Again I appeared before the Sheik, for permission to visit the Mohammedan cemeteries. He was reluctant, but finally consented, with whispered instructions to the guard, who took us outside the gate to a little hill, where we could see the graveyard about a mile distant, and then hustled us right back to our pen.
At one o'clock, after we had swallowed our camel steak and coffee, we were taken to the carry-all, where we found two masked women just arriving, whom I knew were quite young by their movements. A soft rug was stretched across to separate us from the women, who seemed to be housekeeping in the rear flat of the wagon, and we in the front. As our start was delayed, I snuggled back against the rug which partitioned us from the females, and soon realized that someone on the other side was snuggling up against me. When I aroused to inquire about our departure she would speak to the other woman, then we would resume our comfortable position, until her head dropped on my shoulder and nature's sweet repose drove all our cares away—of course both of us were asleep. Thus we waited until after light, all grumbling except us who were asleep.
About sunrise the driver, with six Arabian steeds, in true Bedouin style, circled the open space on a wild run, then dashing out through the gates struck out for the north, which took us between the two cemeteries to which we had been refused admittance the previous evening. They ran the down grade at high speed, apparently so we could not see the tombs; but, when just at the point of curiosity, one wheel ran off and we were dumped in the sand, where the women lost their masks. One of them looked slyly at me with her soul brim full of laughter, as she placed her hands on my shoulders and shook me playfully; I did not understand her affection, although under those circumstances I appreciated it and wished we could each tell our story to the other.
REAL BEDOUINS AFTER US
I concluded that this ruse was being given to intimidate me, but later we experienced something more serious.
The road between Nazzip and Karbilla is supposed to be more safe than the Koofa route, as it is guarded by squads of Turkish cavalry. At noon we changed horses and ate barley cakes for dinner, cooked by slapping the dough on the inside of a heated cement barrel. When we were ready to start again we could not find out why we did not go.
We had now recrossed the desert and descended from the plateau into the valley of the Messopotamia, where our trail ran between the Chebar River and the cliffs on the west. All the while we had been waiting our two drivers had remained on the cliffs, where we could not see them, but I was not nervous, as I had become accustomed to waiting. Our suspicion was not aroused until we started, when the drivers yelled our six-horse team into a wild run, shaking the old crate wagon from side to side, for about five miles, when we heard reports of firearms, and suddenly came to a stop. Then the drivers, together with the passengers, sisters and all, ran up the craggy steeps onto the open plain, where in the distance we saw about ten Bedouins leaning on their horses' necks running for dear life, followed by a squad of Turkish cavalry who were firing at them with no effect, for they were too far away.
I declared at once that it was a plot to frighten me out of the Mohammedan Stamping Grounds, but our guard, who had been riding to the west of our route all day, said that the teamsters who came down with our carry-all from Karbilla a few days previous had killed a camel man of the great herd which we were about to pass through, and that the Bedouins were the dead man's friends from the camel camp, who intended to kill all of us for revenge. Also, that the reason we stayed so long in the night and where we lunched was for the cavalry to arrive from Nazzip to chase the Bedouins away. Then I decided that, if our guard had told the truth, the Arabs were not so bad after all.