Chapter 9

At old Hebron he made inquiries at the two inns, but nobody remembered seeing a well-to-do young Arabian on a bay filly. After a couple of hours spent in asking questions, Voldi decided that Fara must have ridden directly on through the historic town without pausing. He fed and watered his horse, lunched briefly at the principal inn, and proceeded on his journey. It was a more fertile country now, and the donkey-carts were coming into the highway laden with melons, grapes, grain, and green forage.

A few miles west of Hebron, near a cross-road, Voldi saw a rider approaching who stirred his interest, for the beautiful bay mare he rode—far too good for the unkempt, loutish fellow astride—bore a striking resemblance to Fara’s Saidi. Slowing to a walk, as the distance between them lessened, Voldi’s suspicions were confirmed. The stocky, shaggy fellow with the ragged tunic and the uncombed beard couldn’t have afforded a mount of such value. His dark brown skin identified him as an Idumean, which was not to his credit. He was riding bareback. The disgraceful old bridle was a patchwork of straps and hempen cords, no fit equipment for a thoroughbred.

As they neared each other, the shifty-eyed Idumean, now aware that he was being carefully scrutinized, dug his heels savagely into the filly’s ribs, apparently determined to pass quickly. Voldi instantly wheeled Darik across the road, blocking Saidi to an abrupt stop.

‘What do you mean by that?’ yelled the lout in the thick guttural of half-civilized Idumea.

‘How did you come by this filly?’ demanded Voldi.

‘Who wants to know?’ retorted the Idumean.

‘I do, fellow!’ shouted Voldi. ‘She belongs to a friend of mine…Here, Saidi!’ He held out his hand. Saidi’s nostrils fluttered. She tipped up her ears and took an inquiring step forward, her rider jerking the reins to restrain her.

‘This mare belongs to me!’ growled the enraged Idumean. ‘I bought her many months ago! Hands off that bridle now—or it will be the worse for you!’

‘No; the mare has been stolen! She does not belong to you. I see you have disposed of the saddle and bridle. Perhaps you can tell me what became of the young Arabian who owns her.’

‘What are you going to do about it, youngster?’ sneered the Idumean, uncoiling a well-worn bull-whip. ‘Will you let me pass—or won’t you?’

‘Not until you answer my question!’ said Voldi.

The Idumean replied by drawing back his arm and lashing hard at Voldi’s face with the long whip. Voldi had defensively thrown up an arm, but the thong bit sharply into his neck. Again the whip descended, raising a welt across the gelding’s withers. He reared—and backed away.

Neither the Arabian nor the Idumean seemed anxious to dismount and fight on the public highway. Already two market-carts had drawn up to view the altercation. A camel-train was bearing down on them from the west. Apparently apprehensive of trouble, the Idumean now wheeled the filly about, lashing cruelly at her flanks. Tearing loose from Voldi’s grip, she bolted.