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and women did not. Ross knew the Tuareg well, for he had lived among them for months when he was traveling in North Africa, and it was incredible to see a Targui, as an individual was called, so far from his native land.
    As the horsemen galloped up, Ross wearily hauled himself to his feet. He was bruised all over, and bloody abrasions showed through rips in his clothing, but there appeared to be no major wounds or broken bones. He had gotten off rather lightly. At least, so far.
    The riders pulled up a short distance from Ross and they all stared at the foreigner. Ross stared back, his scrutiny confirming that the rider in the center wore the flowing black robes and veil characteristic of the Tuareg. The long blue-black veil, called a tagelmoust, was wound closely around the man’s head and neck, leaving only a narrow slit over the eyes. The effect was ominous, to say the least.
    Besides the Targui, the group contained three Persians and two Uzbeks. It was an unusual mixture of tribes; perhaps they came from one of the Persian frontier forts and served the shah. Ross didn’t sense the hostility he had felt from the Turkomans; on the other hand, they didn’t look especially friendly either, particularly not the Targui, who radiated intensity even through the enveloping folds of his veil.
    Subtle signs of deference within the band implied that the Targui was the leader, so Ross said in Tamahak, the Tuareg language, “For saving a humble traveler from the Turkomans, you have the deepest gratitude of my heart.”
    The Targui’s sudden stillness implied that he was startled to hear his own language, but with face covered and eyes shadowed, it was impossible to read his expression. After a moment he replied in fluent French, “Your Tamahak is good, monsieur, but I prefer to converse in French, if you know it.”
    The veiled man spoke scarcely above a whisper, and it was impossible to tell from the light, husky sound if he was young or old. With cool deliberation he reloaded his rifle, a very modern British breechloader, then rested it casually across his saddlebow. Though the weapon was not pointing at Ross, there was a distinct sense that it could be aimed and fired quickly if necessary. “There were two other men with you. Where are they?”
    Unable to think of any purpose that would be served by silence, Ross replied, “They continued on when my horse fell.”
    The Targui made a quick gesture and two of his men turned and cantered off in the direction of Ross’s vanished servants. With noticeable dryness he said, “You should choose your men more carefully, monsieur. Their loyalty leaves much to be desired.”
    “A horse carrying a double load could not have outrun the Turkomans. There is no wisdom in a meaningless sacrifice.”
    “You are rational to a fault, monsieur.” Losing interest in the subject, the Targui dismounted and crossed to Ross’s injured horse, which was sprawled on its side, chest heaving and eyes glazed with pain. After a moment’s study of the beast’s fractured foreleg, he calmly raised his rifle, set it against the horse’s skull, and pulled the trigger. As the gun boomed, the horse jerked spasmodically, then lay still.
    It took all of Ross’s control not to recoil. It was necessary to destroy the injured animal, and Ross would have done so himself if he had had the opportunity, but there was something profoundly chilling about the Targui’s dispassionate efficiency.
    Swiftly the veiled man reloaded once more, then swung around to face Ross. He was about five-foot-nine, an average height for his people, which made him tall for an Arab, though several inches shorter than Ross. His slight built and lithe movements implied that he was young, but his air of menace was ageless and timeless. “You are bleeding. Are you injured?”
    Ross realized that he had been rubbing his aching shoulder and immediately dropped his hand. “Nothing to signify.”
    “You will come with us to Serevan.” It