El Hassan turned to Kenny Ballalou and said, “It is my will that you remain here to see that all transpires as agreed. But three of our enemies will enter behind us at one time, and three more, and so on, only after the slow counting of five hundred.”
“But, great El Hassan, I would fight beside thee!” Kenny protested. He was by far the smallest of the four.
“It is my will,” El Hassan said, command ringing in his voice.
“Bismillah, thus it be,” Kenny said in dejection. “For thou art El Hassan.”
There were thousands now before the pavillion. Indeed, the whole encampment had gathered there. Somehow the word had already spread. The silence was unbelievable, considering the magnitude of the swarm of Bedouin and sedentary elements from the desert towns.
Homer, Bey and Cliff stripped to their waists and headed for the entry to the hammada, a narrow path.
Bey-ag-Akhamouk was as beautiful a physical specimen as the Tuareg had possibly ever produced, undoubtedly augmented by American diet and medical care as compared to that of Sahara nomads. He was lean, wiry and obviously strong. No unworthy foe of any Chaambra. But El Hassan, ah, that was another thing, and all took deep breath. Had these desert people known it, Homer Crawford’s physique resembled that of Sugar Ray Robinson, the American pugilist of half a century and more ago. He walked with the grace of a black panther. Ah, but the other vizier of El Hassan! It was from him that no man could tear his eyes. For if Crawford resembled Sugar Ray, then Cliff Jackson could only be compared to the Joe Louis of the early years. His step, too, was catlike, but that of a Bengal tiger, rather than the smaller, more lithe panther.
Abd-el-Kader’s horsemen had galloped back to report the hammada empty. Their leader, still stewing in anger, and obviously suspicious, went through the ranks of his men, pointing out those of the outstanding physical dimensions.
Meanwhile, El Hassan, flanked by his two viziers, stood at the pavillion entrance, their arms folded dramatically, waiting.
Cliff Jackson smiled at the guard next to him, the one who carried the old fashioned muzzle loader. He held out a hand politely, in an obvious request to examine the weapon. The Chaambra guard frowned a little worriedly but handed it over. He was proud of the silver embossing on the stock.
Cliff took the six foot barrel, one hand near the muzzle, one near the short stock and hunched his shoulders. Slowly, slowly, the barrel bent. The guard looked at him in shocked horror.
A deep sigh of disbelief went through the multitude. Cold sweat blisters broke on the American black’s forehead but he bent the barrel almost double, then twisted the muzzle end under, came up with it on the other side, bent it back through the loop again so that now the barrel of the gun resembled a pretzel. He smiled apologetically and handed the weapon back to its owner, who could only stare at it, his face blank.
Cliff smiled his charm once more and held out his hand for the short barrel carbine of the other guard who quickly jerked it away, in alarm, and hurried off into the crowd.
Bey said, out of the side of his mouth, “Okay, wise guy, where’d you learn that party trick?”
El Hassan ignored the whole incident, as though it was a common thing among his people.
Cliff hid his grin but whispered back. “Trick is right. I used to mess around with weight lifting back in college days. Most of these strong man acts you see in circuses or carnivals are largely tricks. It’s a matter of knowing how to do them. That old musket, with its long barrel was made of thin gauge iron, not even real steel. You probably could have bent it yourself, if you’d put it over your knee. Now that British carbine with its heavy steel barrel was another thing. If the second guard would have handed it over to me, I couldn’t have bent it in a million years. But, of course, he wasn’t about to give me a chance.”
“All right, all right, you jokers,” Homer said softly, “Here come our first three boys. Let’s get going.” For the first time, he looked up at Elmer Allen, in his cage. He could make out on the distressed man’s hand where his severed finger had once been. He nodded and Elmer made a very faint movement of his head in reply.
The three marched toward the jagged, rocky wasteland of the hammada, abreast. When they reached the narrow path that wound into it, they had to switch to single file, El Hassan going ahead. The area looked similar to a broken lava field, which perhaps it was.
After a few minutes, Abd-ei-Kader made an abrupt motion with his hand and his three chosen men followed after, one of them looking quickly at the twisted gun muzzle still in the hands of the bewildered guard, as they passed.
El Aicha, who, with the rest of the djemaa el kebar, had come to his feet and approached the side of the pavilion, stopping just short of emerging into the sun, pointed a finger at a tribal scribe who began counting in Arabic.
When he had reached five hundred, all present stared at the path. No one materialized.
Kenny Ballalou said dryly to Abd-el-Kader, “Three more.”
The warrior chieftain didn’t look at him. Instead, he jabbed out his finger, once, twice, thrice, at his followers and the three chosen stripped down to the waist and headed for the path. The scribe began counting again.
Toward the end of the allotted time, Kenny yawned and looked at Abd-el-Kader, but didn’t bother to say anything.
Three more of the alleged mahdi’s followers headed for the path into the hammada. They walked somewhat less briskly than had their comrades before them.
The scribe began the new count-down.
Kenny faded into the background a little and brought his wrist up to his mouth. The device on it looked like a watch, and was, but it was more. He said into it, “How’s it going?”
Homer Crawford’s voice came back thinly and there was even a dry humorous quality. “As to be expected. Here comes the next batch of poor bastards.”
Kenny returned to the foreground, in time to see still another trio of the Ouled Touameur clan, these wan of face, stripping preparatory for heading toward what they obviously believed to be their doom.
When they were gone, Kenny looked at his watch and said, “The day is half through. Perhaps we should hasten this matter. After all, the, uh, mahdi’s men number a thousand.”
El Aicha looked at him and said, “What do you suggest, O Vizier of El Hassan?”
“That the scribe count to but four hundred, or perhaps three hundred, before sending in more of the unfortunate followers of the, uh, mahdi.”
But the aged chieftain of the Chaambra shook his head. “No, the agreement made with El Hassan was the count of five hundred.”
Kenny muttered, “He doesn’t need that much time, as all can see. We shall be here throughout the night and well into the day beyond. Never in all his life has El Hassan met defeat. He is the chosen of Allah.”
Abd-el-Kader was breathing deeply and unbelievingly. The count had come to only four hundred, but he pointed out three more of his men to begin stripping. There were murmurs and dark looks from others in the ranks of his formerly jubilant and laughing clansmen. None pushed forward to volunteer.
The crowd behind them were muttering. Individual words and phrases could be heard. “El Hassan…”
“… the supposed mahdi…”
“… Verily, El Hassan and his viziers are as the first followers of the Prophet who issued forth with scimitar and spear from the deserts of far Arabia to conquer the world.”
“… and why does not the brave mahdi enter the wastes to confront El Hassan?”
Abd-el-Kader heard that last and spun and glared out in the direction from whence it had come. But the crowd stared back at him, unrepentant and undisclosing of the whereabouts of he who had been so bold.