Although Ali wanted to go south, where he thought he'd have the best chance of meeting the great Hadj, and the gulley in which the Druse were camped ran almost directly north-south, he did not go down that gulley. There was at least one enemy outpost stationed there—and possibly more.
Ali climbed the ridge, retracing almost exactly the path he'd followed when he came to the rescue of Ben Akbar. Rather than stop when he gained the summit, he went on down into the next gulley and climbed the following ridge. On the summit of that, he finally halted. Ben Akbar, who sported neither tether rope nor rein but who was amiably willing to walk behind Ali where the path was narrow and beside him where space permitted, came up from behind and thrust his long neck over his friend's shoulder. Ali reached up to caress the mighty head.
The baggage animals he'd seen in the Druse camp were just that, ponderous beasts, bred to carry six hundred or more pounds a distance of twenty-five miles at a stretch and to bear this enormous burden day after day. Under ordinary circumstances, they'd be no match for the dalul, but Ben Akbar was more than just tired and hungry. An hour of the torment he'd endured was enough to sap more strength than an entire day on the trail. His hump, that unfailing barometer of a camel's condition, was half the size it should have been. There was no way of telling when he'd had his last drink of water.
This last, Ali told himself, was of the utmost importance. Every urchin on every caravan route knows that camels store water in their own bodies, and that it is entirely possible for some seasoned veterans of the caravan trails to plod on, though at an increasingly slower pace, for three, four, or even five days without any water save that which they absorb from their fodder. But those are the exceptions. As noted, given an opportunity, camels will drink as much and as frequently as any creature of similar size, and a thirsty camel is handicapped.
So, although Ali might have laughed in their faces had Ben Akbar been rested and well-nourished, the Druse, who would most certainly be on their trail the instant it was light enough to see, had more than a good chance of overtaking them before nightfall. But before Ali could concern himself with the Druse, there was something he must do.
"Kneel!" he commanded.
Ben Akbar knelt, settling himself with surprising grace. Ali mounted. Though there was no riding saddle, he seated himself where it should have been and placed his feet properly, one on either side of the base of Ben Akbar's neck. There was no rein either, but the finest of the dalul were carefully schooled to obey the spoken word without regard to rein. Ali gave the command to rise, then bade Ben Akbar go.
Ben Akbar's gait was as gentle as the evening wind that ruffles the new-sprouted fronds of young date palms. Ali sent him to the right, then the left, relying on spoken commands alone and getting a response so perfect that there'd have been no need of a rein, even if the dalul wore one. Ali no longer had reason to wonder if Ben Akbar was the property of a rich man. None except the wealthy could afford the fees demanded by riding masters who knew the secret of teaching a camel to obey spoken orders.
Though he knew he should not, Ali ordered Ben Akbar to run. The camel obeyed instantly, yet so imperceptible was the change in pace, and so rhythmically smooth was his run, that he had attained almost full speed before his rider realized that the change had been made.
Ali sat unmoving, letting the wind fan his cheeks and reveling in this ride as he had delighted in nothing else he could remember. The gait of riding camels varies as much as that of riding horses, but Ben Akbar stood alone. Rather than landing with spine-jarring thuds as he raced on, his feet seemed not even to touch the earth.