Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

Abd-el-Kader was furious. He well remembered his defeat at the hands of Crawford, his being humbled before his tribesmen of the Ouled Touameur clan.

“With what weapons?” he snapped.

Homer looked at him for the first time. “Verily, that is a problem. The last time we fought, it was with swords, a weapon of the past with which you are acquainted, as all men know, but with which I am but passingly familiar. But, to the other extreme, are my own weapons, which are the product of the new ways. Bismillah , thus be it. Verily, it is as unreasonable for you to attempt to fight with our weapons as it is for us to fight with yours. Observe, O chieftains of the desert.”

He stepped quickly to one side of the pavilion which faced upon the hammada. A hundred feet into the rocky area stood a lone gnarled baobab tree. Homer unslung the Tommy-Noiseless, switched it to full automatic, and cut loose. He was well aware that Abd-el-Kader and some of his warriors were equipped with automatic weapons, usually such as Sten guns and other left-overs from the wars of yesteryear. But they were unacquainted with such as the Tommy-Noiseless.

He fired a full hundred rounds of the tiny, explosive .10 caliber loads, in a Götterdammerung of sound that had even those veteran tribesmen, veterans of a hundred desert raids, wincing. And the hardwood tree, almost impossible to cut down with ordinary bedouin tools, became a heap of splinters and sawdust.

Homer reslung his gun, turned and shrugged hugely. “ Bismillah ,” he said. “A single such weapon could wipe away a whole harka of warriors. Verily, it would be unfair to use the weapons of El Hassan—with which all of his followers are rapidly being armed—as it would be to utilize the sword.”

El Aicha fingered his thin white beard, thus allowing himself to hide his amusement.

“Then what is the alternative, O El Hassan, provided that the djemaa el kebar agrees to your challenge?”

“That the contestants strip to the waist and unarmed enter the hammada. There they will meet in man to man combat and who issues forth is found the victor.”

Abd-el-Kader was no coward but he had witnessed before the abilities of this El Hassan to fight with hand and foot and wanted no more of it.

He said, contemptuously, “The mahdi does not descend to common brawl with every verminous black come out of the southern erg. I refuse to enter the hammada, stripped like an Ouled Nail prostitute. Instead, I shall summon my guards and we will dispose of these upstarts.”

A murmur went through the assembled chiefs and headmen and largely it was derogatory but none spoke up. The followers of Abd-el-Kader were on hand in their thousands.

It was Bey who stepped forward, his face expressing surprise, and saying, one hand lifted. “Verily, the, ah, mahdi, if mahdi he be, has misunderstood El Hassan and his challenge. El Hassan does not suggest that he meet the, ah, mahdi, in single combat. But that he and his viziers retire to the hammada and that the whole of the Ouled Touameur clan, which Abd-el-Kader leads, follow after them. And they who emerge will have triumphed, as will be obvious to all men.”

Silence fell like a curtain as the assembled djemaa el kebar , including El Aicha and Abd-el-Kadar, bug-eyed the four khaki clad black Americans.

El Aicha managed to get out finally, “Verily, you speak nonsense. The Ouled Touameur clan numbers fully a thousand warriors.”

Homer Crawford rubbed his mouth thoughtfully, as though thinking that obvious truth over. Abd-el-Kader’s face was too livid with fury for him to be able to speak.

Homer nodded his head and said, “You speak even the truth in your wisdom, O El Aicha. If a thousand warriors were sent in after us at once, then all would be as confused as the lost souls in Gehennum . So I suggest that we proceed as follows. I and two of my viziers will proceed to go into the hammada and await. The, ah, mahdi, will dispatch three of his champions after us. If none emerge victorious within the counting slowly of five hundred, then three more will enter the hammada to seek us out. And after another counting of five hundred, three more.”

He let his eyes run coldly over the assembled chiefs, his overpowering personality clutching them. “Until we have been defeated—or all one thousand of the Ouled Touameur warriors have gone down to black death for opposing the will of El Hassan. And then…” Homer turned and directly faced Abd-el-Kader. “… and then, our brave, self-proclaimed mahdi, can enter behind his fallen warriors and come face to face with El Hassan whom he dares brand an upstart.”

Abd-el-Kader, his face suffused in his rage, screamed, “He plans to call upon the djinn and efrit of the wastelands to aid him!”

Kenny Ballalou spoke up for the first time since entering the pavilion. In amusement he said, “He calls himself the mahdi and he is afraid of djinn and the efrit . As all men know, the true mahdi, when he returns, will control the djinn and efrit , for he will hold power second only to Allah. If there is danger in the hammada from djinn , it will be to El Hassan and his viziers, not to the followers of the mahdi— if mahdi he be.”

The desert warrior chieftain came to sudden decision and strode to the entry to the pavilion. He shouted out instructions to a score of his men, who threw themselves atop their desert horses and rode at breakneck speed into the wastes behind the pavilion tent. Obviously, Abd-el-Kader was checking out the area to be sure that El Hassan had set no traps, that the hammada was empty.

The members of the djemaa el kebar were still stricken speechless. Their eyes went from Homer to the Chaambra champion and back again. This was madness, as each man knew. Three against a thousand!

El Hassan turned to Kenny Ballalou and said, “It is my will that you remain here to see that all transpires as agreed. But three of our enemies will enter behind us at one time, and three more, and so on, only after the slow counting of five hundred.”

“But, great El Hassan, I would fight beside thee!” Kenny protested. He was by far the smallest of the four.

“It is my will,” El Hassan said, command ringing in his voice.

“ Bismillah , thus it be,” Kenny said in dejection. “For thou art El Hassan.”

There were thousands now before the pavillion. Indeed, the whole encampment had gathered there. Somehow the word had already spread. The silence was unbelievable, considering the magnitude of the swarm of Bedouin and sedentary elements from the desert towns.

Homer, Bey and Cliff stripped to their waists and headed for the entry to the hammada, a narrow path.

Bey-ag-Akhamouk was as beautiful a physical specimen as the Tuareg had possibly ever produced, undoubtedly augmented by American diet and medical care as compared to that of Sahara nomads. He was lean, wiry and obviously strong. No unworthy foe of any Chaambra. But El Hassan, ah, that was another thing, and all took deep breath. Had these desert people known it, Homer Crawford’s physique resembled that of Sugar Ray Robinson, the American pugilist of half a century and more ago. He walked with the grace of a black panther. Ah, but the other vizier of El Hassan! It was from him that no man could tear his eyes. For if Crawford resembled Sugar Ray, then Cliff Jackson could only be compared to the Joe Louis of the early years. His step, too, was catlike, but that of a Bengal tiger, rather than the smaller, more lithe panther.

Abd-el-Kader’s horsemen had galloped back to report the hammada empty. Their leader, still stewing in anger, and obviously suspicious, went through the ranks of his men, pointing out those of the outstanding physical dimensions.