“Wal, we’ll raise a little rumpus before they chaw us up,” said Ephraim, in his quaint way. “I’d feel a little safer ef I was to hum on the farm, but ef I’ve gotter fight I’ll fight fer all I am worth, yeou bet!”
Frank was examining his rifle, making sure it was in perfect working order.
The body of horsemen approached with great swiftness, so that in a short time they could be seen quite distinctly. Frank surveyed them through his field glass.
They numbered more than half a hundred, and were dressed in long, flowing robes of many colors. About their heads they wore turbans. They were armed with muskets.
Beyond the horsemen Frank saw a caravan of camels that was approaching, and he immediately decided that the people of the caravan had seen himself and his companions and had sent out the band of horsemen to intercept them.
“Ten to one they are Ben Ahmet’s vassals,” was his thought. “It is possible he has received word from Tangier that we are on the desert, and he has sent his slaves to murder us. Well, we will die hard.”
As they approached, the horsemen began shouting and waving their long-barreled rifles over their heads. They rode recklessly, madly, and the sound of the horses’ hoofs was like sullen thunder.
The leader was an old man with a long white beard, wearing about his head a bright-colored turban. He rode his coal-black horse like a youth of twenty years.
“Jingoes! they can ride!” muttered Frank, admiringly. “They remind me of American cowboys.”
“They kinder make me think it’s unhealthy araound here,” gurgled Ephraim. “I’m beginning to wish I hedn’t come.”