Marching Sands
such matter. But, undeniably, as Mirai Khan had said, here were camel tracks and nothing else.
"The devil!" he swore. "I certainly saw those Chinese—and they were men. Probably a trick—it certainly worked well enough to scare my guides."
He dismissed the matter with a shrug and made his way back to the tent.
"Anything gone wrong?" asked the Englishman.
"Nothing new," Gray evaded, unwilling to distress Sir Lionel with the truth.
"Then you'll be setting out, I fancy." He spoke with an effort. "I'll do nicely here—if you'll fill my water jar, and light the candle I see beside it. Don't leave me food—can't eat, you know. Deuced hemorrhage"
Gray left him coughing, and filled the jar at the well. Also his own canteen which was slung at his belt. He lit the candle and placed it in the sand by the Englishman. Sir Lionel counted the cigarettes that lay beside the candle.
"They'll last—long enough," he whispered. "Close the tent, please, when you go out."
As if a giant hand had blotted out the light, the tent became darker. Sir Lionel looked up. "Sunset," he muttered, "no parade. I'll keep to my barracks."
Gray turned away. He could see that the man was nerving himself to be alone, and mustering his
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