“Dan, I am going to post you here at the edge of the cliff,” said Dick Oakwood. “Stay hidden among the rocks, or some sniper will take a shot at you.”

“Don’t worry, Dick, I’ll keep out of sight,” said Dan.

“And if you see any sign of attack in the Arab camp, let out a yell of alarm.”

“You’re telling me? Nobody will have to ask me to do that little thing.”

“The rest of us are going to be busy getting ready for the night attack,” Dick explained. “We have to assemble the two tribes, select the best men for the battle and see to it that they have plenty of arrows and other weapons.”

“Okay. You’ve given me a soft job,” said Dan. “I can play sentinel all day. Now if I only had a big bunch of dates to eat and a good book to read ” he added laughing.

“Say, you’d make a great soldier,” cried Dick. “You’re the sort of soldier that goes to the guard house for the duration of the war.”

“Go on. I was just kidding!”

“Well, big boy, this is serious. Here, I’ll lend you the binoculars and you keep your eyes on the Arabs down there. If they start to climb the cliffs, we will roll big rocks on them and give them something to remember us by.”

But the Arabs seemed satisfied to take things easy for a while.

Dan took the binoculars and after a brief survey of the Arab camp, began to search the horizon in all directions.

“I was just thinking,” he explained, “that this would be a great time for my dad to make his appearance in the cabin plane.”

“No such luck, Dan! Don’t even think of it. I made your father promise to leave the tribes to me without interference.”

“I’m hoping he may shorten the time of even forget that he made such a promise,” said Dan. “Gee! Wouldn’t it be great to see that big plane come sailing toward us?”

“With white men and guns to chase off those Arab slavers!” Dick added. “Yes, it would be fine, Dan. But don’t expect it. Your father and mine are busy on the Pomegranate Oasis. They don’t dream that we are in danger.”

“That’s right! Wouldn’t it be wonderful if people could send word by their thoughts. A kind of human radio.”

“There is something like that,” said Dick Oakwood. “It is called telepathy, but not much is known about it. People who have the gift can send or receive messages sent by another person’s mind.”

“Aw go on. Quit kidding!”

“I’m not kidding. Lots of Hindu mystics in India have the gift.”

“Well if I had it, I would send a hurry-up call to Ray,” said Dan. “I’d say, ’Sister get busy and tell everybody on the Oasis that we’re in danger. Load up the cabin plane with rifles and get here before we’re all killed.’”

“Listen, Dan, you’re not going to get killed, and I don’t like to hear you talk that way. Snap out of it, boy! We’re going to put up a fight that will make those Arabs wish they had never bothered us.”

“You can count on me,” said Dan.

The Boy King shook his friend’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder, then turned away to organize his force of tribesmen. Dick summoned Raal and ordered, “Look over all the Taharans. Pick out the best men for tonight’s attack and tell them what they are to do.”

“I hear, I obey, O Tahara.”

“Good. And let no man be idle. Even those who are wounded, but able to work, must keep busy. They can make arrows and spears, for we will need plenty of weapons.”

“Yes, O Master.”

Dick summoned Kulki.

“What about your Gorols? Are they all assembled?”

“Not all, Master. Some have strayed off to the woods. They are not trained to obey like the Taharans.”

“Round up all you can find,” said Dick, “and make sure that only the reliable men are chosen for the raid.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Send out others to collect pitchwood for torches and stones to roll down the cliff. Every man must do something useful.”

“I hear, O Tahara.”

“I would speak to Wabiti, your father.”

“He is not here, Master,” said Kulki. “Wabiti is old and his thoughts are not as ours. He has gone away into the woods.”

“If Wabiti is up to mischief, it will go hard with him,” said Dick. “Are your brothers faithful to me?”

“I think so, Master. If I knew that one was a traitor, I would slay him with my own hands.”

There was no doubt of Kulki’s loyalty. His primitive features and dark eyes expressed the eagerness to serve the Boy King of the two tribes.

“It is well,” said Dick.

“Tonight the Arabs will be driven to defeat and shameful flight before the moon rises. Let every man be ready.”

“All will be ready to die for you, O Tahara!”

Dick turned away to look after Kurt and the other wounded warriors and found that they were being tended by old women of the tribes who were skilled in treating cuts with medicinal leaves.

Kurul had come through with only slight scratches and was in attendance as his body guard.

“I need no guard,” said Dick. “You Kurul, take six of the fleetest warriors and hunt in the hills for game. Before sunset we will all eat and drink to build up our strength and as soon as it is dark we will strike a blow that will rid the land of our enemies.”

With all these preparations for battle, the day passed swiftly. Dick’s main worry was that Jess Slythe might appear in his stolen monoplane and drop bombs upon the tribesmen as he had done before. Of course his fears might be groundless. Dick was not sure whether the fellow was still alive or whether his plane had crashed in the desert, but until he was assured of the man’s death, he would have reason to fear him. If Slythe should reappear and drop grenades on the tribesmen, that would give the Arabs a chance to storm the cliffs without resistance, and would lead to the destruction of the natives and his own death as well.

But the treacherous flyer was busy elsewhere, it seemed, for the Meteorite did not appear, and as the sun sank low, Dick breathed more freely and gave orders for the last meal before the battle.

