Chapter IV
Still no trace of the Wimpoles. I was up early and out betimes. We had pitched our tents and rested our caravan in the shadow of the palms of Arag-Wan. Here our water-skins, canteens, camels and other containers were filled to overflowing. A trace of French thrift surprised me. The wells had been fenced off and equipped with a red Bowser-pump guarded by a half-cast Berber in brown cloak and battered visor-cap bearing the legend “Colonies d’Afrique.” There was free-air but not free-water.
“Combien de gallons?” asked the old chap.
“Fill ’em up,” I ordered, knowing that the next station was hundreds of miles to the eastward.
AT THE OASIS OF ARAG-WANHerman Swank, Traprock’s intrepid follower, superintending theimportant process of filling the camels.
At the Oasis of Arag-Wan
During the filling process I wandered out into the desert. The air was cool and delicious. A soft breeze whispered through the palm trees in the branches of which chattered a lavendertabitor doctor-bird. Beyond the edge of oasis the low-growingpalmettos, oleanders and gun-sandarachs dwindled to stunted prickly pears and leprous leaved squill-vines among which I noted the fresh tracks of several audad and a jerboa.
Intensely interested as I am in the secrets of nature’s book I became completely absorbed in the perusal of this fascinating page, or perhaps I should say foot-note. Bending over the imprinted tracks in silent study I became aware of a soft tread on the sand back of me. I turned my head silently but though I made the motion with the greatest caution it was enough to stampede a flock of seven magnificent whiffle-hens, birds of the utmost rarity, a cross between the ostrich and the bustard.
They were off at once, loping across the desert with that supremely easy and deceptive swing of their slightly bowed legs, traveling at a gait which breaks the heart of the swiftest horse, their snowy plumes gleaming in the sunshine. But what brought me up all standing was the fact that the leader of the flock sported in the center of his tail-feathers a gorgeous ostrich plume which very evidently did not belong there. For it was bright blue!
On the instant I recognized it as the ornamentworn by Lady Wimpole at the Casino in Monte Carlo!
A second later I was rushing pell-mell back to camp to rouse Ab-Domen and make preparations for pursuing the rapidly vanishing whiffle-hens.
Fortunately my faithful dragoman had had the foresight to include in the caravan a number of fleet Arabian steeds for just this sort of sudden foray or side-excursion. I selected Whinney as my companion and we were soon mounted in the deep, Moroccan saddles, bits and bridles jingling with bells, burnouses flapping and long guns projecting at dangerous angles. The animals were frantic to be off, rearing, snorting, glaring with blood-shot eyes and blowing foam over the grooms who clung on madly like hounds at a fox’s throat until I gave the word “Marasa!”—“Cast off!”
Off we flew like arrows. It would have been more impressive had we both gone in the same direction. As it was the effect was somewhat scattered and it was ten minutes before Whinney and I re-convened two miles from the encampment and were able to lay a course in the supposed direction of the birds. Our brutes had now calmed down but were still mettlesome and we seemed to fly over the sandy floor, eagerly scanning thehorizon. Fortune favored us. The flock had stopped to feed among some low-growing ground-aloes and we came on them suddenly in a fold of the plain.
Reining up I motioned Whinney to move with caution. We must rouse but not frighten them if we hoped to keep within range. Cupping my hands I gave a close approximation of the cry of the African whimbrell, a small but savage bird which is the bane of the whiffle-hen whom it pesters by sudden, unexpected attacks. The flock moved on at once looking about and paying no attention to us as long as we remained at a distance.
Thus we proceeded for the better part of the morning. The sun’s heat was becoming dangerous. According to all laws of desert travel we should have been safely sheltered in our tents but I kept on obstinately. My theory was this; whiffle-hens, owing to the value of their plumage, are often caught, corralled and domesticated as is the ostrich. That this was the case with the birds we were following was evident from the presence among them of Lady Wimpole’s blue feather. They might well have been part of her caravan, have broken bounds and launched out for themselves.On then, ever on! Fortune favors the obstinate!
