“What of the Moplah caravan?” asked Azad who was evidently a man of caution rather than bravery. I hung on the answer in a fever of excitement for I knew it referred to my own expedition. The information was delivered with a scornful laugh.
“The fools! They continue Eastward in search of their lost master. A day’s journey away they must be nearing the Wells of Tabala. The fruit is ripe, O Mighty Azad; the golden pomegranate is ready for your plucking.”
The golden pomegranate! That could be none other than Sarah, my lovely bird, flying southward at my behest, straight into the clutches of this vulture, this ... it was too much. Leaping to my feet I ran toward the camel-compound. Happily, in my humble costume, I was unnoticed; I was simply a Bassikunu, one more or less. Seizing and mounting the first available camel I joined the mob which was surging northward. My one hope was to detach myself from this filthy band, overtake my own men and bring them back to the rescue. Cruel as it seemed to desert Lady Sarah at this juncture therein lay the only practical plan. But on a slow moving camel my task was hopeless. Ahead of me rode one of the sub-sheiks on a magnificent sorrel mare. What must be done must be done quickly. For an instant he checked his horse to avoid a tent-rope and in that instant I acted, urging my clumsy brute forward and riding off the Arab, pushing him with all my force against the obstruction until horse and rider fell sprawling. Dropping from my camel I was at his side in a second, pretending to assist him, in doing which I twisted his head completely around so that though his breast lay upward his face was buried in the sand. He fainted without a sound and a moment later, wrapped in his great cloak, I sprang into the empty saddle and, cautiously at first and finally at full speed, rushed off toward the east.
The whole operation took no more than three seconds and could never have been accomplished other than by taking advantage of the peculiar conditions of confusion, etc., and by acting upon what has always been my greatest safeguard—instinct.
Chapter VII
The Escape
Chapter VII
Free! Free once more. With a glorious feeling of elation I bounded off across the desert. Glancing over my shoulder I saw that I had accomplished my get-away without attracting attention. Azad’s men were streaming steadily northward, a low cloud of dust marking their progress. I watched intently for any sign of pursuit but none came. From the unfortunate tribesman who had ridden my mount I feared no further trouble. The strength of my hands is a constant surprise to me and when I twisted the fellow’s head I had heard something crack with the ominous, final snap of a too-tightly wound toy. Unless I was very much mistaken the creature was permanently out of order.
My hours of unconsciousness and captivity must have been longer than I realized for I noted that the day was far spent. This was a source of comfort to me for hope sprang in my breast that the sun would disappear before the treacherous scoundrel I had evaded could come up with the Wimpole caravan. Unconsciously I encouraged the orb of day in his descent, urging him with prayers and curses to sink as rapidly as possible. Sheltered by night the cortege of my lady might yet pass a few hours in safety, hours fraught with fiendish anxiety for me.
My plans for the future hung on a gossamer thread of chance, that of locating the Wells of Tabala to which, according to Azad’s informant, my faithful Moplahs had repaired. My only indication was the vague one of direction. The wells lay to the eastward and eastward the star of Traprock took its way, blindly, desperately. Pray Heaven my men would go slowly and cautiously as they might well do considering my absence.
After an hour’s hard riding when all traces of the enemy had faded into nothingness I paused and from an inner pocket drew out my map of the Sahara. As I feared it was too small in scale to be of definite advantage. Imaginary lines such as the Tropic of Cancer, the 20th Parallel and numerous meridians were shown with perfect distinctness. These would have served admirably had I been going to an imaginary place but the Wells of Tabala were of poignantly definite import and of them there was no trace. With a sigh of resignation I thrust the document back in its case and took up the reins.