If they were ever to develop a war chief, this lean man, tall for an Apache and slow to speak, might fill that role. He adjusted the lenses and began a detailed study-sweep of the open territory. Then he stiffened; his mouth, below the masking of the glasses, was tight.
"What is it?" Jil-Lee asked.
"Riders—two ... four ... five.... Also something else—in the air."
Menlik jerked back and grabbed at Nolan's arm, dragging him down by the weight of his body.
"The flyer! Come back—back!" He was still pulling at Nolan, prodding at Travis with one foot, and the Apaches stared at him with amazement.
The shaman sputtered in his own language, and then, visibly regaining command of himself, spoke English once more.
"Those are hunters, and they carry a caller. Either some others have escaped or they are determined to find our mountain camp."
Jil-Lee looked at Travis. "You did not feel anything when the woman was under that spell?"
Travis shook his head. Jil-Lee nodded and then said to the shaman: "We shall stay here and watch. But since it is bad for you—do you go. And we shall meet you near this place of the towers. Agreed?"
For a moment Menlik's face held a shadowy expression Travis tried to read. Was it resentment—resentment that he was forced to retreat when the others could stand their ground? Did the Tatar believe that he lost face this way? But the shaman gave a grunt of what they took as assent and slipped over the edge of the lookout point. A moment later they heard him speaking the Mongol tongue, warning Hulagur and Lotchu, his companions on the scout. Then came the clatter of pony hoofs as they rode their mounts away.