tradition," said Morhange.

"Nor I," I replied thoughtfully.

But I had something to do at that moment besides making such
speculations.

"Bou-Djema," I called.

At the same time, I looked at Eg-Anteouen. Absorbed in his prayer,
bowed toward the west, apparently he was paying no attention to me. As
he prostrated himself, I called again.

"Bou-Djema, come with me to my mehari; I want to get something out of
the saddle bags."

Still kneeling, Eg-Anteouen was mumbling his prayer slowly,
composedly.

But Bou-Djema had not budged.

His only response was a deep moan.

Morhange and I leaped to our feet and ran to the guide. Eg-Anteouen
reached him as soon as we did.

With his eyes closed and his limbs already cold, the Chaamba breathed
a death rattle in Morhange's arms. I had seized one of his hands.
Eg-Anteouen took the other. Each, in his own way, was trying to
divine, to understand....