The trail was rough, but Ben Akbar's saddle remained a veritable bed
of feathers as the big _dalul_ continued at the same swift trot he had
started two hours ago. Ali turned in the saddle to look behind him.
There was nothing there, but neither was there anything ahead except the
same boulder-strewn, scrub-grown, sun-baked land that he saw when he
glanced around. The place had no visible attractions, but it did
furnish reason anew to marvel at the vastness of America. Ali knew some
self-contained nations, complete from Pasha to slaves, that were not as
large as this forbidding corner of America wherein the entire expedition
was presently lost.
Never jarring his rider, Ben Akbar continued without a noticeable
variation in gait. Ali turned back to face the west.
The anxiety that clouded his eyes deepened, but it was not for himself
that he worried. As far as he personally was concerned, by far the
happiest days of his life began when the expedition left Zuni, west of
Fort Defiance and the last settlement this side of California, on the
thirty-first of August. That day, a lifelong dream finally came true.
Illiterate, Ali had developed skills vital to those who may never consult
written records. When necessary to do so, he had only to close his eyes
and see in memory a map of all the caravan routes he'd ever traveled. It
was invariably in proper detail--the shortest route was never omitted and
the longest was never extended beyond correct proportions. Every mile
of every trail was again as it had been when Ali went that way with
the camels.
For various reasons, some of those journeys had been very exciting. But
this promised far more than any other trail Ali had traveled.
Wild and dangerous though they had been, and some still were, the camel
trails of Ali's native country were almost as ancient as the land itself.
Caravans had certainly been traversing them since recorded history, and
fable told of camels on the march long before any recording. Thus there
had never been even a faint possibility of doing anything that had not
already been done over and over, or of going anywhere not already visited
by multitudes.
This route must forever stand apart. Even though people had come this
way, with very few exceptions, they were wild as the wild beasts that
slunk from their path. Certainly there had never been a caravan, and for
that reason alone there must be the challenge of the mysterious and
unknown. In addition, Ali found something else he'd never known before.
Here were no petty Amirs, with an endless array of petty decrees.
Confining Camp Verde was far behind; there wasn't even a camel khan.
Space was limitless, and freedom was restricted only by a need for
caution. Obviously, when at last one had all the room he needed for
growing and roaming, he would not do a great deal of either if he fell
prey to either the savages or the elements.
Ali knew that even this parched and barren country was not repulsive to
his eyes. He must consider it forbidding, or at least undesirable,
because of its current threat to the expedition.
Fighting a sudden powerful notion that he had missed something and had
better turn around again, Ali looked steadfastly ahead. He hadn't missed
anything and knew it, but he would anxiously grasp any straw as he neared
the place where he must turn about and hope faded.
Largely because, in Ali's eyes, Lieutenant Beale's stature had long since
exceeded that of any other man and was rapidly nearing heroic proportions,
Ali could not blame his leader for the present dilemma. The signs had been
present; any man who had good camels should think seriously as to the
wisdom of bringing horses and mules too into a land where water was
uncertain.
Ali was unable to blame his leader for anything, and, anyhow, the guide
was directly at fault. After leading the entire expedition astray--as
yet nobody knew how far--the guide offered only a sheepish grin as an
excuse when he finally admitted choosing the wrong landmarks. He'd
risked everyone's life but he'd never know, Ali thought, how close he'd
come to paying for his carelessness with his own life. Ali had been
watching Lieutenant Beale's eyes when the guide confessed his error. The
guide had been looking at the ground.
Except for the strict rations allotted each man, they had run out of
water shortly afterwards. The camels were in no trouble, but the horses
and mules were already frantic with thirst. Had Ali been in command, he
would have shot the horses and mules and gone on with camels only. But
Ali was not in command, and because Lieutenant Beale wished to find
water for his suffering beasts, Ali could not wish otherwise. Even
though they still had rations, some of the expedition's men were already
apprehensive.
The sun was almost at that point where Ali must turn Ben Akbar and go
back. His heart grew heavier as it became increasingly evident that he
would have no news of water. Such failure was all the more galling
because he never doubted but that he'd been close to success.
There was no use in comparing this with his own country, since this
specific problem could never arise there. All the water holes were
known. A thirsty traveler who found one dry, simply went on toward the
next one. If he got there, he drank. If he did not, he died. However, it
was reasonable to suppose that some fundamental rules applied in
America, even as they did throughout the rest of the world.
Where there was water, there should be green foliage. Of course, he must
not expect to find familiar date palms. There must be some other trees
indigenous to this parched area, and any that received water would be
green, and any color at all in such drab surroundings would glow like a
candle at midnight.
Reaching the place where he had been ordered to turn around, a reluctant
Ali halted Ben Akbar. For a moment he sat the saddle, searching
everything still ahead and hoping desperately to see a splash of green
that must mark an oasis. He saw only more desert. The last feeble spark
of hope almost flickered out.
Then, suddenly, it flared. Though Lieutenant Beale had told him when he
must return, he had not said that Ali must come back by the same route.
