In Arabic, Crawford said, “I have sought you for some time, Abd-el-Kader. You are an illusive man.”
“Who are you, n***o?” the fighting man snapped.
Crawford grinned at the other. “You look as though you have a bit of n***o blood in your own veins. In fact, I doubt if there’s a so-called Arab in all North Africa, unless he’s just recently arrived, whose family hasn’t down through the centuries mixed its blood with the local people they conquered.”
“You lie!”
Abe chuckled from the background. The Chaambra leader was at least as dark of complexion as the American n***o. Not that it made any difference one way or the other.
“We shall see who is the liar here,” Homer Crawford said flatly. “You asked who I am. I am known as Omar ben Crawf and I am headman of a team of the African Developmen