Down in the Arab camp, Abdul and Suli were also watching anxiously for the plane and cursing Jess Slythe, who had disappointed them.

“By the beard of the Prophet!” cried the Arab chief, “that dog has betrayed us.”

“What trickery can he be up to?” mused Suli, staring for the hundredth time at the heavens.

“Allah alone knows what the knave is doing! But it is for no profit but his own.”

“How can he expect us to storm these cliffs without his help?” exclaimed Abdul.

“We would be crushed by stones and pierced by arrows,” said Suli. “Nothing for it but to wait until tomorrow. Today, it is too late to even try.”

“We will send out scouts to see whether there is an easier passage beyond the cliffs. A way where we could go up on our horses and take the savages by surprise.”

“They are stubborn, hard-fighting fellows,” said Suli. “By the Prophet, Abdul, we will find it hard to make slaves of such men.”

“You are right. They are not like the black fellows we have captured in the past. These men were not born to be conquered. We will have to fight for all the profit we make in this venture.”

The two leaders of the Bedouin slave traders scowled at the cliffs that loomed so high above the spring where they had camped. From the grim black edges, arose a fringe of smoke; the fires where the Gorols and the Taharans were roasting game for the feast before the battle.

The sky had turned flaming red, the glory of the sunset was over the desert and a deliciously cool breeze followed the parching heat of the day.

At the same time the old Gorol Chief, Wabiti, was squatting cross-legged in the rude shelter where the ex-queen Vanga had taken refuge. Both of the former rulers had repeated their grievances and grumbled about the changes in the tribe until they were in a mood of revolt.

“If only I had my warriors again!” muttered Vanga.

“And if I could lead my brave Gorols, as I did when I was younger, things would be different!”

“Tahara brought us woe!”

“He destroyed the Great Gorol!”

“Now he sets me to spinning and weaving! Is that fit work for a queen?”

“And he has made Kulki leader in my place,” growled Wabiti. “Only a few Gorols obey my orders, and they are the weaklings of the tribe.”

“We have come upon evil days, O Wabiti.”

“Evil days, O Vanga. I do not hold with these new weapons like bows and arrows.”

“Nor I. When Cimbula was my chief adviser, all was happy in the land.”

“Would that Cimbula were here,” grunted Wabiti.

Suddenly as if he had been waiting to be called, the witch-doctor leaped from the shadowy forest and capered in a wild dance before them.

Cimbula was arrayed once more in the brightly-colored head-dress of feathers and tufts of fur on his elbows, knees and ankles. His lean old body was streaked and daubed with paint and around his eyes, one blind and one sound, were painted scarlet rings that gave him a horrible appearance.

In one hand he brandished a long stone knife, in the other he held the painted gourd filled with pebbles, which he rattled menacingly.

“Who calls Cimbula?” he shouted hoarsely. “Lo, as I was floating in the skies, I heard my name spoken and I come!”

Again he leaped high and the gourd sounded like a nest of angry rattlesnakes as he shook it.

Vanga and Wabiti shrank back in superstitious dread, while the old queen’s maidens gave shrill and penetrating screeches of terror.

“Cimbula! Have mercy!” they screamed, and Wabiti’s followers among the Gorols came running and stopped suddenly, held back by fear, crying hoarsely, “Cimbula! Cimbula, do not destroy us!” Vanga spoke her mind.

“We called the mighty Cimbula because strange enemies have driven us from our caves.”

“Show me the enemies,” bellowed Cimbula. “I will slay them all.”

His one eye glared hatred and defiance and his flint blade swished through the air.

“Tahara could not save us,” said Vanga. “Since he came here, our troubles have multiplied.”

“Never before have raiders swarmed upon us from the desert,” growled Wabiti.

“They have driven us from our caves,” shrilled Vanga.

There were mutters of assent from the listeners, while Cimbula glared silently as if planning some deadly reprisal.

Then among the growling murmurs rose the clear protesting voice of the little maiden Veena.

“Why do you speak evil of Tahara? He fought the Arabs. He is a mighty warrior. Even now he gathers the tribes to drive off the enemy!”

Instantly there was an uproar.

Cimbula vented a bellow of rage. The Gorols with Wabiti howled in protest and Vanga cried sharply,

“Be still. Who asked you to speak?”

“I must speak. Tahara is good. He alone can save us.”

“We shall see!” snarled the witch-doctor. “I, Cimbula, will drive away the foe.”

“Cimbula, hal! Cimbula!” cried the rest.

“This very night I will show you that Cimbula is mighty in magic. See, already, the sun has set. Soon it will be dark. I will show you all that where Tahara fails, Cimbula wins.”

The witch-doctor laid violent hands on the terrified Veena and wrenched her arms until she screamed with pain.

“You shall come with me!” he shouted. “The blood of a maiden is required to mix the strong magic I am brewing tonight.”

Veena’s screams were drowned by the chanting of Wabiti’s Gorols and the shrill cries of Vanga’s women.

“Take her, Cimbula! She is yours!”

“Cimbula, hal!” boomed the Gorols, and the ex-queen Vanga added: “Death to Tahara!”