The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy

      “But if they do not let you go? They are ruffians, you know, Jimgrim.”

      “Then I shall find another way.”

      “And how will you account for being so few men, when Rafiki’s messenger will have said we are at least a score?”

      “Will that not be further proof that the man is a liar?”

      “If I did not know you of old I would say that is a fool’s plan,” remarked Ali Baba, and his sons grunted agreement. “But you have a devil of resourcefulness. Taib! Let us try this plan and see what comes of it.”

      So we started off again to a running comment of contemptuous disapproval from the lady Ayisha, who seemed to think that no plan could be a good one unless it entailed murder. The farther we headed eastward, the nearer we came to the pale beyond which her lord and master’s word was summary law, the more openly she advocated drastic remedies for everything, and the less she was inclined to take no for an answer.

      However, her monologue was wasted on the moon, for no one argued with her. Grim led the way-off the highroad now, and down dark defiles that set the camels moaning, while their riders yelled alternately to Allah and apostrophized their beasts in the monosyllabic camel language. Camels hate downhill work, especially when loaded, and fall unless told not to in a speech they understand, in that respect strangely like children.

      You had to look out in the dark, too, for the teeth of the camel behind, because they don’t love the folk who drive them headlong into gorges full of ghosts, and one man’s thigh or elbow makes as easy biting as the next.

      Camels are no man’s pets, and there is no explaining them. The fools will graze contentedly with shrapnel and high explosives bursting all about them, but go into a panic at the sight of a piece of paper in broad daylight. And when they think they see ghosts in the dark they act like the Gadarene swine, only making more noise about it.

      I wouldn’t have been the lady Ayisha going down some of those dark places for all the wealth of ancient Bagdad. Her shibrayahpitched and rolled like a small boat in a big sea, and whenever a rock leaned out over the narrow trail, or a scraggy old thorn branch swung, it was by a combination of luck and good carpentry that she was saved from being pitched down under the following camel’s feet. Whoever made that shibrayah could have built the Ark.

      But we came down through one last terrific gorge on to a level plain, where the camel-thorn grew in clumps and the heat radiating from the hills was like the breath from an oven door behind us. There the animals went best foot forward, as if they smelled the dawn and hoped to meet it sooner by hurrying. We had quite a job to keep back for the loaded beasts, and three or four men, instead of one, brought up the rear to prevent straggling.

      Then, about an hour before dawn, in a hollow between sparsely vegetated sand-dunes, Grim ordered camp pitched, and in very few minutes there was a row of little cotton tents erected, with a small fire in front of each.

      Most of the camels were turned out at once to graze off the unappetizing-looking thorns, sparse and dusty, that peppered the field of view like scabs on a yellow skin. There was no fear of their wandering too far, for if the camel ever was wild, as many maintain that he never was, that was so long ago that the whole species has forgotten it, and he wouldn’t know what to do without his owner somewhere near.

      He has to be used at night, because he will not eat at night; on the other hand, he refuses to sleep in the daytime; so there is a limit to what you can do with a camel, in spite of his endurance, and once in so many days he has to be given a twenty-four hour rest so that he may catch up on both food and sleep.

      But on the dry plains such as where we were then they give less trouble than anywhere. For though they soon go sick on good corn, which a horse must have, they thrive and grow fat on desert gleanings; and whereas sweet water will make their bellies ache oftener than not, the brackish, dirty stuff from wells by the Dead Sea shore is nectar to them.

      Have you ever seen twenty camels rolling all at once with their legs in the air, preparatory to making breakfast off dry thorns that you wouldn’t dare handle with gloves on? If so, you’ll understand that they’re the perfect opposite of every other useful beast that lives.

      But not all the camels were turned out. Grim chose Mujrim—Ali Baba’s eldest son—a black-bearded, forty-year-old giant—two of the younger men, Narayan Singh and me; and with the lady Ayisha’s beast in tow with the empty shibrayah set off directly the sun was a span high over the nearest dune.

      We rode almost straight toward the sun, and in five minutes it appeared how close we were to the village whence danger might be expected. It was a straggling, thatched, squalid-looking cluster of huts, surrounded by a mud wall with high, arched gates. Only one minaret like a candle topped with an extinguisher pretended to anything like architecture, and even from where we were you could see the rubbish-heaps piled outside the wall to reek and fester. There was a vulture on top of the minaret, and kites and crows—those inevitable harbingers of man—were already busy with the day’s work.

      The village Arabs are perfunctory about prayer, unless unctuous strangers are in sight, who might criticize. So, although we approached at prayer-time, it was hardly a minute after we rose in view over a low dune before a good number of men were on the wall gazing in our direction. And before we had come within a mile of the place the west gate opened and a string of camel-men rode out.

      The man at their head was the sheikh by the look of him, for we could see his striped silk head-dress even at that distance, and he seemed to have a modern rifle as against the spears and long-barreled muskets of the others. There were about two-score of them, and they rode like the wind in a half circle, with the obvious intention of surrounding us. Grim led straight on.

      They rode around and around us once or twice before the man in the striped head-gear called a halt. He seemed disturbed by Grim’s nonchalance, and asked our business with not more than half a challenge in his voice.

      “Water,” Grim answered. “Did Allah make no wells in these parts?”

      It doesn’t pay to do as much as even to suggest your real reason for visiting an Arab village, for they won’t believe you in any case.

      “What have you in the shibriyah?”

      “Come and see.”

      The Sheikh Mahommed Abbas drew near alone, suspiciously, with his cocked rifle laid across his lap. His men began moving again, circling around us slowly—I suppose with the idea of annoying us; for that is an old trick, to irritate your intended victim until some ill-considered word or gesture gives excuse for an attack. But we all sat our camels stock-still, and, following Grim’s example, kept our rifles slung behind us.

      The sheikh was a rather fine-looking fellow, except for smallpox marks. He had a hard eye, and a nose like an eagle’s beak; and that sort of face is always wonderfully offset by a pointed black beard such as he wore. But there was something about the way he sat his camel that suggested laziness, and his lips were not thin and resolute enough to my mind, to match that beard and nose. I would have bet on three of a kind against him sky-high, even if he had passed the draw.

      He drew aside the curtain of the shibrayah gingerly, as if he expected a trick mechanism that might explode a bomb in his face.

      “Mashallah! Where is the woman?” he exclaimed.

      I found out then that I was right as to the way to play that supposititious poker hand. Grim had doped him out too, and answered promptly without changing a muscle of his face.

      “Wallahi! Should I bring my wife to this place?”

      “Allah! Thy wife?”

      “Whose else?”

      “It was Ali Higg’s wife according to the tale!”

      “Some fools swallow tales as the dogs eat the offal thrown to them! By the beard of God’s Prophet, whom do you take me for?”

“Kif?35