Dean sighted and pulled the trigger of the rifle. A look of boyish pride crept over his face as he saw the creature stop, half turn, drop to its knees and roll over.
"It's a peculiar looking beast," said the lieutenant. "What do you make of it?"
He and the doctor walked across the sand toward the dead animal.
"It's a white camel," said the doctor, as Dean sped past them, canteen in hand.
When within thirty yards of the camel they quickened their pace and broke into a run. Dean was on the opposite side of the camel, and from his actions they sensed he was laboring under great mental strain.
"'He won't drink," said the American, looking tearfully at the approaching men. "Last night I thought sure the wolf pack would get him—but the camel outran them. And now, when I've got him all safe and sound, he won't even speak."
Then, straightening, "It's all right, though, because a pal never questions. He just goes on blindly trusting."
Horror crept over the faces of the soldiers gathered thickly about the dead camel.
Strapped securely to the back of the animal were Hunt and the Arab girl, Shahrazad—nude, eyes staring, blackened tongues protruding, hands securely tied behind their backs, propped perfectly upright, but dead and mummified by the action of the wind and sun through which the insane camel had borne them for months.
"My God!" cried the doctor. "What a revenge!"
He turned and laid a kindly hand on Dean's arm. "Come on, old man," he said gently. "We'll take care of Hunt."
Like a child the big American turned.
"All right," he said, "but don't forget I'm his pal."
He trudged along at the doctor's side, mumbling, as he henceforth and forever would, "A pal never questions. He just goes on blindly trusting."
A way to the east, in the desert of Nefud, beside the well of Abul-Ala, lies hidden a giant meteorite, and the Arabs who still worship it call it the Burning Wrath of Allah.
