The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy

and eat up the land like the locust. It is Allah’s will.”

      “I know the heart of Feisul, and I understand a little of the heart of Ali Higg,” Grim answered. “I can guess the course of Saoud the Avenger. But the will of Allah is something I can not divine. I am no prophet. Perhaps you are?”

      “Nay, nay! I never said it.”

      “Then we neither of us know the will of Allah, and we are agreed again. That makes three points of agreement. Let us see if we can find a fourth.”

      “Taib. Let us see.”

      “Feisul will be turned out of Damascus by the French, and will go to Europe. Later he will return and be made ruler of all this country, or at least of the greater part of it. When that day comes, would you like to be on the side of the Avenger, and so obliged to oppose Feisul?”

      “No.”

      “Would you eat the Avenger’s salt now, and betray him afterward when Feisul comes?”

      “Nay; why should I? But will Feisul come? I hear you say he will, but is that proof of it? Wallahi! A man might say with equal ease that the sky will fall on us.”

      “Nevertheless, you are a man of judgment, used to weighing words. Wild sayings in the mouth of one man are stark truth on the lips of another. Do I look like a fool to you? Look at these friends of mine. Do they look like fools? Would such men follow a mere babbler of vanities? And would I, think you, risk my life and the lives of my friends in this desert, paving the way for a man who is not positively sure to come?”

      “Well, what is your bargain?” Ibrahim ben Ah asked dryly after a moment’s pause, during which he examined Grim’s face like a jeweler studying the works of a watch.

      “I make no bargain,” Grim answered. “I told you that. If you are a knave and a liar—a man untrue to his salt—forgetful of his friends—a mere desert jackal, changing sides at every opportunity, I will have nothing to do with you. If that is what you are, I will give you your camel and turn you loose, to die with the other jackals when your time comes.”

      “That is a hard saying,” said Ibrahim ben Ah.

      “Nevertheless, a true one,” answered Grim. “But if you are a man true to his salt—a friend of Feisul—unwilling to betray the Lion of Petra without first giving him fair warning face to face, then I will make you an offer.”

      “Wallahi! You look like the Lion in countenance, but you talk like an honest fellow, Jimgrim! If the Lion had thy spirit, as he has thy face, I would never have considered leaving him.”

      “You can leave him now, if you wish,” Grim answered. “None will prevent you. There kneels your camel. Take it, if you will.”

      “But Ali Higg is not for Feisul,” Ibrahim ben Ah objected.

      “Any man is for Feisul, who prevents the Avenger from growing too great and fouling Feisul’s rightful nest,” Grim answered. “So if you continue to serve Ali Higg, you will be working in behalf of Feisul until Feisul comes.”

      “But how can I serve Ali Higg without the army you have taken from me by a trick?”

      “Just at present much better than with it.”

      “How?”

      Grim turned toward Ali Baba with one of those business smiles of his that make you wonder why he isn’t a millionaire, or at least the representative of one.

      “Bring bread and salt,” he ordered.

      That took a minute or two, for one of Ali Baba’s sons had to go and unfasten a camel-load and take the remains of breakfast from the top. Ibrahim ben Ah had plenty of time to weigh in his mind what was going to happen next.

      “Your camel waits,” said Grim. “You may go free. None will fire at you. There is no dishonor in refusing to eat salt.”

      But Ibrahim ben Ah made no move until Mohammed gave bread and salt to Ali Baba, who handed it in turn to Grim. Thus it had full significance—son’s hand into father’s; captain of the gang’s hand into Grim’s. It was official salt, produced under the eyes of witnesses.

      Grim broke a piece of bread and dipped it in the salt in front of Ibrahim ben Ah, who followed suit. Each man ate his morsel in silence. Then—

      “I have eaten thy salt, O Jimgrim,” said Ibrahim ben Ah.

      “I bear witness!” announced Ali Baba.

      “I, with sixteen sons and grandsons, bear witness that Ibrahim ben Ah, commander of the host of Ali Higg, the Lion of Petra, has eaten the salt of Jimgrim.”

      “We bear witness!” they chorused after him.

      “And now?” asked Ibrahim ben Ah, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

      “I will show you how to turn a trick for Feisul,” answered Grim. “You are a man, I take it, who loves truth?”

      “None better. But the stuff is rare!”

      “And I dare say it amuses you to tell the truth and see the fool who listens twist it to his own undoing?”

      “That is the essence of all humor, Jimgrim. Aye, wallahi! I am good at that.”

      “And are you afraid to go to the Avenger?”

      “Tfu! Why should I be? Has not the Avenger sent me messages to win me over to his side?”

      “Then if it can be shown afterward that you served Ali Higg’s cause well by doing so, so that after the event Ali Higg must needs trust you more than ever as a man of exceeding courage and wisdom in extremity, will you go to the Avenger and tell him truth with which he may confound himself?”

      “By God, Jimgrim, you ask a lot, don’t you?”

      “Not a bit of it! I ask nothing. I offer you an opportunity. But if you are afraid—”

      “In the name of the Prophet, on whom be peace, don’t talk to me of fear, thou foreigner! If you, who are a stranger from a land of cursed infidels, can risk your bold neck for Feisul, am I less than you?”

      “Let us admit you are the greater,” answered Grim.

      “Taib. It is nothing but the truth; for my men are a hundred and forty—yours but a score.”

      That was too much for Narayan Singh’s self-control; he broke out into a smile such as you can see on the faces of the gargoyles of Notre Dame, or some of the temple images of India. And as for Ali Baba, there was no containing his disgust. “Jimgrim may admit what he pleases,” he declared scornfully. “As for me, I am an insect under Allah’s heel. But behold my sons and grandsons! There are not their like in all the continents! Are we only a score all told? Then we are better than a hundred score of dogs like thine!”

      “Prodigies, no doubt!” said Ibrahim ben Ah.

      “Aye, by Allah’s favor, prodigies! Look at this one—my eldest-born.”

      He took Mujrim by the arm and pulled him forward.

      “Have you such a giant in all your army of cattle-lifters? Look at him! Judge of his strength!

      “And here,” he said, grabbing hold of me, “is one who had the better of him in a bout! These two alone could beat thy army of camp-scavengers!”

      It was a relief to me to know that the old man had taken the defeat of Mujrim in that spirit; I had rather dreaded the outcome. But it isn’t exactly comfortable to be led forth by the arm like a professional pugilist and have your horn blown by someone who can boast as he pleases and then leave you to make good the vaunts. As I’ve said, I enjoy a stand-up fight on equal terms, but there are limits.

      However, Grim was fortunately in no mood for side issues of that sort. “We must get the better of a bigger force than Ali Higg’s, and boasting beforehand isn’t going to help much. Let us start now, and sing