by Talbot Mundy
“Thought you had a gold-mine?” said I.
“So I have. But how did you know?”
“Grim told me. Go on talking.”
“Well, I got sick of it and hit the trail southward — stole a good camel and lit out one night with nothing to guide me but the stars and a habit of being lucky. North would have been best, but seeing I couldn’t make that the south had to do instead; and the farther I went south the easier it was to beat my way by doing tricks. I got all the way to Yemen, and if a crow flew backward to keep the sun out of his eyes, he’d make a thousand miles of that trip even so.”
“Weren’t you sick by that time?”
“Uh-huh. Boils. Too many dates and muck like that. I needed a refit sure enough, but all I got wind of down in Yemen was another of these here staff-officers acting like the Devil in a small way near the coast, and if I’d gone to him he’d have had me pinched for a deserter sure — which I wasn’t, but I couldn’t have proved it.
“Top o’ that I’d picked up information on the way down — white quartz, old son, with nice soft yellow veins in it that you could pick out with the blade of your knife; so I tossed up whether I’d hunt the home of that stuff or give that staff-officer a chance to call me names, and punch his head for it and go to jail. I used an old two-headed penny that I keep for doing tricks with, and tossed three times to make sure. Then I hit the trail again — north this time.”
“Sick and all?”
“Why, no. I got feeling better soon as that penny made my mind up; and then I ran into an Indian doctor who’d gone broke in Mecca and was working his way home. That lad did me no end o’ good. He could make good strong physic out of weeds — stuff that ‘ud shift the inside out of a tombstone; and another thing that recommended him to me was a half-pound of mercury he carried in a little iron box. He traded it against a dozen lessons in sleight o’ hand, but I gave him at least two dozen, for he was clumsy — no surgeon — just a pill-and-poultice walloper. He could palm six coins at once and fool his own eye when I was through with him. That mercury looked good to me, and I wanted the Miyan to have his money’s worth.”
“Did you hike back all alone?” I asked him.
“No. Didn’t hike, and couldn’t have bought solitude with real money. There were fanatics in Yemen unattached — sore as boils against every Sheikh in sight, and wanted for minor crimes like murder and rape. They took a fancy to the tricks I did and approved of my reputation for saintliness; and seeing they were first-class foragers, and wouldn’t let me out of sight night or day, I took ’em along after they’d fossicked a fine new camel for me that belonged to the wife of an enemy of theirs. This is the beast I’m riding now; pippin, ain’t it?”
“How many were they?” I asked him.
“Eighteen to begin with. But we went up Arabia like a magnet through a sand-heap, picking up the iron in it on our way. And I laid law down. Bet your life I did! Any fanatic who hesitated to obey me got stripped stark naked on the spot and turned loose without weapons to rustle an honest living.
“Top o’ that I worked the oracle, of course, all ways from the middle, spending all my spare time auguring on certs; and when the certs I’d prophesied came off they wanted to start a new sect or something, and have me archbishop. Time I reached this part of Arabia there wasn’t much I couldn’t do in the way of getting things.
“Natural-born who didn’t know what truth meant were afraid to lie to me, for fear I’d find ’em out and turn their livers into hot lead. I didn’t have to ask more than thirty thousand times before they led me to the outcrop — leastways, to where the outcrop had been. Solomon or somebody about a million years ago when labor didn’t cost much had shaved the surface down, and there were tombs on top of it.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t admit what you were looking for,” said I. “You’d never have found it in a million years.”
“No. I wasn’t as raw as all that. I showed ’em a piece of quartz I’d won from a m’allim, who admitted it came out of a tomb; and I told ’em I was looking for a stone that would be holier than the black one in the wall of the Ka’abah at Mecca. I said that chunk I carried was a piece of it, and the fools ‘ud come and ask to kiss the handkerchief I had it wrapped in. Well; I used to get so sick of asking questions that now and then I’d almost decide to head for Jerusalem and let ’em call me a deserter; but that was when I’d run out of the Indian’s physic and my liver wasn’t working good. “I made some more physic by-and-by out of weeds I found, and took a chance on it; tried it on a sick Arab, and he got well, so I drank about a quart — it was awful bitter — and it fixed me to beat clock-work. Never had a sick minute after that.
