"We will send out scouts to see whether there is an easier passage beyond the cliffs.—A way where we could go up on our horses and take the savages by surprise."
"They are stubborn, hard-fighting fellows," said Suli. "By the Prophet, Abdul, we will find it hard to make slaves of such men."
"You are right. They are not like the black fellows we have captured in the past. These men were not born to be conquered. We will have to fight for all the profit we make in this venture."
The two leaders of the Bedouin slave traders scowled at the cliffs that loomed so high above the spring where they had camped. From the grim black edges, arose a fringe of smoke; the fires where the Gorols and the Taharans were roasting game for the feast before the battle.
The sky had turned flaming red, the glory of the sunset was over the desert and a deliciously cool breeze followed the parching heat of the day.
At the same time the old Gorol Chief, Wabiti, was squatting cross-legged in the rude shelter where the ex-queen Vanga had taken refuge. Both of the former rulers had repeated their grievances and grumbled about the changes in the tribe until they were in a mood of revolt.
"If only I had my warriors again!" muttered Vanga.
"And if I could lead my brave Gorols, as I did when I was younger, things would be different!"
"Tahara brought us woe!"
"He destroyed the Great Gorol!"