J. Allan Dunn

“ His dark blue eyes matched the hue of the steel of the pistol, gleaming, through narrowed lids at the almost naked figure that squatted on the farther slope facing the spot where the flashes had shown in the hills. A brown, long-lingered hand clutched a disc of polished silver tilted so as to catch the sun-rays flaring off at premeditated intervals, a long or short glare of intense light as the curving hand rocked back and forth on the supple, sinewy wrist. ”

“ She looked at him inquiringly but turned and went back to the tent while McNeill gazed after her admiringly. Then he wheeled. Ling had come up behind him noiselessly.
"Well?" asked McNeill.
"One of the camels is very sick—too sick to travel."
"Slit its throat and leave all its load. We can get along without tents for the next three nights."
Ling looked at him evilly.
"Four of the horses are badly galled," he said. "Three more are sick. We have come too far, too fast. We must rest."
"You know we are short of water," said McNeill. ”

“ He hailed McNeill with a morning greeting, and the latter responded with jaws that shut grimly after the salutation.
"It's the first time I ever saw them mirror-talk in China," Neill was thinking, "but there's no reason why they shouldn't. Lots of things I haven't seen and never will. And those priests——?
"We'll start in fifteen minutes. Ling," he said to the tall headman. "We'll drink tea and eat after we get on the march."
Ling's mask of old ivory did not change, but his voice was gently deprecatory. "The master and his daughter are not yet arisen!" he said. "The beasts are tired." ”