that?”
It was getting well along toward sunset, and de Crespigny had to hurry; but one of the advantages of being short-handed as administrator of a district is that you have to keep in intimate personal touch with all essentials, and there was not much that young de Crespigny did not know about getting what he wanted done in quick time. Within half an hour seven pretty good camels were sauntering southward out of Hebron, with a couple of phlegmatic Arab policemen perched on the two leaders, and the noses of the others tied to the empty saddles of the beasts ahead. They were neither as big nor in as good condition as old Ali Baba’s wonderful string, but very likely better than any that the wool-merchant would provide, and by that much less likely to reduce our speed after we should make the change.
“You see how easy it is,” said Grim, “for a rascal like Ali Higg to upset a whole country-side. Here we are getting the crime of Palestine running in grooves, as it were, so’s to regulate it first and then reduce it to reasonable proportions, and all that beast needs do is steal a woman and start civil war.”
But I did not see that the wool-merchant’s private plans for vengeance amounted to civil war, and said so.
“Hah! Wait and see!” said Grim. “Woolly-wits goes after vengeance. Somebody gets killed. That means a blood-feud. All the relatives of the slain man—whether it’s Ali Higg or one of his retainers doesn’t matter —take up arms; and all the relatives of Woolly-wits do ditto. For each man killed in the war that follows the other side is out for the equivalent in life or goods. Village after village gets drawn in.
“Suppose that sheikh at the south end of the Dead Sea who’s in debt to Woolly-wits jumps at the chance to loot our caravan and bag the lady, we’ll be lucky if one or two of our men don’t get scuppered. That means a blood-feud between that village and all old Ali Baba’s clan.
“But that isn’t nearly all, nor nearly the worst of it. Ali Higg learns next that the Dead Sea outfit have tried to waylay his wife; so he takes the warpath. And instead of that making a three-cornered fight of it, it might mean an offensive alliance between Ali Higg and Ali Baba’s gang.
“Civil war would be a very mild name for that. There’d be brains brought to bear on it. The administration might have to spend twenty or thirty thousand pounds and jail a lot of estimable Arabs. The thing to do is to stop that kind of thing before it happens.”
“By corraling Ali Higg, I suppose?” said I.
“Can’t very well do that. He’s a free man. Of course he’s got no right to cross our border and steal women, but, on the other hand, he’s made himself boss of a district that no other government pretends to control.
“If we can catch him our side of the line he’s our meat; but that’s reciprocal; if he can catch us on his side there’s no law to prevent his doing what he likes with us. We’ve got to use our heads with Master Ali Higg.”
I think that was the first time it really dawned on me that this venture was going to be dangerous. Even so, the calmness with which Grim considered leaving law and all the means of its enforcement behind and crossing deserts with a gang of known thieves for accomplices took most of the edge off it.
You simply couldn’t feel scared when that fellow smiled and exposed the risks in detail, even with dark coming on and the sound of camels being made to kneel outside the window. For Ali Baba had become convinced at last that Grim really intended to start that night, and, making a virtue of necessity, was better than punctual. The camels were groaning and swearing, as they always do at the prospect of a night’s work.
“As I see it, any tribe out there has as much right to elect Ali Higg leader as you and I have to elect a president,” said Grim. “I don’t suppose they did elect him, but they’ll claim they did. The point is, he’s got himself elected somehow. We’ve no veto. I don’t hold with murder; it sets a bad example and turns loose a horde of individual trouble-makers who were under something like control before. It might be easy to have him murdered; you see how easy old Woolly-wits thought it might be. Murder has always been the solution of politics in the Old World right down to date; and look where they’re at in consequence!”
“You must have some idea to go on,” I suggested.
“What’s your plan?”
“They say I look a bit like Ali Higg.”
“But what then? Haven’t you a plan—nothing you mean to try first?”
“Oh yes. Chercher la femme.”
“So there’s a woman in it?”
“You bet! Ali Higg’s no born statesman. His brains live in a black tent, and he keeps ‘em encouraged with French and English books bought in Jerusalem —silk stockings—gramophones—all kinds of things.”
“What is she—a Turk? I’ve heard some of them are educated nowadays.”
“No. And she never was a Turk. She was born in Bulgaria of Greco-Russo- Bulgar parents, educated at Roberts College and Columbia University, New York, married to a drummer in the shredded-codfish business, divorced— on what grounds I don’t know—divorced him, though, I believe came out here as war worker-teacher in refugee camps in Egypt—made the acquaintance of Ali Higg when he was prisoner of war down there—he was fighting for the Turks at one time—and helped him to escape.
“I’ve never set eyes on her, but they say she’s a rare good-looker and has more brains in her little finger than most men keep under their hats. I’m told she has designs on the throne of Mesopotamia.”
“Mespot? I thought the League of Nations was going to let the Arabs choose their own king.”
“Sure. And as soon as she sees that Ali Higg’s pretensions don’t amount to a row of shucks I wouldn’t give ten piastres for that gentleman’s lease of life! Borgia had nothing on her, they tell me.”
“So we’re out to play chess with a white woman. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“What’s your hurry?” asked Grim. “If you find out too much all at once you’ll lose your bearings. I’ll introduce you to the lady if we ever reach Petra right side up. Now let’s eat, and get a move on. A full belly for a long march! Come.”
* Poverty-stricken.
CHAPTER 4
“Go and ask the kites, then, at Dat Rasi”
So far everything worked out strictly according to plan. We had hardly finished a hurried meal when the lady Ayisha and her men arrived on mean baggage camels provided by old Rafiki; and they were not in the least pleased with their mounts, for a baggage camel is as different from a beast trained to carry a rider as an up-to-date limousine is from a Chinese one-wheel barrow. Perched on top of the lady Ayisha’s beast was a thing they call a shibriyah—a sort of tent with a top like an umbrella, resting on the loads slung to the camel’s flanks. From inside that she was busy abusing everybody.
There was only one good camel with her outfit—a small, blooded looking Bishareen, a shade or two lighter in color than the
