"Merryweather shot! Where? When? How?"
In a few words Anerley explained what he had seen.
"You heard nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Well, a shot loses itself very easily among rocks. By George, look at
the buzzards!"
Two large brown birds were soaring in the deep blue heaven. As Scott
spoke they circled down and dropped into the little khor.
"That's good enough," said Mortimer, with his nose between the leaves of
his book. "'Merryweather headed dervishes stop return stop shot
mutilated stop raid communications.' How's that?"
"You think he was headed off?"
"Why else should he return?"
"In that case, if they were out in front of him and others cut him off,
there must be several small raiding parties."
"I should judge so."
"How about the 'mutilated'?"
"I've fought against Arabs before."
"Where are you off to?"
"Sarras."
"I think I'll race you in," said Scott.
Anerley stared in astonishment at the absolutely impersonal way in which
these men regarded the situation. In their zeal for news it had
apparently never struck them that they, their camp, and their servants
were all in the lion's mouth. But even as they talked there came the
harsh, importunate rat-tat-tat of an irregular volley from among the
rocks, and the high, keening whistle of bullets over their heads.
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