“That horse you saw,” Ali said presently. “I don’t like it.”
“What do you mean?” Jack demanded quickly. “Desert robbers?”
“Perhaps,” said Ali. “Although this is off the caravan routes and is not rich ground for robbers. Perhaps, the Athensians.”
“Oh, come now,” scoffed Jack. Nevertheless, he, too, experienced a sudden sense of fear.
“Well,” said Ali, “take me up behind you, and we’ll investigate. Mister Bob’s trail ought to be easy to follow.”
Obediently, Jack caused his camel to kneel and Ali scrambled up behind. Then, with its double load, Jack turned the beast’s head toward the point where the three earlier had separated. The indentations made in the sand by the pads of Bob’s camel were easy to follow, and in his anxiety Jack pushed his own animal ahead at a shuffling run. Ali perched precariously behind him had hard work holding on, but said nothing. He was as anxious as Jack.
In less than the half hour Bob had taken to reach his station, they arrived. Then the sorry story lay before them. To Ali’s desert-trained eyes, it was easy to read.
Both Ali and Jack flung themselves from the camel and went scouting around. Bob’s camel tracks, the hoof marks of horses, a broken piece out of the shield of Bob’s sun helmet, and the mass of zinc for a ground for his radio set, which had become detached from his camel’s saddle, all told what had occurred.
“I’ll bet old Bob put up a whale of a fight,” said Jack. “But why didn’t we hear any shots?” He explained about the one shot which he had heard.
“Whoever was here,” said Ali, gauging the situation correctly, “wanted to take Mister Bob prisoner, not to kill him.”