Now the party leaves behind it the last desert path, which is only once in a while used by a caravan, and beyond it is a perfect wilderness of hardened salt-impregnated mud. Nothing living can be seen, not even a stray raven or vulture which might warn the people in Bam of their danger. Without rest the robber band pushes on all day, as silent as the desert, the only sounds being the long-drawn breathing of the dromedaries and the rasping sound of their foot-pads on the ground. When the reflection of the evening sky lies in purple shades over the desert, they have only ten or twelve miles more to go.
Shah Sevar pulls up his dromedary and orders a halt in muffled tones, as though he feared that his voice might be heard in Bam. With a hissing noise the riders make their animals kneel and lie down, and then they spring out of the saddle, and tie the end of the cord round the dromedaries' forelegs to prevent the animals from getting up and making a noise and thus spoiling the plan. All are tired out and stretch themselves on the ground. Some sleep, others are kept awake by excitement, while four riders go scouting in different directions. Bam itself cannot be seen, but the hill is visible at the foot of which the town stands. The men long for night and the cover of darkness.
The day has been calm and hot, but now the evening is cool and the shadows dense. A faint breeze comes from the north, and Shah Sevar smiles. If the wind were from the east, he would be obliged to make a detour in order not to rouse the dogs of the town. It is now nine o'clock and in an hour the people of Bam will be asleep. The men have finished their meal, and have wrapped up the remainder of the dates, cheese, and bread in their bundles and tied them upon the dromedaries.
"Shall we empty the waterskins so as to make the loads lighter for the attack?" asks a Baluchi.
"No," answers Shah Sevar; "keep all the water that is left, for we may not be able to fill the skins in the town before our retreat."
"It is time," he says; "have your weapons ready." They mount again and ride slowly towards the town.
"As soon as anything suspicious occurs I shall quicken my pace and you must follow. You three with the baggage camels keep in the rear."
The robbers gaze in front like eagles on their prey, and the outlines of the hill gradually rise higher above the western horizon. Now only three miles remain, and their sight, sharpened by an outdoor life, distinguishes the gardens of Bam. They draw near. The bark of a dog is heard, another joins in—all the dogs of the town are barking; they have winded the dromedaries.
"Come on," shouts the chief. With encouraging cries the dromedaries are urged forward; their heads almost touch the ground; they race along while froth and dust fly about them. The dogs bark furiously and some of them have already come out to meet the dromedaries. Now the wild chase reaches the entrance to the town. Cries of despair are heard as the inhabitants are wakened; and women and wailing children escape towards the hill. The time is too short for any organised defence. There is no one to take the command. The unfortunate inhabitants run over one another like scared chickens and the riders are upon them. Shah Sevar sits erect on his dromedary and leads the assault. Some jump down and seize three men, twelve women, and six children, who are hastily bound and put in charge of two Baluchis, while others quickly search some houses close at hand. They come out again with two youths who have made a useless resistance, a couple of sacks of grain, some household goods, and all the silver they could find.
"How many slaves?" roars Shah Sevar.