Ali gave the order and Ben Akbar obeyed. Unconcerned as though there
were no Druse within forty miles, but not forgetting to prick Ali's ribs
with his dagger, the officer scorned even to glance in the direction
from which the Druse approached. Ali wondered. Some Moslems yearned so
ardently for the life to come that they set not the least value on the
one they already had, but the officer seemed more practical-minded.
"The Druse number a score and three," Ali ventured finally. "They come
from the direction where the camel grunted and they cannot fail to see
you should you neglect to hide."
"I did not ask your opinion," the officer growled. "Be silent!"
Since the order was emphasized with a sudden jab of the dagger, Ali
remained silent. He composed himself. This, as well as everything else,
was now in the hands of Allah and He alone would determine the outcome.
But it never harmed anything to ponder.
The rest of the Moslems and The Jackal had disappeared as suddenly and
completely as morning dew when the sun turns hot. Though they could not
be very far away, neither was the end of the thicket. Once out of the
brush, Ali could mount Ben Akbar and ride. If the pursuit were resumed,
and, regardless of who won the forthcoming battle, it would be, it must
still be delayed while the fight was in progress. If Allah would only
see fit to make the officer take the point of his dagger out of Ali's
ribs and go wherever his men had gone, it would be worth Ali's while to
try to break away.
But the officer entertained no ideas about going anywhere or of using
his dagger for any purpose except to remind Ali how swiftly a painful
situation could become fatal. Ali looked at Ben Akbar, still lying where
he had been ordered to lie, but not liking it. Though reclining, he was
anything but relaxed. His head was up, his eyes missed nothing, his
nostrils quested, and tense muscles indicated both a readiness and an
ability to spring instantly to his feet.
Ali decided that Ben Akbar did not like these strange Moslems any better
than he had the Druse who captured him, and that he tolerated them at
all only because Ali commanded him to do so. It occurred to Ali that
none of the Moslems had been eager to venture too near Ben Akbar, and,
suddenly, he knew something he hadn't known before.
Certainly no killer, Ben Akbar was most discriminating when it came to a
choice of human companions. Incapable as the Druse of handling him
properly, the Moslems were wisely leaving him alone. The fierce little
officer never would have told Ali to make Ben Akbar lie down if he
thought the _dalul_ would obey him instead.
That being so, and if Allah smiled and the Moslems won the forthcoming
fight, Ali felt that he had some hope of staying alive, at least until
the soldiers returned to whatever headquarters camp they had left to go
out on patrol. It would reflect little credit on any emissary of the
Pasha of Damascus to bring a favorite _dalul_ before the eyes of his
master as a raging brute at the end of ropes. If the Moslems could not
take him in except by force, but Ali could, there were reasons to
suppose that Ali would.
When they appeared on foot, the Druse were led by a sinewy man who
advanced at a trot, and who, in turn, led a _dalul_. Evidently the same
talented tracker who'd followed Ali's trail while riding full speed, the
man strained like a leashed gazelle hound that sights its quarry. The
remaining Druse grouped behind him.
Ali glanced at the officer.
That fierce Moslem, who certainly knew the Druse were coming,
contemptuously refused even to look around until the leader was within
thirty yards of him. Then, maintaining enough pressure on the dagger to
remind Ali that he was not forgotten, he swung and shouted insults.
"Dogs!" he spat. "Eaters of pork! Spawn of flies that infest camel dung!
I have your prisoner and your _dalul_! Come take them if you're men!"
The leading Druse dropped the reins of his _dalul_, shouted fiercely,
drew his sword and rushed. His followers did likewise, and, even though
some were delayed by frightened camels that plunged to one side or the
other, Ali counted nine sword-waving Druse hard on the heels of their
leader and all too close for comfort. He stole another glance at the
officer.
Neither taking the dagger from Ali's ribs nor making any move to draw
his sword, he seemed to regard the attacking Druse as he might some
particularly repulsive vermin that might soil his shoes if he stepped on
them. Then it happened.
From both sides of the trail, where they had concealed themselves as
soon as they knew the Druse were coming, Moslem swordsmen rose. So
complete was the surprise and so overwhelming the shock, half the Druse
were down before the rest even thought of rallying. Ali acknowledged his
approval--and even some admiration--for an officer who could plan so
well.
The ambushed Moslems must have seen Ali and Ben Akbar when they were at
least as far off as the Druse had been when they were sighted. They had
marked the exact route, which made it unnecessary to do any second-guessing
about the Druse. If they were following Ali, they were tracking him. So
an ambush on either side of the track, an officer to act as bait and
convince the Druse that there was only one man and--
The last Druse went down. The Moslems ranged out to catch the scattered
camels and bring in any loot that was worth bringing. Some wounded, but
all on their feet, they arranged themselves and their booty before the
officer.
"You fought like old women," he sneered. "It is well that there were no
real warriors to oppose you. But now that we have the _dalul_ we set out
to find, we may return."
"The prisoner?" someone called.
"He stays." The officer pushed his dagger a quarter inch into Ali's
ribs.
Because it was an ideal time to think of something else, Ali speculated
about The Jackal. Whatever else he might be, The Jackal was a brave man.
What would happen, if he were detected, to a Druse who not only joined
the _Hadj_ but the Pasha's personal soldiers too, and who was obviously
representing himself as a Moslem, Ali couldn't even imagine.
He did know that one false step would be one too many for the deceiver.
If The Jackal took that step, he would live a very long while in agony
before voicing his final shriek. Of course, it was a true Moslem's duty
to tell what he knew, but The Jackal had only to speak and Ali would
face the torturers with him. Whatever purpose had brought The Jackal
here, he must be playing for tremendous stakes.
Ali was considerably relieved, but not greatly astonished, when the
officer withdrew his dagger and sheathed it. He addressed Ali as he
might have spoken to a stray cur.
"On second thought, we will take you to Al Misri, The Egyptian, and let
him kill you. Bring the _dalul_, dog, and, for your own sake, see that
it does not stray."