Part 15 (2/2)

Crawford turned back to the Tuareg chieftain. ”You please me well, O Guemama. Know that I have been in conference with my viziers on the Roumi device which enables one to speak great distances and that we have decided that you are to head all the fighting clans of the Ahaggar, and that you will ride at the left hand of El Ha.s.san, as s.h.i.+eld on shoulder rides.”

The Targui, overwhelmed, made adequate pledges of fidelity, flowering words of thanks, and then hurried off to inform his fellow tribesmen of his appointment.

Isobel emerged from her tent. She looked at Homer obliquely, the sides of her mouth turning down. ”As s.h.i.+eld on shoulder rides,” she translated from the Tamaheq Berber tongue into English. ”Hm-m-m.” She cast her eyes upward in memory. ”You aren't plagiarizing Kipling, are you?”

Crawford grinned at her. ”These people like a well turned phrase.”

”And who could turn them better than Rudyard?” she said. Her voice dropped the bantering tone. ”What's this bit about making Guemama war-chief of the Tuareg? Isn't he on the young and enthusiastic side?”

Cliff scowled. ”You mean that youngster? Why he can't be more than in his early twenties.”

Crawford was looking after the young Targui who was disappearing into his uncle's tent on the far side of the rapidly growing encampment.

”You mean the age of Napoleon in the Italian campaign, or Alexander at Issus?” he asked. Isobel began to respond to that, but he shook his head. ”He's the Amenokal's nephew, and traditionally would probably get the position anyway. He's the most popular of the young tribesmen, and it's going to be they who do the fighting. Having the appointment come from El Ha.s.san, and at this early point, will just bind him closer. Besides that, he's a natural born warrior. Typical.

Enthusiastic, bold, brave and with the military mind.”

”What's a military mind?” Cliff said.

”He can take off his s.h.i.+rt without unb.u.t.toning his collar,” Homer told him.

”Very funny,” Cliff grumbled.

Isobel turned to the big Californian. ”What's on the radio, Cliff?”

”Let's go get a cup of coffee,” he said. ”All h.e.l.lzapoppin.”

They went into the larger of the two Tuareg tents, and Isobel poured water from a girba into the coffee pot which she placed on a heat unit, flicking its switch. She said sarcastically, from the side of her mouth, ”A message, O El Ha.s.san, from the Department of Logistics, subdepartment Commissary of Headquarters of the Commander in Chief.

Unless you get around to capturing some supplies in the near future, your food is going to be prepared over a camel dung fire. This heat unit is fading out on me.”

”Don't bother me with trivialities,” Homer told her. ”I've got _big_ things on my mind.”

She looked at him suspiciously. ”Hm-m-m. Such as what?”

”Such as whether to put my face on the postage stamps profile or full.”

She said, under her breath, ”I shoulda known. Already, delusions of grandeur.”

”Holy Mackerel,” Cliff protested. ”Aren't we ever serious around this place? You two will wind up gagging with the firing squad.”

Crawford chuckled softly but let his face go serious. ”Sorry, Cliff.

What's on your mind?”

Cliff said impatiently, ”From the radio reports, the Arab Union is consolidating its position. El Ha.s.san is being discredited by the minute. Your followers were in control for a time in Mopti and Bamako, but they're falling away because of lack of direction. The best way I can put reports together, the Reunited Nations is in complete confusion. Everybody accusing everybody of double-dealing.”

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