“Say; after I’ve made this gold-mine pay I’m going to form a company and float that physic on the market — thought of a name for it too — name and a slogan — Jeremy’s taib, tickles your liver and makes it laugh! Pretty good, what? Make a million out o’ that easy.”
“Tell me some more about the mine,” said I.
“Oh, the mine? That’s simple. There were graves on top of it, and they told me only one man had been down into ’em for centuries. That ‘ud be the m’allim I won the piece of quartz from. So I did a bit of prophesying, and voted myself chairman of an investigating committee of one, to go down with a torch and tell the dead men what was going on in the world.
“We had a corroboree on top first, and they all did two-bow prayers, and I hadn’t been down in the first tomb fifteen minutes before I struck it rich. Say; those old-time emperors knew how to make the hands turn to all right! D’you know what they did? You’d never guess. They took out the whole reef in chunks and shipped it — must have done! There isn’t a sign of a furnace, or a mills or a dump. They took no chances on the local manager, but toted every bit of rock on men’s heads to the coast and roasted it elsewhere. There’s no other way of explaining it. And why they quit beats guessing. Maybe there was revolution. There would have been if I’d been one of the labor gang!
“They quit with the reef cut square across and the prettiest veins you ever saw — loaded, man, loaded! Running downward nearly due east at an angle of fifteen. I let on that the dead men down there wanted all the quartz removed because the holy stone I was after was somewhere underneath, and the only difficulty after that was tools and dynamite. You haven’t got dynamite by any chance?”
“Grim knows where there’s some hidden away. I’ve a drum of cyanide.”
“I guess those whiskers of yours are singed feathers. You’re a fallen angel, Ramsden! Who’s that lordly-looking codger on a camel over there?”
“It’s Grim,” said I. “Seems he’s coming out alone to meet us.”
“The Hell it is? That Arab-Grim? Say; give me one o’ your cigarets quick! I’m feeling nervous!”
And he was, too. His hand was trembling as he struck the match.
CHAPTER XI. “Allaho Akbar!”
COME to think of it, that meeting between Grim and Jeremy was rather dramatic. I rode my camel to one side and looked on, keeping near enough to listen, but aloof enough to take in the whole scene — Jeremy’s hundred in a long line two abreast, with the rear ranks closing up toward us like a telescope and all their spears and rifles pointing this and that way — Jeremy along in front, smiling with a strange twitch at the corner of his mouth — Grim facing him, sitting his camel square and upright, uncompromising as the Sphinx, and the sun beating down on the lot of us so hard that the dust devils, whirling in the simoom, shone with a glint of gold. The fiumara on our right hand, cutting the dry desert like a great wound down the middle. A horizon bounded by blue, hot hills. And Grim spoke first.
“Well, Jeremy, how’s everything?”
“Oh, pretty good.”
“Got a gold-mine, I hear.”
“Sure. Want to buy a share?”
“Did you get the news of peace?”
Jeremy nodded and sat sidewise, swinging a leg across his camel.
“There’s no amnesty yet for deserters,” Gr
im said dryly.
“That don’t faze me. See here, Grim; I’m no deserter, and you know it!” The old pugnacious look was dawning dark on Jeremy’s face, but Grim paid no attention to it. He was going to lead his ace of trumps in half a minute, but you couldn’t expect Jeremy to know that; it takes time to learn Grim’s game.
“Got your discharge about you?” Grim inquired, as if he expected Jeremy to pull it out and flourish it.
“Say; you’re talking like one of those staff-experts! What’s come over you? Of course I haven’t my discharge! How could I have?”
“Then you’re still a trooper.”
“Well? What of it?”
“Trooper Jeremy Ross of the Australian Light Horse, transferred on special service to Akaba.”
“All right. Spell it backwards, if you want to! What’s the game?”
“I’m Major James Grim, your commanding officer.”