Some distance to the south was a series of rocky ridges from whose crests
it would surely be possible to see much new country. Ali swung south.
With a much clearer understanding of the expedition's true purpose, Ali
lauded the wisdom that had prompted it. If some of this Southwest was
bleak and forbidding, some was as fine and rich as anything Ali had ever
seen. Villages and even cities might thrive here and there would still
be ample grazing for flocks and herds.
Almost without exception, however, the few white men who had dared enter
the region cared for nothing except high adventure and possible riches,
with high adventure accorded a definite priority. Far from taming the
wilderness, they much preferred it untamed. Their opposites, who would
bring settlement and civilization, must first be provided with some
means of access. Though the wild men could live by their rifles and from
their saddlebags, families could not.
Following the 35th parallel, except wherever circumstance, such as
terrain unsuited for wagons, made it wise to deviate from that line,
the expedition was to lay out a wagon road between Fort Defiance and
the California border. Besides opening new country, the road would
close the final gap in a transcontinental highway.
Ali, who knew something about roads, had only unstinted admiration for
the course so far. That camels could travel it was not open to question,
for camels were breaking the trail. Lieutenant Beale, however, was
choosing the route so carefully and with such skill that the heaviest
and clumsiest wagons could hereafter follow where the camels led.
It was an admirable road, and the fact that the entire expedition was
lost at the moment would be of no consequence if it were not for lack
of water. Even that would be no more than a minor annoyance, except
that horses and mules must drink or find it impossible to go on.
Ali's hopes, that had burned brightly when he turned south to swing
along these ridges, flickered dimly as time passed and no oasis was
sighted. The appointed rendezvous for this evening's camp--at least it
would be a rendezvous if the struggling mule teams were able to come so
far--was only a few miles ahead and night would fall soon. Ali put Ben
Akbar to a fast lope.
Suddenly he wheeled and rode back. He'd seen something--or thought he
had--for it was so faintly traced that he could not be sure. It was
worth a second look. Returning to the place where something had caught
his eye, Ali halted Ben Akbar, dismounted and knelt to study the ground.
He had seen something, but it was not to be wondered that he had almost
passed without seeing it. A small, unshod horse, traveling at a fast
trot, had passed this way within the hour and gone directly southeast.
Ali frowned thoughtfully.
Every one of the expedition's horses was shod and none had so small a
hoof. This animal was either separated from its companions and trying
to find them, or it carried a rider. Wandering horses do not travel
fast and straight.
Ali rose and remounted Ben Akbar. Since the horse did not belong to
the expedition, obviously it was the property of someone else. The
only human inhabitants of this forsaken waste were Indians. Though
he had seen nothing except the track of one horse, Ali knew the Druse
and the brigands of the caravan routes too well, and had fought them
too often, to shrug it off as meaningless. One Druse going somewhere
in a hurry could either be running from enemies or going to join some
companions bent on raiding.
Since there was no indication of pursuit, obviously the Indian was not
fleeing. But in Ali's opinion and experience, there was every reason to
believe that any group of brigands anywhere would sack the expedition
if they could.
So a group of bandits were assembling for the purpose of attacking the
expedition. Or, Ali admitted, they were not assembling. He was certain
only that there was at least one horse in the area and equally certain
that there was water not too far away. The whole thing should properly
be reported to Lieutenant Beale, but Ali remained indecisive.
If Beale knew what Ali knew, he would most certainly insist on a personal
investigation at the earliest moment. Never doubting that his chief was a
renowned and experienced warrior, Beale was also one to rush in where
anything else feared to tread. Should one with so many distressing problems
already on his mind be further burdened? Finally, and conclusively, the
expedition might do very well without Ali. It couldn't possibly succeed
without Lieutenant Beale. Therefore, who should logically run the risk?
There was only one choice.
Ben Akbar trotted into camp where the remaining camels were contentedly
feeding on greasewood. Sied was among them. Lieutenant Beale, who had
also scouted for water, must have returned. He proved to be one of the
little group who stood watching the agonized approach of the mules.
Nobody had found water; if they had, they would not appear so downcast.
Dismounting, Ali removed Ben Akbar's trappings and the big _dalul_
joined the feeding herd. Ali turned toward the oncoming wagons.
Heads bent, tongues lolling, the mules swayed in their traces and moved
at a slow crawl. When the wagons finally drew up, the mules remained as
they were when halted and did not so much as glance to one side or the
other, even when stripped of their harnesses.
His mules unharnessed, but so nearly finished that they retained their
team positions, the first driver went to his wagon and lifted down the
water keg. He turned to Lieutenant Beale and spoke in a husky whisper,
"Nary a drop left. Must of sprung a leak and--"
The mules came alert with a frantic rush and were upon him in a wild
scramble. Surrounding the driver, their eager grunts and harsh gasping
seemed the voice of madness itself as they fought each other for the
privilege of licking the dry keg's bung hole. Unable to look, the
soldiers turned away. Lieutenant Beale remained the leader.
"We can't move from here without water," he said quietly. "We'll try
again tomorrow."