We had now recrossed the desert and descended from the plateau into the valley of the Messopotamia, where our trail ran between the Chebar River and the cliffs on the west. All the while we had been waiting our two drivers had remained on the cliffs, where we could not see them, but I was not nervous, as I had become accustomed to waiting. Our suspicion was not aroused until we started, when the drivers yelled our six-horse team into a wild run, shaking the old crate wagon from side to side, for about five miles, when we heard reports of firearms, and suddenly came to a stop. Then the drivers, together with the passengers, sisters and all, ran up the craggy steeps onto the open plain, where in the distance we saw about ten Bedouins leaning on their horses' necks running for dear life, followed by a squad of Turkish cavalry who were firing at them with no effect, for they were too far away. I declared at once that it was a plot to frighten me out of the Mohammedan Stamping Grounds, but our guard, who had been riding to the west of our route all day, said that the teamsters who came down with our carry-all from Karbilla a few days previous had killed a camel man of the great herd which we were about to pass through, and that the Bedouins were the dead man's friends from the camel camp, who intended to kill all of us for revenge. Also, that the reason we stayed so long in the night and where we lunched was for the cavalry to arrive from Nazzip to chase the Bedouins away. Then I decided that, if our guard had told the truth, the Arabs were not so bad after all.