Slowly and thoroughly, beginning at one end and letting his eyes move
alertly to the other, Ali inspected the camp and confirmed an ugly truth
that had already been pointed out by common sense. With eight good men
at his back, and the element of surprise in their favor, he would have a
reasonable chance of storming the camp. But, as things were--
He'd help neither the _dalul_ nor himself by joining his ancestors at
this moment, Ali decided. He pulled the burnous over his head, drew the
dagger from its sheath and settled down to wait.
The light grew, and the heat with it, as the sun climbed higher. Ali
risked moving just enough to pick up a pebble and put it on his tongue.
He had no water, and if the wait proved a long one, the pebble would
help relieve thirst. He must not move again, though. The merest flicker
could be one too many, and certainly a Druse tribesman with even a
baggage camel could run down a man who hadn't any.
A camel rider, coming into camp from the south, roused not the least
interest among the men already there, and Ali took mental note of the
incident. Doubtless these raiders were flanking the great _Hadj_, but
surely they could not be insane enough to attack it. Probably they
intended to waylay small groups coming from various sources to join the
_Hadj_, just as they had the camp of Sofad. The very fact that the camel
rider came almost unnoticed proved that the raiders had a sentry posted
to the south, and the sentry had somehow advised his companions of the
rider's approach. Apparently, they anticipated no interference from any
other point of the compass.
Sudden hope rose in Ali's heart. The rider might be bringing news of
another caravan to be attacked, and, if so, he and his companions would
depart very shortly. Since they did not know how to control it anyhow,
they would not take the _dalul_ with them. Ali's eyes strayed back to
the tethered animal.
It must have come from the very choicest of the riding camels of some
mighty official. Even the Pasha of Damascus would not have many such,
for the simple reason that there weren't many. More than ever, it
represented all the perfection dreamed of by some camel breeder--some
long-dead camel breeder, since the _dalul_ had never been produced in
one generation or during the life span of one man--who knew the desert
and yearned for the ideal camel.
Watching the _dalul_, Ali found his own mounting thirst easier to bear.
The animal had been without water longer than he and probably was
desperate for a drink--but refused to show it. Ali had learned while
still apprenticed to the rug vendor that camels may be as thirsty as any
other creatures. He turned his eyes back to the men.
One, in a rather desultory fashion, was mending a pack saddle. Two or
three others were at various small chores and the rest were sleeping in
the shade of their own tents. The hardness flowed back into Ali's eyes.
No followers of Mohammed, the Druse were devoted to heathen gods and
rituals. It was not for that, or their hypocrisy--a Druse tribesman
going among other peoples usually pretended to accept the religion of
his hosts--or their thievery, or the fact that they seldom attacked
anyone at all unless the odds were heavily in their favor, that Ali now
hated them. He'd have hated anyone at all who mistreated such a _dalul_
in such a fashion!
It occurred to Ali that he had neglected the prayer he should have
offered immediately after the sun rose and probably would have to omit
proper ceremonies at high noon, but it did not worry him. Allah, the
Compassionate, would surely understand that there are certain
inconveniences attached to the observance of prayers while in the full
sight of hostile Druse. Nor would He frown upon Ali for refusing to let
the _dalul_ out of his sight. When Ali left the camp, the _dalul_ was
leaving with him.
Passing the noon mark and starting its swing to the west, the full glare
of the sun no longer burned down on Ali's burnous, and the branches of
the Aleppo pine offered some shade. But since the day became hotter as
it grew longer, with the hottest hour of any being that one just
preceding sunset, there was little relief from the heat.
Ali lay as still as possible, partly because the slightest motion would
be sure to excite the curiosity of any Druse who happened to glance his
way and partly because moving must inevitably make him hotter. Helping
him to accept with grace what almost any other man of almost any other
nation would have found an unendurable wait were certain talents and
characteristics that had been his from birth.
Though he'd never even known his own father, Ali was of ancient blood.
Few of his ancestors, throughout all the generations, had ever had the
facilities, even though they might possess the best of reasons, for
going anywhere in a hurry. Ali came of people who knew how to wait, and
added to his inheritance was his experience with the caravans.
Regardless of when a shipment had been promised for delivery in Baghdad
or Aleppo, it lingered along the way, if the camels that carried it
developed sore feet en route.
In some measure, Ali suffered from heat, and, to a far greater extent,
he knew the tortures of thirst, but he accepted both with the inborn
fatalism of one who knows he must accept what he can neither change nor
prevent. Heat and thirst were passing factors. Unless he died first, in
which event he'd join Allah's celestial family, sooner or later he'd be
cool and he'd drink.
There'd been little action in the camp all day, but toward night the
Druse stirred. They did so surlily, grudgingly, after the fashion of men
who do not like what they've been doing in the recent past and have no
reason to suppose they'll be doing anything more interesting in the near
future. Rather than build cooking fires, they nibbled dates, meal and
honey cakes, and drank from goatskin flasks. There was no singing, not
even much shouting. The Druse, born raiders who could be happy only when
in the saddle and riding to the attack, must now be unhappy and snarl at
each other because their scouts, who were doubtless haunting every
caravan trail, had brought no news of quarry sighted.
Night came, and with it a coolness so refreshing that it inspired Ali to
thoughts of the heavenly bath that must be enjoyed by Allah's angels.
The cool night air fell and enfolded him like a gentle flood, but with
no hint of the earth's dross. After a blazing day, it was as welcome as
the sight of green palms ringing an oasis.
Ali reveled in the coolness, but not nearly as much as he did in the
fact that, with night, the Druse camp quieted. After waiting another
hour, he drew his dagger and went forward.
The sky was cloudless, but there was no moon and, at this early hour,
very few stars shone. Ali advanced with silent and unfaltering speed, in
spite of the fact that he could see almost nothing. A dozen times during
the day he had marked the exact route between himself and the young
_dalul_. He knew where he was going.
Ali's fingers tightened on the dagger's hilt. If Allah saw fit to reveal
him to the Druse, he hoped that the All Merciful would see equally fit
to defend himself manfully. When Ali was within a dozen yards of the
_dalul_, the peaceful night was shattered by an alarm.
"Ho! Wake and arm! There is an enemy among us!"
Because that was all he could do, Ali began to run. He had cast his lot,
and now all depended on the _dalul_. If he could free it, then mount and
ride, he and the camel would be safe at least until morning.
Ali was within an arm's length of the _dalul_ when it turned and spoke
to him. It was a guttural sound, and scarcely audible, but as different
from the usual camel's grunt as the scream of a hawk is from the chirp
of a robin. Even as he flung himself forward and started slashing at the
nearest rope, Ali heard and correctly interpreted.
The _dalul_ had just said that it would kill him if it could!