“Well?”
“If you’re no deserter, you’ll need proof of it. A court martial would summon me as witness. Being the first officer to get in contact with you, my evidence would be important.”
“I don’t get you yet.”
Grim smiled broadly at last.
“Thought you were quicker-witted, Jeremy. What should the first act of a—”
“Oh, ha-ha! I get you. I report for duty, sir. Was made prisoner and kidnaped by deserting Arabs. Managed to escape, but haven’t set foot yet on British territory.”
“All right. You’re ready to obey orders?”
“Um-m-m! Got a copy of the articles of war about you? I’d like to read ’em first. Is this a scheme to order me off to Jerusalem and jump my mine?”
“It’s a scheme to save both of us trouble,” Grim answered. “I’m going to give you an order. If you obey it, well and good; if not, you’ll have to clear yourself as best you can without my help.”
“Well; you were a white man when I knew you last. I’ll take a chance. Go on then, sir. I report for duty.”
“Are those your men?” Grim asked him.
“That’s what they say.”
“Make me and my party prisoners!”
Jeremy threw his leg back again and began to whistle.
“I’m not joking,” Grim assured him. “I’m an officer on the strength of the British Army giving you official orders.”
“Oh, all right!” said Jeremy. “Want to be crucified, or anything like that? We’ve all the extras.”
“Suppose you get busy?” Grim suggested.
“Very good, sir. Major Grim, you’re my prisoner! So are you, Ramsden! How many in your party, sir?”
“Twenty-three at present, including the Avenger’s fourth wife, the Avenger’s brother, a Sikh, and a party carrying supplies intended for you.”
Jeremy whistled again and began to chuckle. “Better hand your weapons over, I suppose. And how about cigarets? If you’ve a packet of canteen gaspers in your kit I’ll reduce your ransom!”
We each handed him a broken packet, and he almost lighted two cigarets at once, he was so glad to get them.
“Mind you, I’m not running a hotel,” he warned us. “There’s better hamper and dead sheep to be had in the Never-never country of West Aus; but if you’ve really got Ali Baba and my loads along, I’ll feed you jam till further orders. Jam makes the grandfather goat slip down your gullet easier. And say, how about orders now? Who’s giving ’em, I mean? Will you obey me?”
“My whole party surrenders to you and claims your protection,” Grim answered. “We’ll observe the conventions.”
“Conventions, eh? You’ll find me a stickler for those things! Dress for dinner you know, and no tooth-picks at the table — use both forefingers and a thumb to pull the gristle out of your back teeth. I think you’d better keep your weapons after all, because about the only convention we really observe is going tooth and nail for any armed party that crosses our landscape.
“There’s sure to be a hot scrap between here and home, because the Willy-boy Avenger has it in for me; we’ve used up between us all the threats there are, like two dogs on chain. Something’s due to give now, and you’ll see the hair fly in mouthfuls! But, say; tell me the idea! What’s the drift of my taking you prisoners?”
“Go to it first,” said Grim. “I’ll explain later on. I’m on the way to the Avenger’s camp. First his wife and then his brother met me on the way. They tried to kill my escort, who happened to be Ali Baba’s crew with your loads. You take the lot of us prisoners, and carry us off to your place. Isn’t that clear?”
“Clear as bull-pen soup. All right. But who’s the wife? Not Ayisha?”
“Yes, Ayisha.”
“Golly, what a lark! She’s been trying to marry me for weeks past. Come on, you prisoners, we’re wasting time — lead me to the big feast! Oh, say, will the rest of you show fight?”
“No,” said Grim, “I’ve warned them. They’ll surrender.”
“How about the Avenger’s brother? He’s a peppery customer from all accounts.”
“Ali Baba will attend to him. Come on.”
