always, the men in the background, who felt they could avoid recognition, were the only ones who ventured to raise objection. One or two of them started to laugh, that being the best answer all the world over to any threat, and if the laugh had spread that would likely have been the end of us. I had unslung my rifle and held it in full view resting on my thigh, being minded to look as murderous as possible, but she stole all my thunder by suddenly snatching the rifle away and drawing back its bolt to cock the spring with that almost effortless adroitness that comes of long use.
“Who laughs at the Lion of Petra’s threat?” she screamed, raising herself in the saddle to survey the crowd. “Who laughs? He shall die by the hand of a woman! Who laughs, I say?”
But nobody wanted to die by a woman’s hand; and nobody chose to slay the woman, because of the certainty of vengeance dealt by an expert in terrorism. I know I didn’t doubt she would have used the rifle, and I don’t suppose they did. If she couldn’t be laughed out of countenance the only alternative was bloodshed, and none dared show fight.
Old Ali Baba worked his camel closer, and, because an Arab must boast at every opportunity, began to whisper in my ear.
“Wallahi! Was I not wise? It was I who told her if she wanted our Jimgrim she should tell the world she is his wife and he the veritable Ali Higg! It takes an old man’s tongue to guide the cleverest woman!”
The train screamed then in the distance, and a Syrian station agent in tattered khaki uniform went through the wholly unnecessary process of letting down a signal. We got off the track and rode our camels round on to the platform. The crowd gave way before us, and Ayisha thrust herself this and that way among them, breaking up groups, striking me over the wrist with the stick she had for flogging the camel because I tried to regain the rifle.
By the time the rusty, creaking, groaning rattletrap of a train drew up there was not an element of cohesion left in the crowd. She knew too much to drive them away to where they might have regained something of determination, but let them stand there under her eye where they could see in herself the ruthless symbol of Ali Higg’s ruthlessness. And not even the sight of the frightened passengers, in a panic because of tales that had been told them up the line, could restore their plunder-lust.
As a matter of fact that was a romantic little mixed train when you come to think of it. The Arab engine-driver, piloting his charge through no-man’s land, where the bones of former train crews lay bleaching, simply because he was an engine-driver and that was his job; the freight in locked steel cars consigned by optimists who hoped it might reach its destination; the four guards armed with worn-out rifles that they did not dare use; the four passenger-cars with their window-glass all shot away; the half-dozen Arab artisans carried along for makeshift repairs en route; and the more than brave—the too-fatalist-to-care-much passengers wondering which of their number had an enemy at every halting-place; and along with that the formalism—the observance of conventions such as blowing the whistle and pulling down the signal, on a track that carried one train one way once a week; it made you feel like taking off your hat to it all, reminding me in a vague way of those Roman legionaries who kept up the semblance of their civilization after the power of Rome had waned.
I rode over beside the engine-driver and warned him to pull out before trouble started. But he had to take in water first. And he seemed to be an expert in symptoms of lawlessness. Leaning his grimy head and shoulders out of the cab, he looked the crowd over, spat, and showed his yellow teeth in a grin that vaguely reminded me of Grim’s good-humored smile.
“Mafish!” he remarked, summing up the situation in two syllables. “Nothing doing!”
I would have given, and would give now, most of what I own for that man’s ability to pass such curt, comprehensive judgment without reservation, equivocation, or hesitation. I rather suspect that it can only be learned by sticking to your job when the rest of the world has been fooled into thinking it is making history out of talk and treason.
There was nothing whatever but water for the train to wait for. Nobody had business at El-Maan, for the simply sufficient reason that you can’t do business where governments don’t function, where all want everything for nothing, and whoever could pay won’t.
The engine-driver’s grimier assistant swung the water-spout clear and climbed back over the cab, cursing the view, crowds, coal-dust, prospect —everything. He meant it too. When he said he wished the devil might pitch me into hell and roast me forever he wasn’t exaggerating. But I got off my camel and boarded the engine nevertheless. Ayisha had handed over her mount to Ali Baba and entered the caboose, ignoring the protests of the uniformed conductor who, having not much faith in fortune, did not care whom he offended. But he might as well have insulted a camel as Ayisha, for all he would have gained by it.
My friend the engine-driver blew the whistle; somebody on the platform tooted a silly little horn; a signal descended in the near distance and we started just as I caught sight of Mujrim coming to take my camel.
Then it occurred to some bright genius that even if they might not loot the train there was no embargo on rejoicing; and there was only one way to do that. What they saw fit to rejoice about I don’t know, but one shot rang in the air, and a second later fifty bullets pierced the dinning iron roof.
That made such a lovely noise and so scared the passengers that they could not resist repeating it, and by the time we had hauled abreast of the distance-signal there was not much of the roof left.
I saw Ali Baba and Mujrim take advantage of the excitement to start back with the camels; and two minutes later about twenty men decided to follow them at a safe distance. The rest had begun to scatter before the train was out of sight, and I never again saw one of the five gentry who had introduced us to the whole proceedings.
Then my friend the engine-driver found time to be a little curious.
“What’n hell?” he asked, in the lingua franca that all Indians are supposed to understand.
So I answered him in the mother argot at a venture, and he bit.
“There’s a man down the line a piece who’ll blow your train to hell,” said I, “unless you pull up when he flags you.”
“Son of a gun, eh?”
“Sure bet!”
“Where you learn English?”
“States,” said I. “You been there too?”
“Sure pop! Goin’ back some time.”
“Not if you don’t stop her when you get the hint, you won’t. That guy down there ahead means business.”
I don’t think he would have dared try to run the gauntlet in any case, for the best the engine could do with that load behind it was a wheezy twenty miles an hour, and the track was so out of repair that even that speed wasn’t safe. I was willing to bet Grim hadn’t lifted a rail or placed any obstruction in the way, but the driver had no means of knowing that.
“Son of a gun, eh?” he repeated. “What in ‘ell’s ‘e want?”
“Nothing, if you pay attention to him. All he hankers for is humoring. He wants to talk.”
“Uh! What in ‘ell’s a matter with him?”
“Nothing, but he’ll put a crimp in your machinery unless you stay and chin with him.”
“I
