The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

As the Doctor and his wife cantered off, Meredith looked after their retreating figures with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Bill’s diplomacy had been worthy of a greater cause. Then he turned to his companion.

“That’s a dam’ good fellow,” he said emphatically, “one in a billion.”

But the silent man beside him did not at the moment seem inclined to discuss Doctor Chalmers’ merits.

Nodding briefly he signed to his servants to bring up the spirited bay that had been removed from the proximity of the other horses.

And as they rode along together Meredith tried in vain to trace in this grave, taciturn individual some resemblance to the gay, happy-go-lucky Gervas Carew of long ago. He wondered, if alone, he would have even known him. Carew had apparently recognised him at once, but the recognition was easy, for the passing years had made no great alteration in him; while to Meredith the face of his old friend had become the face of a stranger, hardened, remoulded almost, until even the contour seemed different. Other changes too became gradually evident. The restless impatience that Meredith remembered had given place to a calm imperturbability that was more oriental than occidental. There was a dignity and stateliness in his bearing that contrasted forcibly with his former boyish impulsiveness. Of the old Gervas Carew there was clearly nothing left, and the new Gervas seemed reluctant to reveal himself. The threads, too, of the early acquaintance, broken for so long, were curiously difficult to pick up but Micky Meredith, trained to waiting, was content to let the matter take its course. Enough that a desire had been shown for his company, the rest would follow.

Once only during the half-hour ride did Carew open his mouth. He turned and looked critically at Meredith’s mount. “Shall we let them out?” he said slowly, with a certain hesitation in his voice as if his mother-tongue came unnaturally. “André’s horses have a reputation.”

And as they raced neck and neck towards the north over the broken country that bordered the foothills they were skirting, Meredith found a certain measure of satisfaction in the fact that one interest, at least, had survived the general upheaval. Carew had always been a horseman and a lover of horses. More than ever did he seem so now. And as the soldier looked at the magnificent creature his companion was riding, and, glancing behind him, found the escort thundering close at their heels, he decided that it was not only the courteous cavalry captain at Blidah whose stud must have a reputation in the country. It was one bond of sympathy remaining, he reflected, and sat down to ride as he had rarely ridden in his life.

His borrowed horse responded gallantly to the effort demanded of him, but the pace was punishing and the animal’s satiny neck grew dark and seamed with sweat as he strained to keep up with the bay that showed no sign of distress and seemed to be rather checked than urged by his rider. And with the perspiration pouring down his own face Meredith was not sorry when a sudden curve in the hillside revealed a deserted fruit farm with Carew’s camp scattered amongst the orange trees.

The big double tent of the owner was pitched at some distance from those of its followers, lying in an open clearing where once the farm buildings must have stood. And all about were horses and camels, tethered or wandering at will, and a small army of Arabs languidly fulfilling the various duties of the camp or squatting idly on their heels engaged in endless argument.

But the return of the master roused his retainers to sudden and spontaneous activity, and Meredith noted with a smile of approval the evident signs of discipline and authority. Waiting grooms who had been lounging near the big tent sprang to the horses’ heads and the soldier slid out of the saddle with a grunt of relief and mopped his forehead with a gaudy silk handkerchief. “Do you usually ride at that pace?” he enquired, laughing.