The Count of the Sahara by Wayne Turmel

desert mud, but the sight of him sent a buzz through the crowd. Byron groaned.
    “Have you a telephone? I must tell the authorities in Touggart where we are. I’m sure they’re looking for us already.”
    “I’m afraid not, but we have a telegraph, I can wire for you,” squeaked Costans, the manager.
    “I’d be most grateful. Thank you.”
    “Ask them about dinner, Monsieur,” came two voices, almost in chorus.
    “Have you anything extra you can spare for us? We haven’t eaten since noon, you see. We were supposed to have a great banquet…”
    The station master, Costans, bit his lip and shook his head sadly. “You’ll have to ask the wife about that, but I doubt it. The supply train is a day late, and everyone is already eating scraps.”
    De Prorok stoically took it all in. Taking a deep preparatory breath, he barked an order to Belaid. He needed to do something before Reygasse got them all shot. “Start camp, Monsieur Belaid. Let’s make the best of it. Maurice, wire Touggart and tell them we aren’t coming and they can call off the hunt til morning. Chapuis, see what you can do about food, if you will.”
    “Can I go with him?” asked Pond.
    Lonnie didn’t know much about the desert although he’d heard of the desert code of hospitality, and how no one would ever let a guest starve, even a stranger. He sincerely hoped that was more accurate intelligence than the geography books and maps had provided so far. He did know he hadn’t starved in France during the war, though, even in places where there was precious little to spare, and had talked more than one housewife out of an egg or a chicken in time of need. This situation warranted his best efforts, before the Renault drivers tried to eat poor Martini.
    As Costans led the Count and Reygasse to the telegraph office, the rest of the expedition maneuvered the cars into a wide triangle, shining their headlights into the center to illuminate their workspace.
    Tyrrell, Chapuis and Pond conferred, then headed towards the largest, most European-looking house. There they were met at the door by the chatelaine, Madame Costans, a thin, hawk-faced woman with no discernible sense of humor. The three men all bowed. Chapuis took his cap in his hand and offered a meek “Bonjour Madame.” The others chimed in as well, hoping to get in her good graces. They got a single, suspicious nod in reply.
    “Only one of you is French.”
    Chapuis admitted that the other visitors were American, which elicited an arched eyebrow. Pond came forward, twisting his hat in hand and offered a small bow. “We’re surprised to find such a lovely French woman out here. It makes the trip almost worth it.” Both parties smiled at the lie. “Madame, is it possible that you might spare some dinner tonight? We’ve not eaten all day, you see. We were supposed to be in Touggart tonight. As you can see, we didn’t make it and we have to spend the night here.”
    “How many are you?”
    Pond shrugged, “Not many at all. Only twelve of us.”
    “Twelve, how am I supposed to feed twelve of you? I’m afraid I can’t help you, I’m sorry.”
    Tyrrell’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. Chapuis and Pond grinned. This was only the first salvo of what could be a long back and forth battle. “I know it’s a huge imposition, Madame,” Louis said, “and it shames me that I’ve led my people into this situation. Are you sure you can’t help us just a bit?”
    “I’ve never known a French woman yet who couldn’t make a miracle out of an egg—like the loaves and fishes,” added Pond.
    “Eggs,” she spat, “we don’t even have chickens.” Just then a clucking squawk erupted from behind the house. “Just one stupid old rooster…not a hen left,” she hastily explained.
    “Perhaps just some porridge, or a couscous?” Pond asked again. This was an unexpected turn, and Madame Station Agent raised a skeptical eyebrow.
    “That’s native food. You’d eat that?” Pond smiled.