CHAPTER XI.
THE TRIBE OF KLATCH.
When Ibrahim and Max returned to the camp, they easily persuaded the Sherif el Habib to steer clear of the petrified forest and its savage occupants.
Turning to the southeast, the caravan entered upon an oasis.
After the sand which had nearly choked them, it was pleasant to get among the tall marsh grass.
It seemed strange that such a difference could exist in so short a distance.
Mile after mile of sand, without one drop of water to be found, and then suddenly the sand would cease, and a patch of swampy ground, perhaps covering twenty square miles, would be entered upon.
The oasis was the exact antithesis of the desert.
There everything was dry, not a leaf of vegetation visible; no water could be obtained, even by sinking deep wells.
Now, on the oasis, the land appeared to be covered ankle deep with water.
Palm and mimosa trees grew to an enormous height, yams were found in abundance, and wild fruits and vegetables in plenty.
A river flowed through the oasis, and was the theme of much talk and great bewilderment.
“Where does it empty itself?” asked Ibrahim.
“It seems to flow to the desert,” answered the Sherif el Habib.
Max looked at it intently.
“I guess by the time it reaches the desert it gets so thirsty it drinks itself all dry,” he said, speaking so seriously that his friends thought he must have evolved from his inner consciousness some new fact in nature.
Girzilla danced in the water. She was like a child paddling in the surf at the seashore.
“Would that my father could see this,” she exclaimed, and when asked to repeat, she replied:
“Nothing, nothing! I was only thinking.”
The mysterious girl could never be induced to say anything about her parentage or kith.
She had left her tribe or home, and was loyal to Max and his friends.
She never seemed to have a thought away from them.
The camels were at first delighted at meeting with the water, but after loading up with the refreshing liquid, they treated the water with haughty disdain, treading lazily along without a care.
Following the banks of the stream they found the grass getting greener, but shorter, and the water less deep.
After an hour’s march through the marsh grass they reached a little hillock well adapted for encampment, being perfectly dry, and the grass green and soft.
But just as the eunuch Effendi had given orders for the tents to be pitched, Max came running back to his friends, declaring that there were plenty of savages to keep them company.
Sherif el Habib, accompanied by Ibrahim and guided by Max, went to look at the savages.
Across the little stream they saw large herds of cattle, tended by naked natives.
The grass was so high that, as the cattle and natives moved about, they appeared as if they were in water.
Sherif motioned for the natives to approach, and timidly they did so.
He held up some strings of glass beads, and the untutored Africans shouted for joy.
Never had the party seen more miserable-looking creatures.
Every bone showed through their skin, and they were evidently half starved.
They would not kill the cattle, and only ate one when it happened to die of sickness.
“What do you eat?” asked Sherif, and was delighted to think that he could make himself understood.
“Rats, snakes, lizards, and fish,” was the reply.
The fish, they found, were caught by spearing, the natives casting the harpoon at random among the reeds; thus, out of several hundred casts, they might, by good luck, catch one fish.
The natives said the chief’s name was Klatch, and Sherif sent for him.
A few minutes and a tall, well-formed man appeared, accompanied by two women.
Klatch wore a leopard skin across his shoulders, and a skull cap of white beads, with a crest of white ostrich feathers; but the mantle which was slung across his shoulders was his only attempt at clothing.
He spoke of one of the women as his wife, and the other as his daughter.
“What want you?” asked Klatch.
“We seek the white man’s mahdi,” answered Sherif el Habib, solemnly.
“What you give for him?” asked Klatch, not comprehending the question.
It was in vain that Sherif tried to explain.
The more he tried, the more obscure did his meaning appear.
At last Klatch thought he understood, and taking his daughter by the shoulders, gave her a push toward Sherif.
“She is yours; give Klatch beads and feathers.”
Ibrahim laughed heartily at the mistake.
“Uncle, you have bought the dusky maiden; what will you do with her?”
Sherif was amazed.
His religious fervor was dampened.
He explained to Klatch that he did not want his daughter, but the chief could not, or would not, understand.
A compromise was reached, Sherif purchasing the girl, and then giving her back again to her father.
When night came it was pleasant to sleep on the thick green turf, and all the party—save only Effendi—slept soundly.
As for Effendi, he imagined everyone was going to kill his master, and, therefore, he kept awake, or at least only allowed himself short intervals of sleep.
When Sherif el Habib emerged from his tent in the morning, he saw the chief’s daughter lying across the entrance fast asleep.
She had gone to her purchaser, and no doubt the poor girl felt that she would be far happier with the white man than with her own people.
All day the natives came to the camp, carrying small gourd shells to receive gifts of corn.
Sherif treated them so generously that the poor, half-starved blacks fell down before him and kissed his feet.
Max thought of doing a stroke of business on his own account, by offering to purchase a bull or a cow.
But the natives would not sell.
Exasperated, Max raised his gun and shot an animal, unfortunately a sacred bull.
He was instantly surrounded by the natives who howled and yelled at him, threatening to tear him in pieces and drink his blood.
He learned that to every herd of cattle, Klatch’s tribe had a sacred bull, who was supposed to exert an influence over the prosperity of the flock.
The horns of the sacred bull were ornamented with tufts of feathers and strings of shells, which jingled as he moved along.
Every morning the natives addressed the bull in the cattle kraal, bidding him keep the cows from straying, and to see that they found the best grass, so that they could give the most milk.
It was one of the sacred bulls that Max had killed.
Klatch, hearing the howling, went to see what had so disturbed his people.
When they saw the chief, they clamored for Max’s death.
“He killed the sacred bull,” said one.
“Then he dies,” answered the chief.
Sherif el Habib offered to pay for the animal, but no amount of beads or rings, shells or jewelry, would purchase a sacred bull.
Max must die.
Ibrahim asked how Max had killed the bull.
The natives said he had speared him.
“Where is my spear?” asked Max.
They pointed to his gun.
He raised it and showed that it was no spear at all.
The bull was dead.
That did not admit of any doubt.
But how did it die?
Klatch was so curious that he told Max he might kill a cow, if he could do so without a spear.
Max had a repeating gun, an old-fashioned one, but still better than an old musket.
He singled out a cow, raised his gun to his shoulder, the natives watching him. There was a puff of smoke, a flash, a loud report, and the cow dropped dead.
It was a miracle.
“Another!” cried Klatch, and Max, who anticipated some good beefsteaks as his reward, picked off a bull who was looking at him very steadily.
As a reward for these miracles Max was given the first bull, and the other dead animals were divided among the natives.
After two days rest the caravan resumed its journey, Klatch and the entire tribe pleading hard to go with Sherif.
When the caravan rested after the next day’s journey, Sherif found the chief’s daughter sleeping by his tent. She had followed in the distance and under cover of the night reached the pasha’s tent.
Sherif ordered her back, but she refused to return, and he threatened to use force to compel her.
She explained that according to the custom of her people she would be killed.
If a girl was sold to a man, and he repented of his bargain, the girl must die.
“But I sold you back again,” said Sherif.
The girl wept as bitterly as ever did white woman, but Sherif was obdurate, and when she did return it was easy to see that she expected she was going to her death.
Whether she was killed or allowed to live, our party of pilgrims never discovered.