"Nor I," I replied thoughtfully.
But I had something to do at that moment besides making such speculations.
"Bou-Djema," I called.
At the same time, I looked at Eg-Anteouen. Absorbed in his prayer, bowed toward the west, apparently he was paying no attention to me. As he prostrated himself, I called again.
"Bou-Djema, come with me to my mehari; I want to get something out of the saddle bags."
Still kneeling, Eg-Anteouen was mumbling his prayer slowly, composedly.
But Bou-Djema had not budged.
His only response was a deep moan.
Morhange and I leaped to our feet and ran to the guide. Eg-Anteouen reached him as soon as we did.
With his eyes closed and his limbs already cold, the Chaamba breathed a death rattle in Morhange's arms. I had seized one of his hands. Eg-Anteouen took the other. Each, in his own way, was trying to divine, to understand....