"Something is going to happen, and that before long," growled Tarleton, looking up, "and that'll be a thunderstorm. Phew! how close it is. I must have another `peg.'" And he, too, shouted for his bearer. It was even as he had said, close--close and brooding. The sun was getting low, but the blue of the sky on the northern side had merged indefinably into a leaden, vaporous opacity which was gradually and insidiously creeping upward to the zenith. Against this, the peaks stood up, black and bizarre, and here and there, caught by a fitful wind puff, a trail of red dust would stream outward from the summit of a ridge, to lose itself in midair, or perchance to mingle with one of the column-like "dust-devils" which rose gyrating from the plain. Something was bound to come of it--an earthquake, a tornado, or a thunderstorm-- probably the latter, for a muffled boom in the direction of the advancing blackness now became audible. "We're going to get it," said Haslam, looking upward. "I only hope it isn't a blow--we don't want the tents suddenly whirled away over our heads. Rather not." "I wish those two were back," repeated Mrs Tarleton, looking out over the forbidding waste, now more forbidding than ever. "I have a presentiment something is going to happen. Do you think these Levy Sowars are reliable, Mr Haslam?" "I say, Mrs Tarleton, I believe Miss Clive has been infecting you with her forecasts and clairvoyance and all that sort of thing. I don't know about the Catch-'em-alive-ohs being reliable--but I don't believe they could hit a town-hall unless they were put inside it and all the doors locked. Even then they'd miss it by the windows." "Well, but--surely they must be some good or they wouldn't be enlisted," objected Tarleton. "I remember trying a chap once. There was an old door stuck on end about sixty yards off. I got him to take three shots at it with his Martini, and he missed it clean twice, the third time just knocking a chip off one of the top corners." "Well, but you can't judge them all by one," objected Tarleton. "Hallo. Here comes somebody," cried Haslam. "Oh, I'm so glad," said Mrs Tarleton. Then, disappointedly, "It isn't them at all. It's some horrid natives. It's not in the right direction, either." Down amid the sparse vegetation, below the camp on the more open side, the troop horses and baggage camels were grazing, and here it was that a group of figures appeared, surrounding a central one who was mounted on a fine camel. It could be seen that all were armed to the teeth, having Lee-Metfords and Martinis, over and above the inevitable curved sword, but there was nothing unusual in this. It was a national custom among these wild northern tribes.