It was lonesome riding, under the baking sun, in that land of stillness, without sign nor sound of any human being. He had an eerie feeling, as if something were about to happen. But he shook this off, and laughed at himself. Merely a touch of nerves, he thought, due to the loneliness of the surroundings.
Before setting out, it had been decided he and Jack would have to ride a good half hour away from their starting point, from the place where Ali was posted, before they would be in the proper position. Therefore, looking at his watch now and again, he kept on without exposing himself to gain sight of the ostrich herd, until the full half hour had elapsed. It seemed to him a much longer time, and if it had not been for his watch he would have been tempted several times to clamber up a sand dune and look around.
When at length, the allotted time having elapsed, he did urge his camel up the top of the nearest sand dune, there was no sign either of ostriches or of his companions. Far in the distance could be seen the tops of the palm trees of the oasis, dwarfed and beautiful as a painting against the blue sky. All else was hidden from his sight.
“Shucks,” thought Bob, “in dodging to keep below the tops of the sand hills, I must have gotten off my course.”
That, in reality, was what had occurred. Instead of the small circle he had planned to make, which would have put him on the point of an arc a third of the way around the herd from Ali’s station, he had borne off the course gradually but surely in his attempts to remain hidden. Moreover, he had gotten into a region of larger sand dunes, so big they amounted to low hills.
“Who knows,” he grumbled aloud, wanting to hear his own voice for the sense of oppression had grown stronger, “who knows, the ostriches may be over the next dune or so, and I just can’t see them from here. Well, there’s the oasis, and I can make for it if worse comes to worse. But I’d feel like a jackass to go back and say I went and got myself lost.”
As he spoke he was swinging the glasses slowly over the surrounding country.
“Confound the luck,” he grumbled again, when unrewarded, “believe I’ll fire a shot or two. If Ali or Jack hears, he’ll answer.”
Unlimbering his repeating rifle, he threw it to his shoulder, aiming for the crest of a nearby sand dune, and pressed the trigger. The report followed, and a spurt of sand showed the accuracy of his aim. Again he pressed the trigger. But this time the gun failed to be discharged.
In surprise, Bob bent down to examine it. What could be the matter? Evidently, the mechanism had become jammed. Must have forgotten to clean it, and, perhaps, the all-pervasive desert sand had clogged it. A pretty note, he thought, and experienced a momentary feeling of panic. What if it had happened at a time when he needed it to protect his life? The thought made him shudder, and glance around quickly.