would have liked to, but could not. He had a better plan for them. . . . It is very easy to persuade a British colonel to step across the border for a few miles—to stop slavery. And there was an English garrison in Aden.
The hours passed. Now and then a distant jackal barked. The heat was sweltering, for the heat of that locality is well-nigh unbearable by Europeans. The low-hung stars passed slowly overhead.
At last Bugs twisted the worn link. He was separated from the Russian. He shook the Russian gently. The Russian started into a sitting position, but he made no sound. He was still the deaf mute.
Bugs got to his feet, lifting the Russian with him. The Russian understood. With a stealth equal to Bugs' own he followed Bugs to the truck. No man heard or saw them go. Bugs had put the end of the chain into the Russian's hand. It did not jangle. . . .
They crept to the truck in which the solitary Nubian snored. Bugs was ahead. He had his revolver out, but not to shoot. With all the force at his command he brought the butt down on the head of the brutal Nubian. He meant to kill the creature, and he did. There was some slight noise of crunching, but that was all, save a slight dying gasp.
Bugs swiftly thrust the gun back under his left arm. He did not want the Russian to see that gun. Afghans do not carry revolvers under their arms.
Bugs put his hand under the Russian's arm and helped him. The helping was unnecessary, but not even at that moment of trial was Bugs taking the chance of wrecking his plan by becoming anything but Ben Mohamet, who had taken money to see the cousin of Abu Ali safely to Bombay.
Bugs followed. He started the car, but he could not do that without a noise. In that heat the engine was almost hot, but that old truck made a fearful racket in the quiet desert night. The prisoners awoke, some yelled. Bugs gave her the gas, and started along the coast toward Aden.
The darkness was lightening to the dawn, and he could see fairly well. The roaring of the truck drowned all other sound, but Bugs did not need to look back to find out what was going on behind him. The pale light showed surprize in the eyes of the Russian—but why should an Afghan not know how to drive a truck?
The road was very bad, and Bugs drove carefully, knowing that the pursuing cadi would do the same; but as the dawn came strong Bugs gave the old truck all she had. As he did so a rifle bullet whizzed past his head. . . . It was about twenty miles to British territory. The cadi would catch the truck within a very few miles. Bugs had counted on that. Even if he had had the speed of the other car he would not have used it. He wanted the other car to come close enough for his gun. The cadi and the other rotten Nubian were going to die, and Bugs was going to kill them. They defiled the decent earth on which they continued to exist. He was no longer the calm and collected Sinnat, but a man with a lust for fight, a desire to kill. If he was caught he would be beaten until nearly dead, then beaten again.
So, with the first rifle bullet, Bugs got out his revolver. . . . Neither the cadi nor the Nubian could shoot straight. . . . The old truck swerved and jumped. Suddenly Bugs stopped the truck. As he did so one of the cadi's bullets made a lucky
