The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy

although I suspected him of saying that to avoid a panic. He shepherded us along, speaking in a perfectly normal voice whenever he had to, as if there were no such thing as hurry in the world. When we reached the farther corner of the moat it was he who climbed out first to con the situation. A look-out in a bastion on the ruined town wall promptly fired at him.

      I expected him to fire back. I climbed up beside him to lend a hand with the pistol I had filched from Abdul Ali. But Grim shouted something about taking away for burial the corpse of a man who had died of small-pox. The man on the wall commanded us to Allah’s mercy and warned us to beware lest we, too, catch that dreaded plague.

      “Inshallah!” Grim answered. Then he summoned our men from the moat.

      They passed up Abdul Ali, dragging him feet-first again with one man keeping a clenched fist ready to strike him in the mouth in case he should forget that corpses don’t cry out. He looked like a corpse half cold, as they carried him jerkily along a track that roughly followed the line of the wall. I don’t suppose that anything ever looked more like an Arab funeral procession than we did. The absence of noisy mourners, and the unusual hour of night, were plausibly accounted for by the dreaded disease that Grim had invented for the occasion. My golf-suit was the only false note, but I kept in shadow as much as I could, with the unseemly burden between me and the ramparts.

      It was a long time before we had the town wall at our backs. A funeral, in the circumstances, might justifiably be rapid; but we could hardly run and keep up the pretense. But at last we passed over the shoulder of a hill into shadow on the farther side, and there was no more need of play-acting.

      “Yalla bilagel!” [Run like the devil.] Grim ordered then, and we obeyed him like sprinters attempting to lower a record.

      Twelve men running through the night can make a lot of noise, especially when they carry a heavy man between them. Our men were all from Hebron. Hebron prides itself on training the artfullest thieves in Asia. They boast of being able to steal the bed from under a sleeper without waking him. But even the stealthiest animals go crashing away from danger, and, now that the worst of the danger lay behind, more or less panic seized all of us.

      Mahommed ben Hamza refused to follow the regular track, for fear of ambush or a chance encounter in the dark. Grim let him have his way. They dragged the wretched Abdul Ali like a sack of corn by a winding detour, and wherever the narrow path turned sharply to avoid great rocks they skidded him at the turn until he yelled for mercy. Grim pulled off the sack at last, untied his arms and legs, and let him walk; but whenever he lagged they frog-marched him again.

      At last we reached a brook where we all waded to get rid of the filth and smell from that infernal moat, and Abdul Ali seized that opportunity to play his last cards. Considering Ben Hamza’s reputation, the obvious type of his nine ruffians, the darkness and rough handling, it said a lot for Grim’s authority that Abdul Ali still had that wallet-full of money in his possession. Sitting on a stone in the moonlight, he pulled it out. His nerve was a politician’s, cynical, simple. Its simplicity almost took your breath away.

      “How many men from Hebron?” he demanded.

      “Ten. Well and good. I have here ten thousand piastres—one thousand for each of you, or divide it how you like. That is the price I will pay you to let me go. What can these other two do to you? Take the money and run. Leave me to settle with these others.”

      Ben Hamza, knee-deep in the brook, laughed aloud as he eyed the money. He made a gesture so good-humoured, so full of resignation and regret and broad philosophy that you would have liked the fellow even if he hadn’t saved your life.

      “Deal with those two first!” he grinned. “I would have taken your money long ago, but that I know Jimgrim! He would have made me give it up again.”

      “Jimgrim!” said Abdul Ali. “Jimgrim? Are you Major James Grim? A good thing for you I did not know that, when I had you in my power in the castle!”

      Grim laughed. “Are we all set? Let’s go.”

      We hurried all the faster now because our legs were wet. The night air on those Moab heights is chilly at any season. Perhaps, too, we were trying to leave behind us the moat-stench that the water had merely reduced, not washed away. A quarter of a mile before we reached the place appointed we knew that Anazeh had not failed to keep his tryst. Away up above us, beside the tomb, like an ancient bearded ghost, Anazeh stood motionless, silent, conning the track we should come by—a grand old savage keeping faith against his neighbours for the sake of friendship.

      He did not challenge when he heard us. He took aim. He held his aim until Grim called to him. When our goat track joined the main road he was there awaiting us, standing like a sentinel in the shadow of a fanged rock. And there, if, Abdul Ali of Damascus could have had his way, there would have been a fresh debate. He did not let ten seconds pass before he had offered Anazeh all the money he had with him to lend him a horse and let him go. Anazeh waved aside the offer.

      “You shall have as much more money as you wish!” the Damascene insisted. “Let me get to my house, and a messenger shall take the money to you. Or come and get it.”

      All the answer Anazeh gave him was a curt laugh—one bark like a fox’s.

      “Where are all the horses?” Grim demanded. I could only see five or six.

      “I wait for them.”

      “Man, we can’t wait!”

      “Jimgrim!” said the old sheikh, with a glint of something between malice and amusement in his eyes, “I knew you in the mejlis when you watched me read that letter! One word from me and—” He made a click between his teeth suggestive of swift death. “I let you play your game. But now I play my game, Allah willing. I have waited for you. Wait thou for me!”

      “Why? What is it?”

      Anazeh beckoned us and turned away. We followed him, Grim and I, across the road and up a steep track to the tomb on the overhanging rock, where he had stood when we first saw him.

      He pointed. A cherry-red fire with golden sparks and crimson-bellied sulphur smoke was blazing in the midst of El-Kerak.

      “The home of Abdul Ali of Damascus,” said Anazeh with pride in his voice. It was the pride of a man who shows off the behaviour of his children. “My men did it!”

      “How can they escape?” Grim asked him.

      “Wallah! Will the gate guards stand idle? Will they not run to the fire—and to the looting? But they will find not much loot. My men already have it!”

      “Loot,” said Grim, “will delay them.”

      “Money doesn’t weigh much,” Anazeh answered. “Here my men come.”

      Somebody was coming. There came a burst of shooting and yelling from somewhere between us and El-Kerak, and a moment later the thunder of horses galloping full-pelt. Anazeh got down to the road with the agility of a youngster, ordered Abdul Ali of Damascus, the shivering Ahmed and me under cover. He placed his remaining handful of men at points of vantage where they could cover the retreat of the fifteen. And it was well he did.

      There were at least two score in hot pursuit, and though you could hardly tell which was which in that dim light, Anazeh’s party opened fire on the pursuers and let the fifteen through. I did not get sight of Grim while that excitement lasted, but he had two automatics. He took from me the one that I had taken from Abdul Ali, and with that one and his own he made a din like a machine-gun. He told me afterward that he had fired in the air.

      “Noise is as good as knock-outs in the dark,” he explained, while Anazeh’s men boasted to one another of the straight shooting that it may be they really believed they had done. An Arab can believe anything—afterward. I don’t believe one man was killed, though several were hit.

      At any rate, whether the noise accomplished it or not, the pursuers drew off, and we went forward, carrying a cashbox now, of which Abdul Ali was politely requested to produce the key. That was the first intimation he had that his house had been looted. He