The Sheik Retold(22)

"Not quite." He chuckled. "Their diet is supplemented with Algerian barley and camel's milk."

"Camel's milk?" My incredulity had only increased.

"Yes." He touched a finger to his lips. "But that is to remain a secret or Monseigneur will have my head. Ah, there he is now." The Frenchman drew my attention to a darkly cloaked horseman, sitting proud and erect as he led a band of mounted men through the belt of trees that fringed the oasis.

He had spoken as if I, also, would be glad of his master's coming. Did this valet imagine for one moment that I was here of my own free will? Nothing could be further from reality.

I watched the troop arrive at the open space before the main tent. Today the sheik's horse was jet-black, a startling contrast against his snowy white robes. He swung to the ground, a picturesque, barbaric figure. His lean profile cut against the early evening sky, arrogant and dominating, in all aspects the master of his domain.

One glance was enough to send a shudder of apprehension down my spine. I waited for him to look my way with the swift racing of my heart an actual physical pain but he didn't even glance in my direction. Instead, he lingered, fondling the great black horse, looking after it as it was led off. It enraged me how fully he occupied my thoughts when I appeared to be the furthest thing from his.

He spoke to a tall, young Arab who had ridden up to meet him. The younger man pointed to a semi-circle of men who were intensely excited, talking, and gesticulating. I leaned against one of the lances that supported the awning and watched with growing interest. The setting was wonderful: the far-off hills dusky in the afternoon light, the clustering palms behind the tents, the crowd of figures in their stark white robes, the horsemen moving up and down, and in the midst of it all, another beautiful, wild creature, kicking and biting at the men holding him.

The sheik held up his hand, and a man detached himself from the chattering crowd and came to him salaaming. After exchanging a few words followed by another salaam and a gleam of white teeth, the man turned back to the group in the center of the ring. I surmised this frantic young stallion was going to be broke to ride.

The horse was already saddled and held by several men, one of whom leaped like a flash onto to his back. At first the colt held perfectly still, as if stunned. Within seconds the horse exploded with wild rage, and the crowd fell away, racing from the reach of the terrible lashing heels. He reared straight up until it seemed he would fall backward and crush the man clinging to his back. When he came down at last, it was almost impossible to follow his spasmodic movements as he strove to rid himself of his rider. The end came quickly, however. With a twisting heave of his whole body, he shot the man over his head to land senseless in the sand.

The colt's ears pricked and nostrils flared in triumph, but before he could fully appreciate his liberty, a throng of men dashed in and secured him. Another group surrounded the fallen man. I feared he was dead when only a moment ago he had been so full of life and vigor.

I glanced at the sheik to find him laughing. Apparently death meant nothing to this savage. He placed his hand on another young man's shoulder and nodded toward the colt. It was an obvious challenge, and I gasped at the realization that he would make the young man risk his neck, just as the first rough-rider had done. Although I had seen his men ride and knew they were all supremely accomplished, this one looked so young and boyish. Yet he evidently welcomed the chance to prove himself. With an answering laugh, he swaggered out into the arena where the men greeted him with shouts. The same procedure followed, with the youth bounding up lightly into the saddle.

This time, instead of rearing, the frightened colt dashed forward in a frantic effort to escape, but the mounted men closed the circle, forcing him back. He next returned to his first tactic with a rapidity that was too much for the handsome lad on his back. In a matter of seconds, he, too, was thrown. The colt then spun on him, open-mouthed, and the youth flung up an arm to protect his face. The men intervened, catching the young stallion while the lad rose and limped to the tents behind.

I looked again to the sheik and ground my teeth. He had lit a cigarette with an air of total disregard. He and his valet walked together toward the colt. The animal was thoroughly enraged and increasingly difficult to control. The next thing I knew, Gaston was sitting firmly in the saddle. The little man rode magnificently, putting up a much longer fight than the others had done, but at last his turn came as well, as he went flying over the colt's head. He landed lightly on his hands and knees, scrambling to his feet in an instant amidst a storm of shouts and laughter.

Laughing, he returned to the sheik with a shrug and outspread hands. They spoke again and then to my amazement, the sheik himself ventured into the middle of the ring. When I realized his intention, my breath seized. I moved without thought from under the awning to join Gaston, who was wrapping his handkerchief around a torn hand.

"Monseigneur will try?" I asked with an apprehension I could not deny.

"Try, madam?" he repeated in a queer voice. "Yes, he will try."

Again the empty saddle was filled, and a curious hush came over the watching crowd. My heart beat wildly as I looked on, filled with conflicting and contradictory emotions. Part of me hoped that the stallion might kill him outright, while the other part of me wanted to see him master the infuriated animal. Having been raised amongst men, the sporting instinct was strong within me. I recognized the challenge the horse presented and could not deny my admiration of the sheik's horsemanship.