Yar Ali squinted carefully down the blue barrel of his Lee-Enfield,
called devoutly on Allah and sent a bullet through the brain of a
flying rider."_Allaho akbar!_"The big Afghan shouted in glee, waving his weapon above his head, "God
is great! By Allah, _sahib_, I have sent another one of the dogs to
Hell!"His companion peered cautiously over the rim of the sand-pit they
had scooped with their hands. He was a lean and wiry American, Steve
Clarney by name."Good work, old horse," said this person. "Four left. Look--they're
drawing off."The white-robed horsemen were indeed reining away, clustering together
just out of accurate rifle-range, as if in council. There had been
seven when they had first swooped down on the comrades, but the fire
from the two rifles in the sand-pit had been deadly."Look, _sahib_--they abandon the fray!"Yar Ali stood up boldly and shouted taunts at the departing riders, one
of whom whirled and sent a bullet that kicked up sand thirty feet in
front of the pit."They shoot like the sons of dogs," said Yar Ali in complacent
self-esteem. "By Allah, did you see that rogue plunge from his saddle
as my lead went home? Up, _sahib_; let us run after them and cut them
down!"Paying no attention to this outrageous proposal--for he knew it was
but one of the gestures Afghan nature continually demands--Steve
rose, dusted off his breeches and gazing after the riders, now white
specks far out on the desert, said musingly: "Those fellows ride as if
they had some set purpose in mind--not a bit like men running from a
licking.""Aye," agreed Yar Ali promptly and seeing nothing inconsistent with his
present attitude and recent bloodthirsty suggestion, "they ride after
more of their kind--they are hawks who give up their prey not quickly.
We had best move our position quickly, Steve _sahib_. They will come
back--maybe in a few hours, maybe in a few days--it all depends on
how far away lies the oasis of their tribe. But they will be back. We
have guns and lives--they want both. And behold."The Afghan levered out the empty shell and slipped a single cartridge
into the breech of his rifle."My last bullet, _sahib_."Steve nodded. "I've got three left."The raiders whom their bullets had knocked from the saddle had been
looted by their own comrades. No use searching the bodies which lay in
the sand for ammunition. Steve lifted his canteen and shook it. Not
much water remained. He knew that Yar Ali had only a little more than
he, though the big Afridi, bred in a barren land, had used and needed
less water than did the American; although the latter, judged from a
white man's standards, was hard and tough as a wolf. As Steve unscrewed
the canteen cap and drank very sparingly, he mentally reviewed the
chain of events that had led them to their present 

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