On the whole ride back to Cairo, I had the uncomfortable feeling we were being watched, followed. Even Hubini and George exhibited a nervousness not usual for warhorses of the nomadic desert tribes. Yet each time I glanced over my shoulder, the trail behind us appeared empty.
But we were so plagued by disasters—two horse threw a shoe and became lame, one of the donkeys broke free and ran off with supplies we couldn’t afford to lose, and another broke a leg and had to be put down—that I was forced to push the possibility someone might be coming after me from my mind, and eventually buried it so deep that I forgot about it.
We buried two men along the trail. The third died just before we entered Cairo. The others vanished, barely waiting to get paid. They were certain a curse had followed
