Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

Meanwhile, El Hassan, flanked by his two viziers, stood at the pavillion entrance, their arms folded dramatically, waiting.

Cliff Jackson smiled at the guard next to him, the one who carried the old fashioned muzzle loader. He held out a hand politely, in an obvious request to examine the weapon. The Chaambra guard frowned a little worriedly but handed it over. He was proud of the silver embossing on the stock.

Cliff took the six foot barrel, one hand near the muzzle, one near the short stock and hunched his shoulders. Slowly, slowly, the barrel bent. The guard looked at him in shocked horror.

A deep sigh of disbelief went through the multitude. Cold sweat blisters broke on the American black’s forehead but he bent the barrel almost double, then twisted the muzzle end under, came up with it on the other side, bent it back through the loop again so that now the barrel of the gun resembled a pretzel. He smiled apologetically and handed the weapon back to its owner, who could only stare at it, his face blank.

Cliff smiled his charm once more and held out his hand for the short barrel carbine of the other guard who quickly jerked it away, in alarm, and hurried off into the crowd.

Bey said, out of the side of his mouth, “Okay, wise guy, where’d you learn that party trick?”

El Hassan ignored the whole incident, as though it was a common thing among his people.

Cliff hid his grin but whispered back. “Trick is right. I used to mess around with weight lifting back in college days. Most of these strong man acts you see in circuses or carnivals are largely tricks. It’s a matter of knowing how to do them. That old musket, with its long barrel was made of thin gauge iron, not even real steel. You probably could have bent it yourself, if you’d put it over your knee. Now that British carbine with its heavy steel barrel was another thing. If the second guard would have handed it over to me, I couldn’t have bent it in a million years. But, of course, he wasn’t about to give me a chance.”

“All right, all right, you jokers,” Homer said softly, “Here come our first three boys. Let’s get going.” For the first time, he looked up at Elmer Allen, in his cage. He could make out on the distressed man’s hand where his severed finger had once been. He nodded and Elmer made a very faint movement of his head in reply.

The three marched toward the jagged, rocky wasteland of the hammada, abreast. When they reached the narrow path that wound into it, they had to switch to single file, El Hassan going ahead. The area looked similar to a broken lava field, which perhaps it was.

After a few minutes, Abd-ei-Kader made an abrupt motion with his hand and his three chosen men followed after, one of them looking quickly at the twisted gun muzzle still in the hands of the bewildered guard, as they passed.

El Aicha, who, with the rest of the djemaa el kebar , had come to his feet and approached the side of the pavilion, stopping just short of emerging into the sun, pointed a finger at a tribal scribe who began counting in Arabic.

When he had reached five hundred, all present stared at the path. No one materialized.

Kenny Ballalou said dryly to Abd-el-Kader, “Three more.”

The warrior chieftain didn’t look at him. Instead, he jabbed out his finger, once, twice, thrice, at his followers and the three chosen stripped down to the waist and headed for the path. The scribe began counting again.

Toward the end of the allotted time, Kenny yawned and looked at Abd-el-Kader, but didn’t bother to say anything.

Three more of the alleged mahdi’s followers headed for the path into the hammada. They walked somewhat less briskly than had their comrades before them.

The scribe began the new count-down.

Kenny faded into the background a little and brought his wrist up to his mouth. The device on it looked like a watch, and was, but it was more. He said into it, “How’s it going?”

Homer Crawford’s voice came back thinly and there was even a dry humorous quality. “As to be expected. Here comes the next batch of poor bastards.”

Kenny returned to the foreground, in time to see still another trio of the Ouled Touameur clan, these wan of face, stripping preparatory for heading toward what they obviously believed to be their doom.

When they were gone, Kenny looked at his watch and said, “The day is half through. Perhaps we should hasten this matter. After all, the, uh, mahdi’s men number a thousand.”

El Aicha looked at him and said, “What do you suggest, O Vizier of El Hassan?”

“That the scribe count to but four hundred, or perhaps three hundred, before sending in more of the unfortunate followers of the, uh, mahdi.”

But the aged chieftain of the Chaambra shook his head. “No, the agreement made with El Hassan was the count of five hundred.”

Kenny muttered, “He doesn’t need that much time, as all can see. We shall be here throughout the night and well into the day beyond. Never in all his life has El Hassan met defeat. He is the chosen of Allah.”

Abd-el-Kader was breathing deeply and unbelievingly. The count had come to only four hundred, but he pointed out three more of his men to begin stripping. There were murmurs and dark looks from others in the ranks of his formerly jubilant and laughing clansmen. None pushed forward to volunteer.

The crowd behind them were muttering. Individual words and phrases could be heard. “El Hassan…”

“… the supposed mahdi…”

“… Verily, El Hassan and his viziers are as the first followers of the Prophet who issued forth with scimitar and spear from the deserts of far Arabia to conquer the world .”

“… and why does not the brave mahdi enter the wastes to confront El Hassan ?”

Abd-el-Kader heard that last and spun and glared out in the direction from whence it had come. But the crowd stared back at him, unrepentant and undisclosing of the whereabouts of he who had been so bold.

Elmer, up in his cage, began laughing uncontrollably, in spite of his physical condition.

All eyes went to him. Verily, the man was mad and a madman is the afflicted of Allah, and blessed. And El Hassan alone, save for three followers, had come to his rescue, though all men knew that the Sahara swarmed with his followers and he could have brought a harka of a size never before seen.

Seven trios of the Ouled Touameur clan, twenty-one men in all, had filed up the path into the hammada before the rest of the followers of Abd-el-Kader called it quits, turned their backs on the once adored leader and walked off, their faces dark with more anger than shame.

It was not that the warriors of the Ouled Touameur were not brave men. They had proven themselves a hundredfold over to be as valiant as any tribesmen in the Sahara. But this was a combination of superstition, fear of the unknown, and disgust with their leader, who was once always in the forefront and was now holding back to send them to their doom. And, yes, a desert warrior’s respect for El Hassan and his two viziers who were willing to stand alone against a thousand.

Abd-el-Kader, breathing deeply, his face empty, though still in despair, stared his incomprehension. Two hours past, before the appearance of the hated El Hassan, he had been the strongest man in North Africa, already being proclaimed the mahdi.

Those nearest him, edged away, leaving him staring at the path up which a score of his bravest had walked—not to return. His hand went to his sword and, for a moment, it looked as though he was about to dash into the hammada seeking revenge against his destroyer. But he could not bring himself to move, in the face of all the disaster that had flooded over him.

And from the multitude a shrill laugh was heard. And then there was a brief moment of hesitation at the audacity. And then two or three more laughs, less hesitant now. And then the teeming hundreds and thousands who had come to celebrate the newly proclaimed mahdi, dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, hoots of derision and even screams of curses.