Without waiting for another word Craddock flung himself into the high-peaked saddle of an Arab horse—a fine, full-spirited beast that he had purchased from one of the "reconciled" inhabitants of the captured city—and urged the animal at a furious pace towards the scene of action.
"He knows that there's something to be picked up over there," muttered Devereux, nodding his head in the direction taken by the American. "So the best thing I can do is to keep at his heels—if I can."
The young Englishman's mount was but a sorry specimen of a donkey—the only animal he had been able to procure. Devereux literally stepped into the saddle, and with his feet dangling barely eighteen inches from the ground, started in pursuit of his rival.
He was excited—that he was willing to admit—for within a few days of setting foot on African soil—and beastly soil it was—he was about to have a chance of smelling powder in real earnest.
The immediate environs of Fez consisted of a vast extent of undulating ground, sandy and interspersed by low masses of rocks. Here and there a few date-palms—the outlying sentinels of the extensive oasis—afforded a slight break to the deadly monotony of the sandy waste that extended to the base of the mountains.
"Not doing so badly, after all," soliloquised Devereux, as the sure-footed little animal trotted through the soft sand, instinctively avoiding all obstacles in the shape of hard rocks or diminutive "khors" or ravines. "I believe I'm holding my own in any case." For Craddock's horse had nearly exhausted itself in the first half-mile, and was now floundering along and almost hiding its rider from the Englishman's view by the cloud of dust from its labouring hoofs.
Nearer and nearer the two correspondents drew to the scene of action, Craddock still maintaining a lead of about four hundred yards.
From a spectacular point of view the engagement was disappointing, for only an extended line of brownish-grey helmets was visible, as the French Foreign Legion, taking excellent cover, maintained a rapid fire upon a practically unseen foe. Beyond the short crack of the rifles, the peculiar screech of the bullets, and the occasional pop-pop-pop of the machine guns, there was little to indicate that the troops were engaged, for the slightest mist given out by the smokeless powder was quickly dispersed in the scorching atmosphere. Occasionally two men would stagger to the rear with a wounded comrade, place their motionless burden in a position of comparative safety, and resume their places in the firing-line, while members of the field ambulance party would cluster round the "case" like flies to a honey-pot.
Presently Devereux became aware of a sharp zip somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear. Instinctively he ducked, and at the same time was almost blinded by a shower of sand thrown up by a spent bullet that struck the ground barely ten paces in front of him.
In his excitement he grew angry.