The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy

and linen and silks attest

      What are the profits of Ali’s quest!

      Akbar! Akbar! Akbar Ali Higg!

      “Fair are the fortunes of Ali’s men!

      Akbar! Akbar!

      Each has slave-women eight or ten!

      Akbar! Akbar!

      Ho! Where the dust of the desert swirls

      Over the plain as his cohort whirls,

      Oho! the screams of the plundered girls!

      Akbar! Akbar! Akbar Ali Higg!”

      There was any amount more of it, but most of the rest was not polite enough for print, because the Arab likes to enter into details. It sounded much better in Arabic, anyhow. And more and more frequently as the song grew lurid and they warmed to the refrain they made their point by changing the third Akbar into Jimgrim:

      “Akbar! Akbar! Jimgrim Ali Higg!”

      It suited their sense of humor finely to announce to the wind and the kites that Grim, the strict, straight, ethical American was a ravisher of virgins and a slitter of offenseless throats, who knew no mercy—a man without law in this world or prospect of peace in the next.

      When we reached an oasis about noon—sweet water and thirty or forty palm-trees—and simply had to camp there because the camels were exhausted after a night and half a day of strenuous marching, they were still so full of high spirits that they had to work them off somehow; and unwittingly I provided the excuse.

      I was on the lee side of a camel, opening a boil in Mujrim’s leg with his razor, when I caught sight of one of the younger men trying to burgle the medicine-chest. I yelled at him, and naturally gashed my patient’s leg, who rose in giant wrath and with enormous fairness smote the real culprit.

      The resulting blasphemous bad language brought Ali Baba to the scene at once as peacemaker, with all the gang behind him; and in a minute they had all joined hands, with Mahommed standing in the center, and were dancing like a lot of pouter-pigeons, singing a new song about Mujrim’s leg, and a razor, and blood on the sand, and palm-trees, and a saint, and my superhuman ability to let daylight into the very heart of boils. You don’t have to believe any one who tells you that Arabs haven’t humor.

      There were the ruins of half a dozen mud-walled huts near the spring in that oasis. There had once been a sort of rampart and a gate, but there was hardly enough of that left to show where it stood. The only building still quite intact was a stone tomb of about the height of a man, with a plastered cupola roof; and Ali Baba, who always knew everything, swore that was a great saint’s grave, and that there was much virtue and good luck to be gained by praying inside the tomb. So they all took turns to go in and pray fervently—two-bow prayers as they called them—reciting thereafter such scripture as Ali Baba thought suitable and could remember.

      Hunting about in the ruins I found indubitable human bones. Ayisha, when asked about it, said that Ali Higg had raided the place several months ago and killed or captured every one.

      “Because he is lord of the waters,” she explained, and seemed to think that reason unassailable.

      There was quite a dispute at that place as to who should stand first guard while the rest of us slept, but Grim settled it by casting lots with date-stones in a way that was new, but that seemed to satisfy every one—especially as the first watch fell to Narayan Singh and me.

      “That is because the rest of us said our prayers,” explained Ali Baba piously.

      But I think it was really because Grim knew how to play tricks with the date-stones.

      The Sikh and I kept making the circuit of the palm-trees and talking to keep each other from getting too sleepy, for there is no time when desire to sleep so loads you down as in the noon heat after a long march. You very often can’t sleep then because of the very heat that makes you drowsy; but the glare has been so trying to your eyes that you yearn to shut them, and inertia sits on your spine and shoulders like a load of lead.

      “Thou and I must watch that woman, sahib,” said Narayan Singh. “Our Jimgrim will make use of her; but how shall he do that if her heart changes? As long as she hopes to snare him I am not afraid of her. But what if it should be she who grows afraid as we get nearer to Ali Higg’s nest? A woman afraid is worse than a man with a dagger in the dark. Suppose she bolts to Ali Higg and lays information against us—what then?”

      I tried to argue him out of his anxiety, because I wanted to sleep when my turn came. My habit of never looking for trouble is a lovely one until trouble starts; but the Sikh, being only a heathen, could not be persuaded; so I had to promise him that, turn about, four hours on and four off, he and I would watch Ayisha faithfully until such time as Grim should make other disposition of our services or there should be no more need.

      “And I think, sahib, that it will be best to shoot or stab her without argument if she turns treacherous.”

      But I never stabbed or shot a woman yet. I have a loose-kneed prejudice against it. I said so.

      “Then, sahib, if it be your turn on watch, and you detect treachery, summon me, and I will send her to Jehannum.” [Hell]

      “I think we ought to speak to Jimgrim about it,” I objected. “He might have other plans.”

      The Sikh turned that over in his mind during one whole circuit of the palm-trees, stroking his great beard with his right hand the while as if the friction would inspire his brain.

      “Jimgrim will say she is a woman and therefore must not be killed in any event,” he answered at last. “But that is of the nature of his error, all men suffering delusion in some form, since none is perfect. If we submit the problem to him he will answer wrongly; but we shall then have received orders, which, as faithful men, we must not disobey.

      “As concerns ourselves, being men without specific orders on that point, the question is simple: Of that woman and that man, if the one must live and the other die, which shall it be? And I say Jimgrim shall live, if I die afterward even by his hand for it.”

      It sounded logical. The arguments with which an unselfish, honest fellow deceives himself into wrong-doing always do bear quite a lot of investigation. But I was at sea before the mast once, where I learned painfully that the captain commands the ship; not even the notions of the buckiest bucko mate amount to as much as a barnacle’s bootlace if the old man disagrees from them.

      “What makes you think he doesn’t understand the obvious danger of Ayisha?” said I.

      “No man from the West ever understood a woman of the East,” he answered.

      That being obviously true—Adam did not understand Eve, and no man from anywhere has understood any woman since—I had to rack my brains for a different argument.

      “There are two sure ways of discovering treason,” I said at last. “One way is to pick a quarrel with the person you suspect. But the safer way is to seem very friendly.

      “Now—why don’t you make love to her? You’re a fine, big, handsome man. I don’t suppose she’ll prefer you in her heart to Jimgrim, but she’ll not be ashamed to appear to respond, and if she has evil intentions she will surely seek to take advantage of your passion to forward her own plans. Seeking to make use of you, she will betray herself.”

      “So speaks the jackal to the tiger. `This way, sahib! That way, sahib! A broad-horned sambhur to be killed, worthy of your honor’s strength!’ Why don’t you make love to her?”

      “Because I’m afraid,” said I quite frankly. “If I thought I could get away with it I’d try. But she’d laugh at me, whereas your attentions might flatter her.”

      “You think so?”

      He stroked his great beard again, and twisted his mustache.

      “I’m sure of it.”

      “Atcha.