in the States, or even on a soap-box, say, on Fourteenth Street, New York, where the rag-tag and bobtail of the universe foregather. But in the desert, where every contour of the landscape is a threat that must be taken seriously—and above all in a company whose leader’s threats mean business—the voice of arrogance is likelier listened to than argument or whining. Add to that that we were two big men, well-armed—that my shaven head and sprouting beard suggested the darwaish and a form of religious sanctity— that we hadn’t betrayed the slightest inclination to run away at any stage in the proceedings—and you can judge their predicament. They had their choice between calling the bluff or mending their manners, and the latter being easiest they chose it.
On top of that I turned another trick, as old as politics. If you want at least the appearance of obedience, order a man to do what he wants to do. Knowing what they wanted, I didn’t give them time to make demands, but announced mine high-handedly.
“Lead the way to Ibrahim ben Ah!” I commanded, and then added for the sake of sweet amenity: “Let us see what he has to tell us about changing camels!”
The situation was reversed forthwith. They began to be very friendly —almost obsequious. They addressed me as “Your Honors,” and Narayan Singh as “Prince,” he being ostensibly a Pathan, a nation that does not run to princes, but likes flattery almost as much as fighting. But they took the precaution of placing us in their midst before starting out of that infernal wady, and there were moments while we made the difficult ascent when it was mighty comforting to know that Narayan Singh was on the camel next behind. He had eyes in the back of his head.
Once out of the ravine, we lit out for the horizon at a clip too fast for conversation; and when they wanted to halt half-way and ask me questions, I refused. Our destination was a low, long, flat-topped hill scattered with boulders that looked like warts on the back of a rhinoceros. The green of a few date-palms at the right-hand end announced an oasis and the water that constitutes the key to all desert strategy. Whoever holds the wells commands that situation, and can oblige his adversary to fight in that place first.
We slowed down as we drew near the encampment, and Narayan Singh poured out the vials of his military scorn compared to which the scorn of one religious sect for another is as mere nursery stuff.
“Who could make a nation of such people!” he exclaimed. “Not a picket! Not an outpost! Not a sentry marking the camp limit! No wonder a tribe is strong one year and paying tribute the next! The very pick-pockets of India know better than to sleep without mounting a guard!”
But in spite of his contempt we were seen from a long way off, and although there was no guard turned out to receive us, the word had been passed to the commander several minutes before we reached the camp that two strangers were being brought in.
He was the only one who had a tent—a pretty obviously stolen one, for it bore all the earmarks of the U.S. Near East Relief Commission. He did not come outside it to receive us. We could see him from a quarter of a mile away, seated on a pile of cushions, looking like an Old Testament king with his iron-grey beard and long robes.
As soon as we came within range of his eyes through the open tent-front our escort tried to stage what the armies call “eyewash,” but failed to get away with it. They closed in on us, seeking to give the impression that we were prisoners. However, eyewash, which is after all but the name of a sub-species of bluff, was all that Narayan Singh and I had to depend on; so we halted promptly, and used our tongues and camel sticks.
“Fathers of a bad smell!” I roared at them. “Shall we approach Ibrahim ben Ah stinking like unwashed village dogs! Keep clear of us! Keep behind!”
And because of the likelihood of retribution if they should be seen handling us roughly, in the possible event of our finding favour, they obeyed and hauled off.
So we rode alone in advance, looking more like officers of a platoon than prisoners. The bivouac was made at the foot of the northern slope of the hill, with the camels lying in irregular lines all about a row of three deep wells, whose masonry gleamed in the fierce sunlight between thrifty date-palms. Most of the men were sprawling here and there on mats. Some had made shelters of their prayer-mats propped on short sticks, and there was one long shed that would hold thirty or forty men made by spreading mats on poles across the heaped-up camel-loads. They had plenty of baggage with them —mainly stuff to eat—but the loads were all intact and ready to be moved at a moment’s notice.
Whether for sake of example, or by way of humor, or as a hint to strangers, or as a practical artistic means of establishing the limit of the bivouac, they had stuck Yussuf’s head on a spear-point, and the ghastly, sightless thing leered at us as we rode by. There was no sign of the other remnants of him.
I never got over feeling squeamish about that kind of thing, and the feeling of more or less confidence that I had raised in myself by brow-beating the escort petered out pretty badly. Narayan Singh didn’t appear to mind the gruesome spectacle, but feelings in concrete instances like that are individual, and his indifference failed to impart itself to me. His own may have been assumed for all I know.
The escort shouted to us to dismount and approach Ibrahim ben Ah respectfully on foot—which would have placed us in the attitude of inferiors. It is none of my intention to challenge Holy Writ, and the meek may inherit the earth with no impediment from me, but I maintain there are occasions when meekness is a dangerous weakness. Besides, I don’t like abject salutations when addressed to me. Mistrusting, as I invariably do, any man who shows me too much outward respect, it’s no less than reasonable to reverse that and hold my chin as high as I expect the other fellow to. Anyway, I’ve always done it, and I did so then.
We rode straight up to Ibrahim ben Ah’s tent and let our camels kneel before dismounting. Then, in our own good time, Narayan Singh taking his cue from me out of the corner of his eye, we gave the desert greeting that is solemn, stately, dignified, raising our hands to our foreheads as we bowed.
“Salamun alaik!” said I.
“Wa alaik issalam!” answered Ibrahim ben Ah.
Greeting and answer both meant “Peace!” So thus far all was well.
CHAPTER VII
“Akbar Ali Higg!”
The last time we set eyes on Ibrahim ben Ah was in the desert on the way to Petra, on the occasion of our capturing Jael, when he strode into our midst at midnight to receive orders from Grim, whom he supposed in the darkness to be Ali Higg, and strode away again without comment. It was likely he knew neither of us by sight, for he can’t have had more than a side-wise glimpse of either of us in the always tricky moonlight; but I would have known him in any circumstances, for he was one of those rare individuals who leave their impress ineradicably on your mind, unlike Grim, who seems to have the useful gift of fading, so that every time you see him after an interval you remark something unexpected about him that seems new.
You can’t forget what Grim has done, nor how he did it, although it’s difficult to describe him because his features are not easy to recall. You could very easily forget what Ibrahim ben Ah had done, and his methods were too crude and cruel to possess the slightest novelty; but you couldn’t forget his face and general appearance if you tried for twenty years.
He was a handsome old fellow, with the venerable aspect rather spoiled by the breadth of his nose and the cold acquisitiveness of keen blue eyes. You expected them to be brown, and it
