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 for part of the milk and covered my head again to escape the pelting of the sand and waited.

We were both in a semi-comatose state and I paid no further attention to proceedings until I was again prodded by the gun-bearer who was now greatly excited. He pointed to the receding camels while he jabbered away to the effect that the natives would not part with any of the plentiful supply of milk. The white men might die for all they cared.

When I had come to a realization of the situation, there seemed to be only one solution to the affair—a perfectly natural solution—precisely the same as if they had stood over us with their spears poised at our hearts. I grabbed my rifle and drew a bead on one of the departing men and called to Dodson to get up and cover the other. I waited while Dodson was getting to an understanding of the game and then when he was ready and I was about to give the word the natives stopped, gesticulating wildly. The gun-bearer who had been shouting to them told us not to shoot, that the milk would come, and it did. Milk! Originally milked into a dung-lined smoked chattie, soured and carried in a filthy old goatskin for hours in the hot sun. But it was good. I have never had a finer drink.

An hour before sundown, greatly refreshed, we started back to camp. Just at dusk the shadowy forms of five asses dashed across our path fifty yards away and we heard a bullet strike as we took a snap at them. One began to lag behind as the others ran wildly away. The one soon stopped and we ap