As if to corroborate my thought, things began to happen. The whiffle-hens suddenly stopped in their tracks and stood peering forward. By moving to one side I noticed what their mass had concealed, namely a few palm trees and tents at no great distance, the occupants of which had apparently seen the birds approaching. To one side was a temporary corral, its gate invitingly open.
Sensing the psychological moment I gave the word to Whinney and with a loud cry we sped forward. The whiffle-hens caught by this unexpected onslaught dashed onward, instinctively rushing into their old quarters outside of which we drew rein, to be praised, congratulated and wondered at by the desert patriarch who had given up his precious creatures as lost. Bending low he ground his face in the earth, raising his head only to blow out small clouds of sand—for he was of that odd sect, theIsmillior sand-blowers—mixed with a volley of laudatory expletives.
It was unmistakably the Wimpoles’ caravan. Hampers, hold-alls, English-tents and impedimenta were everywhere in evidence.
“Where are they, the Lords of your destiny?” I questioned.
The old hen-shepherd blew out a final cloudlet of sand.
“Yonder is their dwelling: the silken tent neath the third palm. They are but just now risen.”
Dismounting and throwing my reins to the native I strode off in the direction indicated. As I drew near the tent I paused.
Voices were raised in altercation. Far be it from me to be eaves-dropper to a private family-quarrel, which, alas, I feared was an all too frequent occurrence in the lives of this mismated pair. Ready to withdraw I hesitated when a particularly sharp interchange forced a decision. A burst of laughter was followed by a man’s voice crying hoarsely—“By God, I’ll cut your throat!” Then a shriek rang out. It was high time to interfere. A fight may be private but a murder is not. Drawing aside the curtain I leapt into the tent.
“Hold!” I cried. “Stay thy hand: infidel son of a swineherd’s sister; or by the beard of the Prophet thou perish’st.”
The speech was entirely impromptu and I thought it sounded well, but somehow it fell flat.
Lord Wimpole was alone. He was shaving.
“I was speakin’ to that dam’ parrot,” he said brandishing his razor toward Selim who was twisting about and making a noise like sick automobile-gears. “Who are you, may I ask?”
How low the fellow was! ... and how contemptible he looked, his face half shaved, half lumpy with lather. One of life’s bitter jokes is that practically every man must shave. As I thus philosophized the curtains of an adjoining apartment opened and She appeared.
Heavens! how beautiful she looked. Sheen dishabille, clutching about her golden body the folds of a dazzling silk kimono, purple shot with green. Her hair was down: being bobbed it was, of course, always down, and her blue eyes were filmy with sleep.
“Doctor....” she began.
I checked her with an imperious gesture in which was expressed the boundless freedom of the fiery Arab race.
“El Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub ak Moplah,” I announced.
Lord Wimpole was plainly impressed. Hastily finishing his left cheek he extended his hand.
“’Oly mackerel ... a real Sheik. Put’er there. I’m a lord meself.”
Ignoring his effusion I spoke solemnly.
“Leagues have I ridden, I and my faithful follower, tracing the flight of birds, yea, even of the swift-skimming whiffle-hens, which ever drew nearer to their home even as my falcon-heart drew nearer to its nest, the tent of the most beautiful.”
I glanced at Lady Sarah who never batted an eye though one lovely lid drooped ever so slightly. Continuing I said, in part.
“And now, the journey done, I am a-weary and would fain repose myself in the light of the gazelle’s eyes. My charger rests neath the nodding fig-tree and my soul is parched and a-thirst.”
This was a craftily contrived bit. Wimpole gaped through most of it but got the final word.
“Thirst” ... he cried. “Gad, I should say so. Me too. Jolly good idea.”
A moment later, her ladyship having retired, Wimpole, Whinney and I raised tall beakers of superb Scotch to my heartfelt toast, “the loveliest lady in the world.”
Would she hear me? I wondered. A husky voice from behind the curtain answered my hope:
“Lads, pass one in to me.”