have taken—down that mile-long flight of stone steps. Thereafter there were two ways—to the left toward “Pharaoh’s Treasury” where our camels waited; to the right in the direction of the women’s tents. It was a safe bet which way they had gone.
Most people think that generalship consists solely in the art of winning or losing battles, but there couldn’t be a greater mistake. If that were really so, then chessplayers would conquer the world, and all our armchair theorists would be enthroned as an aristocracy.
It is soldiers who win battles. The good general is the man who can get them to the spot without leaving more than a third of them behind in clink and another third in hospital. The hardest test of a man’s manhood lies in leadership. Can he or can’t he make the lame dog and the rascal so respect him that they’ll disregard their own immediate comfort and profit, and give their best behind him in the cause he favors?
Of course, no two men are quite alike in their methods, and there aren’t any definite rules, or we’d all learn them and all want to lead. Ali Higg’s methods, for instance, were crucifixion or the bastinado for disobedience; Jael’s was something like it, with scarifying language for milder cases. She looked at our diminished line, and glanced at Grim, and smiled ironically.
“Let’s go,” said Grim.
So off we marched along the overhanging ledge, Grim leading, Jael next, then Narayan Singh, then I, followed by our remnant bringing up the rear, chorusing abuse of Ali Higg for a mean host who had given them no presents. The Lion of Petra stood in the cave-mouth watching us with an expression such as you can see in New York any day on the face of an obvious criminal who has been acquitted on a technicality—near-incredulity, relief, cunning, and contempt for authority that can’t convict him.
It seemed to me merely a question of how many hours it would take that tough Lion of Petra to recover from the lancing of his boils before he would set out to avenge himself on our rear. Men of his ambitious mold think more, as a rule, of personal vengeance than of high strategy; they are made short-sighted by the very qualities that have brought a semblance of success.
Without Jael to counsel him he wasn’t likely to betray much wisdom, and we had her in control; but she and Ali Higg had done a lot of whispering together in the cave, and although I’m no kind of judge of women, not having had much opportunity to learn the home-keeping sciences, I was ready to bet that minute that a plan was in the wind for cooking our goose thoroughly.
And so, as it transpired, there was; but not even Grim, who can see farther than most men through the fog of any Eastern entanglement, had the remotest suspicion of what its form was going to take.
If it had been my business I would have turned to the right at the foot of that ancient stairway. Having handled lawless natives by the score in various parts of Africa, my method would have been to go into that women’s camp and rout my rascals out of it with a heavy fist for those I could overtake and a long whip for the rest of them. Grim turned straight to the left and never said a word, merely nodding recognition of Ayisha as she came along and joined us.
When we passed the mass of ruins on to which I had dropped Ayisha’s bundle of belongings he sent two men to climb and fetch it. The force of the fall had burst it open, but Ayisha had enough faith in the future to stand by and make sure that they filched nothing, so, though the things were all scattered about and a few bits of hardware were smashed, the total loss didn’t amount to much. I thought it a good chance to try to make friends again, and offered to pay her cash for the damage.
“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 the last 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 fusillade 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 meager 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