The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy

would be shot. None but thieves enter a town by night.”

      “And if they had loot with them, would they wait to be caught with it?”

      “They would bury it, or hide it somewhere.”

      “And then—what then?”

      “One or two would go into the town at daybreak. Later a cart would come, or a camel, or an ox; and the loot would be taken to the suk by daylight, covered up. That is how all the thieves behave.”

      “Father of good scouting! And would they hide the loot on this side of the railway track, or beyond?”

      “That is a foolish question. If they hid it on this side, whoever came afterward to fetch it would have to carry it across the track by daylight, and the track is always watched.”

      “True, father of knavery! Whereas between the track and the town—?”

      “Who would search a cart or a camel between the town and the railway line? The car leaves town and returns; that is nothing. It is carts and camels crossing the track that are always searched.”

      “True. True. At night thieves could cross the track unseen—”

      “Easily.”

      “But they could not enter the town unseen. That is so. And if we should watch the open land between the railway and the town at daybreak, we might learn something. Do you hear him, sahib? The butcha speaks wisdom.”

      Catesby yawned, and then laughed.

      “All right, Narayan Singh. I see your mind’s set on not going back to camp. Suits me. Better a night in the open than a lame tale for General Jenkins! Besides, I like your kind of guts. Come on, we’ll head for the railway line.”

      * * * *

      The Sikh carried Suliman, who promptly fell asleep with his head hanging downward over the stalwart shoulder like a dead sheep’s, swinging in time to the stride.

      “That kid’s a nuisance,” Catesby commented. “However, I suppose he can’t be expected to wake up and walk in this sand, and we can’t leave him. I’ll carry him turn about with you.”

      “Nay, sahib, it is nothing. Let him sleep. In the morning when he wakes he may serve a purpose.”

      But full rations ever since Jim had rescued him from starving in the Jaffa Gate had filled out the boy’s stocky frame, and it was no easy matter to carry him for mile after mile across that loose desert land. Even when they came to cultivation the going was still heavy, and Catesby took his turn, wondering after five minutes of it at the Sikh’s endurance.

      They had to put the boy down, and wake him, and make him walk when they neared the railway because, being in Arab costume, they were certain to be fired at unless they took cover and watched their chance. Finally, after slinking for half an hour among long shadows, they crawled through a culvert and emerged on the far side without being challenged, although two Gurkas on patrol passed within ten yards of where they hid.

      Within three hundred paces of them, then, was a cluster of ruined buildings, shot to pieces in the war and never since rebuilt, but patched here and there as if someone had tried to make them habitable. In the moonlight, they looked like a medieval castle with its upper story gone, for part of what might have been the keep reared jagged and broken above the rest.

      “What is that place, sahib?” asked Narayan Singh.

      “Nothing much. It used to be an Arab village with a mosque in the middle. Our guns shelled it, and most of it was burned. That tower you see is all that’s left of the minaret. Nobody uses the place now.”

      “Hah!”

      The Sikh’s one monosyllable suggested a world of reservations rather than assent.

      “That place’ll be full of lice and bedbugs,” Catesby warned.

      “Aye, and these days the peace have made us fat, sahib. They will have good feasting! The top of that broken tower is the place from which to watch.”

      “Come on, then. Let’s get bitten.”

      But it was not easy to reach the buildings without risking being seen by sentries on patrol, and they had to crawl under cover of a ridge of sandy earth that held more thorns and insects to the square yard than a brush has bristles. Then a pariah dog smelled them and yelped to the pack, and for five minutes they were the center of abominable noise.

      They did not dare shoot, any more than the curs dared come close enough to be killed with a stick. Throwing lumps of dirt and sticks only increased the yelping; and there weren’t any stones. But finally another pariah yelped in the distance and the pack raced off to fight him for his find.

      After that it was an easy matter to approach the ruined mosque, but quite another task to climb the tower. The cluttered village street was all in shadow, but the moon shone full on the mosque wall, showing it all in ruins with the broken tower beside it, erect and unclimbable.

      The place was of typical Arab “culture”—jumbled, tumbled, cluttered, evil-smelling, verminous; war had only multiplied the normal chaos. That minaret had been the only decent building, and it remained the only thing worth anybody’s trouble.

      There was one little slit of a window visible almost directly facing the moon. It looked faintly luminous.

      “D’you suppose there’s glass in it?” asked Catesby. “Does that look like reflected light to you?”

      Narayan Singh scouted closed to investigate. The window was much too high to reach, but he climbed on a broken wall to reach its level and returned at the end of ten minutes, stopping on his way to examine the ground close to the door. A slash of while across the blackness of his beard betrayed that he was pleased with the result.

      “I heard no sound, sahib; but there is no glass, and there is a light within. Moreover, I found this.”

      He put a scarab ring into Catesby’s hand.

      “Jimgrim sahib’s!” cried the Sikh.

      “How d’you know? They’re common enough. It might be anyone’s.”

      “Ask the butcha.”

      Suliman examined it and grew exited at once.

      “Taib! That is Jimgrim’s. I have cleaned it for him fifty times.”

      “I suppose they’ve killed him.”

      Catesby had been too much of late under the brigadier’s harrow to be an optimist.

      “Nay, sahib. More likely he dropped it there for me to find. If they had killed him we should have found his naked body in the cave or thereabouts. If they had looted the ring and dropped it when they reached this place, they would have missed it and have looked. It lay in full moonlight on the flat side of a broken stone against the wall.”

      “Then I go,” said Suliman, “to break that door down with this kukri.”

      “Ahsti, ahsti!” said the Sikh. “What is your judgment, sahib?”

      * * * *

      Catesby was in high spirits again.

      It took a Jenkins to depress him, and not much more than a symptom of encouragement to set him up.

      “No sense in rushing things. If he’s dead, he’s dead. If he’s alive in there we’ll get him. Is there another door?”

      “None, sahib. I saw all around the place.”

      “Then we’ll watch this one until morning, and creep up close enough to hear if anything happens. Look about for a beam to have handy in case we should want to burst the door in.”

      Together they pulled a roof-beam out from a mess of fallen thatch, and laid it where they could find it in the dark that would shut down when the moonlight waned. Then Narayan Singh crept close to the door