ALONG THE TRAIL 117 
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- 
