“Then as this is the only well for about a hundred miles, they’ll arrive here to-day—eh?”
“Of course. That’s why I came straight to warn you. There’s no time to be lost. Let’s strike camp and get away. It’s skip or fight.”
“If we skeep—I suppose you mean march—ah! your English language!—then they will skeep in pretty quick time after us. They’ve got wind of our presence in the vicinity, therefore why not remain and fight?”
“Fight my own people?” cried Snape. “No, I’m damned if I do!”
“Why not?” asked the Belgian, with gesticulation. “Our Touaregs will slice them into mincemeat. Besides, at long range they’re as good shots, and better, than those Soudanese, all fez and swagger.”
“No,” the Englishman argued. “Let’s fly now, while there’s time. In two days we shall be in the Nioukour, and they’ll never find us in the mountains. We hid there quite snugly once before, you recollect.”
“Muhala,” said the Belgian, turning to the old negress, “go. Call Yakub, and remain outside.”
The hideous old woman went forth into the sun glare, and in a few moments an old thin-faced Touareg entered, making a low salaam.
“Now, Yakub,” exclaimed the Belgian in Arabic, “answer me. Of what did our caravan consist when we left the Aruwimi?”
“Three hundred and thirty-three slaves, and twenty-nine tusks,” answered the villainous-looking old fellow.