeared, and immediately he said
that these men, followers of Shir Muhammud had broken the peace between the two
tribes. “These men have broken the law, and I ask for death—by the stake!” he
demanded. “It is just,” nodded the high priest, who saw Gunga Khan’s keeper of
the keys shaking a bag of gold. “Kill them as you will, Gunga Khan.” The Afghan
clapped his hands, and men came in, dragging a hugh block of wood, with a huge,
sharp spike about two feet long sticking up in the middle. There were ugly red
stains round this iron spike—signs that many had died on this terrible stake. At
a signal from Gunga Khan, four big natives, naked to the waist, grabbed Bill
Samson by the wrists and ankles. They swung him spreadeagled over that dreadful
spike. When the moment came, they would bring him down with such force that the
point would drive into his back and through his chest. He would lie there
squirming like a speared beetle until death claimed him. Already Gunga Khan had
lifted his hand. Suddenly Chung, with a terrible yell, broke the ropes which
held him to the pillar as if they were threads. He caught one of his attackers
by the ear, between thumb and forefinger, tearing away the organ with hardly an
effort. Another man he seized by the beard, and, exerting his enormous strength,
swung him off his feet and flung him like a stone at the nearest Afghan. The
executioners dropped Bill Samson, clear of the spike, and ran for their lives,
but even their speed did not save them. Chung heaved up the spiked block and
flung it after them, crushing two beneath that great weight. Another jump, and,
with a howl of triumph, he had snatched clicky-ba from one of his previous
captors. Chung sent men spinning to the floor with crushed skulls. Stooping
swiftly, Chung swung his young master over his broad shoulders, and, whirling
the bat in front of himself, plunged into the press. They could not stop the
hillman although they tried. He brushed aside knives carelessly and plunged into
an ante-room in the mosque, dropping his burden and turning to defend the door
with clicky-ba. It was at that moment Bill Samson recovered and sat up, feeling
very sick and giddy. But he scrambled up and looked for some sort of weapon.
Piled in a corner were a number of cases. One was partly opened, and he saw the
squat barrel of a machine-gun. Gunga Khan had been storing arms in the
mosque—arms that had been smuggled into the country. “Keep them out, Chung!”
yelled Bill Samson as he began to set up one of the weapons. The Afghans urged
on by Gunga Khan, rushed forward. They were met by red-hot lead, a spitting
hailstorm of death. Those in front tried to get back, but were pushed forward by
their comrades behind. They became a human shield through which heavy,
steel-coated bullets tore, inflicting hideous wounds and death on the other
attackers. “I can hold them!” laughed Bill Samson. He, too, had got the lust for
battle. “Chung, you will do as I say. Leave the mosque by the back door and run
to Shir Muhammud. Tell him how we were attacked by the men of Gunga Khan and
sentenced to death without trial. Tell him that I beg help!” “My lord, I obey;
but if you are dead when I come back, I will kill every man in Kohi!” Chung
promised. He vanished swiftly. The door his master had pointed out was securely
locked. So he dragged the iron grid from a window, flung it at the crowd going
down before the machine-gun, and dropped out into the
lane.
THE
FEUD
Meantime Bill
Samson had cleared the courtyard, and contented himself with sharp-shooting. The
Afghans had gone to cover and were bringing their own rifles into play.
Of course, he
would not be able to keep them at bay for ever, and it was touch and go if the
other chieftain would come to help him, in view of the truce with Gunga Khan.
But he had judged his men well, and, when Shir Muhammud heard the wild story
from the lips of the still wilder hillman, he fairly flamed with rage. He
remembered the silver tea-set presented to him. “By Allah, that fox Gunga Khan
has gone too far!” he roared. “No man of mine shall die at the stake.” So
presently it came about that several thousand screaming natives swept down on
the mosque, waving guns and knives, and shouting insults against Gunga Khan.
Promptly the Afghan chief turned out his men. A terrible fight between the two
tribes began in the narrow streets. Bill Samson found himself alone in the
mosque, and he chuckled as he heard the uproar. His mission to Kohi was at an
end. Ten minutes he waited, and then became very anxious, wondering what had
happened to Chung. He owed his life to the heroic Himalayan. He found a rifle
amongst the cases of arms and went out to look for him. A squat figure loomed
and stood panting by his side. “Master,” said Chung very sorrowfully. “I am
humble. I ask your forgiveness, for truly I knew not what happened. There was a
fight, and clicky-ba moved in my hand and killed many men on the way here. My
lord, is it a very terrible thing to kill men.” Bill Samson laughed as he patted
his servant on his broad shoulders. “No,” he answered. “We will find two fast
mules and hasten over the frontier. My work is done.” A little later, from the
head of the track to
Fort
Kanda,
they looked down on Kohi, lit up by the flames of many fires. The roar of battle
floated up to them. Shir Muhammud and Gunga Khan were at each other’s throats.
And the men they were fighting about was the one they should have fought
against—Bill Samson, the Wolf of Kabul!
When the troops
at
Fort
Kanda were
parading in the early morning, Bill Samson and Chung sauntered through the gates
looking like tramps in their bloodstained, torn, and dirty robes. It took
Colonel Laurie some minutes to recognise Bill Samson. “Confound you!” he roared.
“What d’you mean by stealing my wife’s tea-set and treating the patrol like
that?” Bill Samson spat deliberately on the spotless parade ground and his blue
eyes flickered slightly. “Send a chit down to Nushki for your tea-set,” he said.
“You’ll get a new one there. It helped to stop a frontier rising. Gunga Khan and
Shir Muhammud have started a feud which will last for a hundred years!”
“But—but—” choked Colonel Laurie. “Mean to say
Fort
Kanda
isn’t in danger any longer?” “Not a bit,” said Bill Samson. “Cheerio!” And he
sauntered out with Chung at his heels. The Wolf of Kabul had done his work with
enormous success.
The
Wolf of Kabul
8 episodes appeared in
The Wizard
issues 1074 – 1081
The
Wolf of Kabul
10 episodes appeared in
The Wizard
issues 1330 – 1339
The
Wolf of Kabul
7 episodes appeared in
The Wizard
issues 1543 - 1549
The
Wolf of Kabul
5 episodes appeared in
Rover and
Wizard
issues
January
25th 1964
–
February
22nd 1964
The
Wolf of Kabul
13 episodes appeared in
Rover and
Wizard
issues
May
23rd 1964
–
August
15th 1964
The
Wolf of Kabul
11 episodes appeared in
Rover and
Wizard
issues
June
17th 1972
–
August
26th 1972
©
D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic
Whittle 2005