* * * * *
BUT it turned out that Ali Baba had his hands full. The Avenger’s brother never doubted that Jmil Ras had made the lot of us prisoners. In fact, knowing what his own men had been up to, and guessing without much difficulty how they had crept into the wrong wasps’ nest, he was surprized that we weren’t all slated for execution — but not agreeably surprized. There are lots of his kind. He wasn’t a bit afraid of death, but he hated to surrender to a man whom he regarded as a rival of his brother for the overlordship of the district, and Grim’s back hadn’t been turned a minute before he was making Ali Baba all kinds of promises — heaven included — if the old man and his sons would desert Grim and make a bolt for it.
“But I said,” said Ali Baba afterward, “by the tomb of the Prophet, said I, Jimgrim I know; and this world I have found good; by the grace of Allah I will stay in it and follow Jimgrim while I may. I die when Allah pleases, but not at the behest of a prince who sought to murder me an hour ago! And I said to my sons, said I, I am old, and it may be ye would like Mujrim for your leader now; therefore choose whether ye will follow me or this Avenger’s brother, for my lot is cast with Jimgrim’s and I wait here for him. “So they came on the Avenger’s brother from behind, and threw him on the ground, and tied him hand and foot; and Ayisha mocked him as he lay, until I bade the woman hold her peace.” The old man wanted to deliver all the goods to Jmil Ras there and then. Having no notion of Grim’s ultimate purpose, any more than the rest of us had, he asked for a final settlement of accounts and leave to return home; and being a moderate old gentleman according to his lights, he only demanded a hundred camels for the mercury. But though Jeremy and Jmil Ras were one and the same man, their methods were as different as chalk from cheese — almost as those of Jekyll from the ways of Hyde.
“Did I not pay you?” asked Jmil Ras. “Wallah! You shall keep your bargain to the last letter of the last word in it! Your son Mujrim boasted to me that you dared follow any trail and fight whoever opposed you. Make good the boast, thou gray-beard! You shall fight your way to Abu Kem I promise you! Is it nothing that I meet you with a hundred men to help you keep faith with me?”
“Il hamdul’illah!” the old fox answered humbly, and added almost under his breath with no humility at all, “curse you and your fighting! With me and my sons to help him, Jimgrim would have managed this without a fight at all!”
But I suspect that even he doubted the truth of that assertion within the hour. I don’t know what plan Grim had had in mind before Jeremy arrived on the scene although I don’t doubt he had one roughly formed that could be changed, as usual, at a moment’s notice to offset the moves of any adversary. But it is as certain as humanly can be that we should all have been in the Avenger’s hands that morning if Jeremy hadn’t turned up; and how Grim would have saved those goods from confiscation — which after all, didn’t matter so much — and Ali Baba and his sons from dea
th as traders with the Avenger’s enemy — which did matter a great deal — beats imagination.
I’ve confidence enough in Grim to believe that he would have found some way out of the predicament, but I can’t believe he would have settled the affair without a fight to the death between the forces of Jeremy and the Avenger.
As I have said before, the only rule that you can lay down concerning Arab warfare is that the water-holes are the all-important strategic, and whoever holds those can make the enemy come to him. Barring that, the strategy and tactics are haphazard, governed by a moment’s whim and utterly confusing for that reason, so that the best-laid schemes unless put through with overwhelming force, are really more likely to fail against the Arab than some adaptation of his own rough-scrambled methods would be.
The Avenger had sent out his brother and thirty men to meet Grim, get those goods intended for Jmil Ras, and punish with death the men who had dared to trade with his mortal enemy. There wasn’t any imaginable reason why he shouldn’t have sent more than thirty men to accomplish that purpose; and if he had learned since that Jmil Ras was on the prowl with a hundred, there seemed even less reason why he should now send fifty more to reinforce his brother.
If he had sent two hundred, as he could have done, and had taken the field in person, he might have had a chance to catch Jmil Ras away from home and overwhelm him. An even sounder policy would have been to swoop with all his forces on the stronghold of Jmil Ras and take it by storm in the owner’s absence. But one bet at least seems safe — that most Arab chiefs will become hypnotized by the thought of possible plunder moving on the hoof. I suppose it seemed better business to the Avenger to make sure of possessing the goods intended for Jmil Ras, and the redoubtable Grim along with them, than to take his chance in a pitched battle.
