His hands moved again, deft as a surgeon's, and the gun was assembled and back in its holster. The young lord known as Charlie came over.
"I'm Airlie," he said. "My friends call me Charlie." Craig nodded. "You were right to choose the Smith and Wesson. That Colt's a brute. You shoot a lot?"
"Not any more," said Craig. Not unless he had to.
"Pity," said Charlie. "You're bloody good at it." He looked round the bunkhouse. "Weird setup this place, isn't it?"
"It is," said Craig.
"I mean there's Hornsey, he's a don, and you're from the Foreign Office, and Ino there—he's a banker—and Richard's at the Bar, and Hamid— What the devil do you do, Hamid?"
"I'm a gentleman," Medani said. "I exist. Beautifully."
"Yes, well, and then there's me."
"And what do you do?" asked Craig.
"I'm a lieutenant in the Honourable Artillery Company," Charlie said.
"He's a lord, too," said Hornsey. "Seventh Earl of. Also he's a suitor." Craig looked puzzled. "For the hand of Jane," Hornsey explained. "He's 6 to 4 favorite. Comes of being an earl."
"It's not just that," said Charlie. "I'm rich, too, remember."
Hornsey threw a boot at him, and they wrestled together. Craig thought he was getting old. Medani came up to him, slim, graceful, very arrogant, and Craig thought of the Siamese cats rich women own, how pampered they are, and how pitiless.
"I wouldn't do that," Medani said, and smiled. "That is not existing beautifully."
"You do that best on a horse," said Craig, and Medani smiled like a lost angel. His skin was a very pale gold color, his eyes hazel, and his nose straight. In this he was Berber rather than Arab. Only the thick, glossy black hair suggested Arab blood—that and his pride. Craig decided to take a chance.
"What part of Morocco do you come from?" he asked in Arabic.
"Talouet," Medani said at once. Then he paused. "I see you are clever with people as well as guns, Mr. Craig. How did you know?"
Craig said: "The F.O. sent me on a mission to Morocco once, because I spoke Arabic." This was a lie. Craig's only mission to Morocco had been to work for himself, as a smuggler. He'd done well at it too, before Morocco became united, and respectable. "I met a lot of people who looked like you," he said. "Chiefs and the sons of chiefs."
That at least was true; only the ones he'd met had all been possessed by the same passion, for contemporary firearms in good working order. They'd trade anything for a Schmeisser machine gun or a Remington repeater: dates, olives, horses, girls, boys, even money, when they discovered that Craig would take nothing else. And the firearms were for use: against the French when things went right, against each other when the uneasy alliance between liberation movement and tribes broke down.
"My family used to own Talouet," Medani said. "We still do quite well there."
/ bet you do, Craig thought. In the old days, before liberation, Morocco was as feudal as thirteenth-century England, and when a man said he owned a town he meant precisely that. He owned it—buildings, animals, and people.
"You like playing cowboys?" Craig asked.
"Adore it," answered Medani. "It gives me an idea of what it must have been like at home. I was only ten when we were liberated"—he pronounced the word in French, and it pulled his face into a sneer. "But this isn't all that far from it, you know."
Horses and guns, Craig thought. That's all an Arab from the Rif or the Atlas can think of. When they get enough to make them happy they start a war, and then they're ecstatic. He remembered seeing a band of El Glaoui's men in Rabat, just before the final crash of independence: Turbanned, white-robed, magnificently mounted, they'd spun and swirled their horses as Medani had done, playing cowboys. In their hands they'd carried incredible muzzle-loading muskets five feet long, inlaid with brass, with silver, even with gold. But these were playthings, used only for ceremonials and showing off. When it came to business they had repeating carbines.
"I wish the old days were back," said Medani, and Craig believed him.
They went out to eat then, to the inevitable barbecue, and Simmons was masterfully efficient among the steaks and chops, but it was other, lesser cowboys who served the potato chips, the salad, and the chateau-bottled claret. One could strain after authenticity for just so long, Craig gathered.
There were limits. Then two more cowboys appeared, and their faces were pale and they had trouble with their Stetsons. One of them held a guitar, the other a fiddle, and the fire blazed up in a shower of sparks behind them. They played hoedown music very well indeed, and the real cowboys took it in turns to dance with Jane, who was now the purty schoolmarm in blue-checked gingham. Simmons danced with her best of all, and grinned when the others applauded. Craig thought it best not to compete, and so did Medani.
"I was educated in Paris," he said, "but I cannot get used to this. It is bad for a man to dance with a woman. Much better to make the woman dance for him."
He began to speak then of the belly dancers of Marrakesh, and this took time. Craig listened with the respect that is every expert's due as Medani talked on, in Arabic, and Craig realized that sex also can make you homesick.
Simmons heard the swift, guttural sounds and came across to them, Jane beside him, flushed and adoring for her wonderful daddy. Medani had remembered an Egyptian he had once seen who seemed able to revolve in three directions at once. Craig hoped Jane didn't speak Arabic.
Simmons said: "So you speak Arabic, too?" He didn't seem very surprised.
"That's how I got into the F.O.," said Craig. "I took a course in the navy." Well not a course, exactly, he thought. Her name had been Kamar; she had danced like Medani's Egyptian.
"I hope we weren't being rude," Medani said.
"It was a pleasure to me to speak my own language."
"Not at all," said Simmons. "What were you talking about?"
Medani stiffened, then his glance went from Simmons to Jane like two cuts of a sword.
"We spoke of women," he said, "and the way they ought to dance."
Even by firelight Craig could see Simmons fighting to control his temper. When he finally succeeded he was sweating with the effort of it. At last he said: "How amusing for you."
Craig thought Simmons must need Medani very much; otherwise he would have killed him.
The fire burned low, and Simmons turned to whisper to his daughter. The young men stiffened in excitement as Jane smiled good night, then came across to Craig.
"Daddy says it's bedtime, Mr. Craig," she said. "So it's bedtime."
She held out her hand. It was a strong little hand, very sure of itself, but it trembled in his before she turned away and the skirts of her dress whispered over the grass.
Simmons watched her go, then winked at the others.
"Well, boys," he said, "let's take a look at the town."
10
They should have saddled up, Craig thought, and ridden for miles over rolling grassland, whooping like maniacs. Instead they walked—the saloon was only a hundred yards away—but at least they did it properly; in line, thumbs hooked in their gun belts, before pushing the bat-wing doors aside.
The saloon glowed with the soft, warm light of oil lamps, and the perfesser was still playing the same solid blues. Almost at once two of the young men were playing cards with the gambler, and the rest of them were drinking steadily, except for Simmons. He seemed content to watch the others drink, and walked round with the bottle, topping up glasses. Medani still drank sarsaparilla, but Craig let Simmons serve him once, then resisted. Getting drunk was no part of his plans.