“Better laugh at me now while you dare,” she retorted. “Inshallah,when the time comes you shall pay with all you have!”
I was sorry for her, and didn’t feel like laughing, yet what else was there to do? If I had appeared to take her threat seriously that would only have flattered her malicious instinct and made matters that much worse. Glancing upward at the ledge I could see the Lion of Petra standing watching us, also contemplating mischief. She had been taught in his school and, like him, would certainly take a yard for every inch you yielded. So I did laugh —and regretted it later.
“You scare me out of my poor wits,” said I.
“Since when has an Indian had wits?” she answered. “Allah made Indians to be the scorn of all decent folk!”
Wouldn’t you have felt flattered by that? I did. If I had come so far without betraying my nationality to that young woman’s keen perception it was likely I might go the rest of the way without failing Grim. And isn’t it remarkable how an unexpected discovery like that sets you to exaggerating all the by-play with which you have hitherto half-unconsciously contrived a deception? All the way to Pharaoh’s Treasury I walked, scratched myself, spat, belched, and volunteered comments like an Indian, until Narayan Singh laughed at me.
“Has the sahib heard the fable of the man who would be king?” he asked. “No? He acted so like a king in advance that the people decided he would be no novelty, and did away with him.”
There was something in what he said. If you act a part instead of thinking and being it, they’ll find you out. So I left off playing Indian.
I told in another story all about that fabled Treasure House of Pharaoh —really a temple to Isis, that stands facing the twelve-foot gap in a cliff, which is Petra’s only entrance gate. Our camels knelt where we had left them in the shade of the enormous porch, and grumbled at being loaded nearly as abominably as our eight Arabs did at having to do the work short-handed. They wanted to wait for the others, but Grim would have none of that; so they fired a last fusilade of shots at the great stone urn above the porch that every Bedouin believes to contain Pharaoh’s jewels, and we started.
We had crossed the intervening space, and Grim on the leading camel was already through the gap into the Valley of Moses, when I saw our laggards coming. They had additional camels with them, which we needed, having lost three in the skirmish when we captured Jael; but they had brought six, and three of the beasts were loaded. I called out to Grim, but he did not stop.
“Aha!” laughed Narayan Singh. “We shall now see what the major sahib has to say to stragglers!”
We were half a mile into the valley, at that point a quarter of a mile wide with six-hundred-foot cliffs on either hand, when they overtook us and formed the tail of our line. They said nothing, and none of the eight who had stayed with us made any comment. Part of the game was evidently to hope that Grim would take no notice, and as for the loot, that was all in the family anyhow. But hope that springs eternal isn’t always blessed. Grim called a halt at last.
The fellow who had led the filching expedition was Mujrim, Ali Baba’s oldest son, a man bigger than I am and about as heavy—a serene- browed, black-bearded, sunny-tempered fellow (when not crossed) and the logical captain of the gang in the old man’s absence. Grim counted heads, found all present, and asked what the disappearance had meant. Mujrim spoke up for his brothers.
“We thought there were camels needed, so we went and procured them.”
“Good,” Grim answered. “Did you pay for them?”
“Wallahi! Who would pay thieves for something they had stolen?”
“What else did you bring?”
“Oh, a present or two. The Lion of Petra proved himself a mean man, for he gave us nothing except a meagre bellyful up there on the ledge. But the women in the camp were ashamed of his meanness and treated us handsomely.”
“Are the presents all in those bundles on the three camels?”
“Surely. Where else?”
“Nothing under your shirt, for instance?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
“By the bones of God’s Prophet, Jimgrim, everything is in those bundles.”
“If you’re telling the truth, prove it. Let me see.”
Neither smiling nor frowning, in fact giving no hint of his ultimate intention, Grim drove his camel closer; and Mujrim edged away, beginning to look worried, until at last he was alongside me and ready to go on retreating if Grim insisted.
“Search him, please!” said Grim.
I believe in obeying orders. You don’t have to follow a man if you don’t care for his leadership. I have chosen to differ from more than one man after the event, but never yet spoiled a leader’s game by hesitating in a climax. Moreover, on one occasion when the leading was up to me, I remember I bent a man half-out of his senses for arguing with me in a pinch; whereas if he had chosen the proper time to air his views we might have agreed, or else parted good friends. And what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I laid my left hand on Mujrim’s arm and thrust my right into the bosom of his shirt, bringing out a couple of amber necklaces worth at least a hundred dollars each.
I liked Mujrim from the first. I liked him even better in that minute. Ninety-nine Arabs out of any hundred would have pulled a knife at me. He struck me with his fist—a clean, manly blow above the belt, heavy enough to have knocked me out of the saddle if I hadn’t expected something of the sort. His brothers naturally drew their weapons. They probably expected me to draw mine. But I was satisfied for the moment to keep hold of the necklaces and be on guard against a second blow.
“Why strike the hakim?” Grim asked him. “He obeyed my order. His act was mine.”
“Mashallah!” he retorted. “That is a wonder of a saying! If it is true, then it was you I struck! Behold, I strike again!”
And he let out another blow at me that would have broken the arm of a weaker man.
“Patience, sahib, patience!” Narayan Singh whispered, edging his camel close to mine; but big-game hunting is a pretty good teacher of that. It was clear enough that Grim was up against mutiny. Jael Higg was smiling jubilantly in that handsome, thin-lipped way of hers, and Ayisha was calling out aloud to Mujrim to “kill the cursed Indian and be done with it.” I kept my eye on Grim. He approached within arm’s length, and for a minute I thought he was going to be crazy enough to accept the blows as having landed on himself, and strike back. In that event, unless Grim should use his pistol he was as good as dead, for the Arab’s blood was up. But he chose to ignore the talk.
“We’ll keep the camels and pay Lady Jael for them,” he said quietly. “You and the other seven walk back and deposit what you call the presents in the Treasury, where the women will find them sooner or later.”
“Wallah! Am I dreaming? Who orders me to walk back?”
“Right smartly too!” Grim answered. “I’m not going to wait a week for you.”
“Allah!”
Mujrim’s face was black with rage by that time—the swift, volcanic temper of a lawless fellow checked. But even with the blood up back of his eyes I think he recognized that Grim meant to master him at all costs. There wasn’t a trace of anxiety on Grim’s face—nothing whatever but determination.
“I told you all clearly before we started that I’d have no looting on this trip,” said Grim. “You can’t take advantage of me just because Ali Baba isn’t here. Carry that stuff back. I shall wait here and search you all when you return, so you’d better bear that in mind.”