Sahara Adventure Series

9. THE TRACKS ARE CALLING-2

Out of breath, Teuns says to Catroux. “That is a lot of vultures.”

“Yes, there are many. I wonder what happened here? Maybe a sand storm had overpowered the people.”

But the minute the words are out of his mouth, Catroux realizes it is impossible. Arabs would never allow themselves to be caught on an open crown at the mercy of a sand storm. They know the dangers of the Sahara too well.

“Let us blast the filthy bastards, Sergeant,” Petacci requests as they approach the milling, hopping, and fighting vultures.

“You should know better than that, Petacci,” Catroux says sharply, without looking at the petite bow-legged Italian.

“Yes,” Fritz adds. “I told you, you will never learn. How do we even know what is happening here? And now, you want to awaken the whole desert by shooting at the vultures.”

The men remove their guns, fix the bayonets, and jump in under the vultures as if they were enemies. They stab, hit, and kick the stinking creatures, trying to escape with wild, screeching sounds. Lots of them hop out and take flight, but many are killed.

As quickly as they stormed the scene, they moved away from the foul-smelling area. They stand back and look with detestation at what they see in front of them.

“What a revolting business,” Catroux says, and his face is pale under his days-old black beard.

At least twelve corpses lie mutilated and contorted in the hot sand. Otherwise, smooth against the slope, the sand is shifted, disturbed, and messed up here as if a wild battle had recently occurred. Everywhere, there are bloodstains on the sand. There are people’s tracks as well as tracks of camels and horses.

Off to the side, an old-fashioned Arabic curved sabre is glistening in the sand, and in another place is a heap of dates, which had fallen out of somewhere. A roll of Arabic material lies in the sun in another spot, and a turban forms a long, white line on the burning sand.

“Arabs,” Petacci says, entirely unnecessary, as everybody knows the dead guys are Arabs. The proof lies in the curved sabre, the turban, the Arabic material, and the dates.

“It is probably a caravan that has been unexpectedly overpowered here,” Teuns muses.

“Correct,” Catroux agrees. He crouches down in the sand and looks disgusted at the c*****e before him, “But why would some Arabs attack an Arab caravan? That is the question.”

“Arabs do not summarily attack other Arabs,” Fritz says, kicking the stock of an old rifle left behind in the sand.

“Nevertheless, sometimes they do,” Teuns tells them. He looks away across the sand, but the surrounding desert is empty, except for the shadows of the vultures circling overhead, reluctant to leave this feasting place.

“There must be a very good reason for this to have happened,” Catroux rules. “Arabs never attack other Arabs without a perfect reason. So what was the reason behind this attack?”

The men sit around expressionlessly and do not know what to do. They are tired of walking and feel sick about what they have seen here.

Teuns walk away, around the scene of the struggle, and walks up to the comb of the dune. He stares over the vast sandy plains stretching out from the bottom of the dune to the south, where Harba should be. His curiosity is now too great, and he cannot just sit around when such a mystery can be solved.

As he turns away from the comb, after seeing nothing on the plain, he spots Catroux also walking around, looking for clues about the happenings here. He is looking for only one little straw, proving how the wind had blown when this b****y struggle occurred here. Teuns walks back but then pauses. He bends down and retrieves a little skin bag out of the sand. The sand had nearly covered it, but its mouth was still visible.

“Berbers,” he whispers nearly inaudibly and automatically looks up. His eyes search the horizon, but it is empty. These nomadic people are dangerous creatures. Teuns shudders a little. There must have been Berbers here, possibly one of the most dangerous tribes in the desert because of their unpredictability. The one moment, they are your friends, and the next moment they are your deadliest enemies. Sometimes they will give you goat’s milk and dates, and the next time they will cut your throat.

Teuns stares at the empty skin bag in his hand. It is indeed the bag the Berbers would carry their water in. He investigates the ground around him. In one spot is a broken old sabre, and over there is a rifle with a broken stock. White pieces of clothing have been scattered over the sand, where the vultures have torn them off the corpses. He walks a couple of paces further and kicks open an old revolver in the sand. Teuns looks at it with a soft smile.

“This old thing has been with Noah in the Ark,” Teuns whispers. He looks at the shot-out barrel and discards it in the sand.

Just as he starts forward, his eye catches something that sparkles. He nearly ignores the object, but it is as if something special is calling out to him.

Seconds later, Catroux hears Teuns calling, and when the sergeant looks up, he sees the South African running towards them, stumbling over the mutilated bodies.

Catroux hastily approaches Teuns.

“Did you find anything?” Catroux asks as the winded Teuns stops in front of him.

“Did I find anything, Sergeant?” Teuns asks, with a gleam in his eyes. “Look at this.”

Catroux takes the small, round object out of the South African’s trembling hand. He looks at it, turns it over, opens it, smells it, and closes it again. Then, finally, he holds it up to the sun and looks at it again.

“Mon Dieu!” the sergeant says, without taking his eyes off the item. He is quite bowled over. “What a lovely piece of femininity in this horrible place of slaughter.”

Mon Dieu“As a Frenchman, you should especially enjoy it,” Teuns teases him lightly, and when Catroux meets his eyes, his eyes are smiling. “It is a woman’s powder compact.”

“Yes,” Catroux says. “It gives me great pleasure just touching it, never mind smelling it. It is heavenly, private Stegmann. This smell is heavenly.”

He smells the powder compact once more, inhales the fragrance deeply, and something like ecstasy enters his eyes. But suddenly, Catroux’s eyes change.

“Why are you so excited, Stegmann? What does this thing prove?”

Teuns looks at the French sergeant in surprise.

“I think it proves that a woman was involved in this struggle, Sergeant,” he says as calmly as possible.

Catroux shrugs. “So what? Maybe one of the caravan drivers had taken his wife along on an excursion with the caravan.”

“You know the Arabs never do that.”

“Also true, but it could have been a powder compact one of the Arab traders had carried along with him.”

“You did not look at it closely enough, mon Sergent,” the South African says lightly. “There is a name engraved on the back. It is an expensive item and I reckon it is made from pure gold.”

mon SergentCatroux looks attentively at the powder compact once more.

“Oh my word!” he exclaims. “What does it say?”

“It looks like the letters J.T., but they are so fancy, I can hardly make it out,” Teuns answers.

“Do you think this belonged to a white woman?”

“I am quite convinced of it, Sergeant. Arabic women in the desert never use such expensive powder compacts.”

“Maybe it belongs to Madame Bonnet, white queen of the Dulacs,” Catroux says with a short laugh.

Madame “It is improbable. It is not her initials, and besides that, I am sure she would not be carrying powder compacts with her while executing attacks in the desert.”

Catroux looks around.

“If your suspicions are correct, then it is serious,” he finally says. “If this belongs to a white woman, something is very wrong here.”

“I am absolutely certain of it, mon Sergent,” Teuns says. “And I have found something else. Berbers were also involved in this fight.”

mon Sergent“Berbers?” Catroux asks loudly, and this time his eyes are sharp and burning.

“Yes, Berbers, mon Sergent.”

mon Sergent.“This makes it even more serious. Berbers will do anything to lay their hands on a white woman. They trade them to the headmen of the tribes.”

“That is true, mon Sergent.”

mon SergentCatroux looks at the tall South African, and his eye is drawn into slits.

“I think we might have stumbled upon something much bigger here than we imagined, private Stegmann,” the sergeant replies and lost in thought, he looks at the shiny powder compact in his hand.

“It is quite possible that the woman this item belonged to had been the main reason for the fight.”