“Water below, Harry; real water!”
I hurried after him, and he pointed out to me a thin shining line about half a mile away, a little ribbon of silver in the glaring sands, a ribbon that seemed to lead away toward the hills, which now, only about ten miles distant, towered up like a giant wall, steep and apparently unscaleable. The previous evening Wrexham had estimated their height at not less than two thousand feet. From here they looked, as, indeed, they proved to be in many places, even more, and as far as one could see sheer cliffs of scarped rocks, with only a short expanse of tumbled slope at their feet. They gave one the impression of springing straight out of the desert sands.
“That must be the great-great-uncle’s little stream, and somewhere at the end of it should be his valley,” said Forsyth, as he sat down and lit a cigarette, a form of luxury that was drawing near its close. “This gives one almost an aeroplane view, doesn’t it? Can you see any signs of life yonder—fields or houses or anything?”
I had got out my glasses on reaching the top, and while he was speaking was studying the distant hills, but could see nothing whatever that looked like signs of human habitation.
“Can’t see any. It looks all as barren as the Aden coast, and not unlike it with these rocks springing clear out of the sand. Toss you who goes down and sends John up here and then leads the camels round to the stream.”
“Right-o!” Forsyth pulled a coin out of his pocket and spun it.
“Heads,” I called.
“Heads it is. What am I to do?”
“Go down and send John up. Tell him about the stream, and then lead the camels round to it below where we are now. The south side will be the shortest way.”
Before he got to the bottom of the slope, he met Wrexham starting up, explained the lie of the land, and then led the camels off while John joined me on top.