The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
along our tracks. We passed Djikki's barraked camel and saw the Soudanese lying behind the crest of a sand-hill. He stood up and came down to us.
"Three," he said. "Swift scouts in advance of the rest. I hit one man and one camel. The others fled. Four hundred metres."
For a Soudanese it was very fine marksmanship.
"It'll show them we're awake, anyhow," said Dufour; and we rode off quickly, to overtake the others.
As soon as it was as dark as it ever is in the star-lit desert, I took the lead, and turned sharply from our line as we were riding over a rocky stony patch that would show no prints of the soft feet of camels.
For an hour or two I followed the line, and then turned sharply to the left, parallel with our original track.
Thereafter I dropped to the rear, leaving Dufour to lead. I preferred to rely upon his acquired scientific skill rather than upon Suleiman's desert sense of direction, when I left the head of the caravan at night. Dropping back, I halted until I could only just see the outline of the last rider, Achmet, sometimes as a blur of white in the star-shine, sometimes as a silhouette against the blue-black starry sky. . . .
Vast, vast emptiness. . . . Universes beyond universes. . . . Rhythmic fall of soft feet on sand. . . . Rhythmic swaying of the great camel's warm body. . . . World swaying. . . . Stars swaying. . . .
I will not falsely accuse myself of having fallen asleep, for I do not believe I slept--though I have done such a thing on the back of a camel. But I was certainly slightly hypnotized by star-staring and the perfect rhythm of my camel's tireless changeless trot. . . . And I had been very short of sleep for weeks. . . . Perhaps I did sleep for a few seconds? . . .
Anyhow, I came quite gradually from a general inattentiveness toward the phenomena of reality, to an interest therein, and then to an awareness that gripped my heart like the clutch of a cold hand.
First I noted dully that I had drawn level with Achmet and was some yards to his right. . . . Then that Djikki, or Suleiman perhaps, was riding a few yards to my right. . . . And then that some one else was close behind me.
I must have got right into the middle of the caravan. Curious. . . . Why, what was this? . . . I rubbed my eyes. . . . None of us carried a lance or spear of any kind!
It was then that my blood ran cold, for I knew I was riding with the Touareg!
I pulled myself together and did some quick thinking. Did each of them take me for some other member of their band who had ridden to the front and been overtaken again? Or were they chuckling to themselves at the poor fool whom they had outwitted, and who was now in their power? . . .
Was it their object to ride on with me, silently, until the Touareg band and the caravan were one body--and then each robber select his victim and slay him?
What should I do? My rifle was across my thighs. No; I could not have been asleep or I should have dropped it.
I slowly turned my head and looked behind me. I could see no others--but it was very dark and others might be near, besides the three whom I could distinguish clearly.
Achmet was not in sight. What should I do? . . .
Work, poor brain, work! Her life depends on it. . . .
Could I draw ahead of them sufficiently fast to overtake the caravan, give a swift order, and have my men wheeled about and ready to meet our pursuers with a sudden volley and then rapid fire?
I could try, anyhow. I raised the long camel-stick that dangled from my wrist, and my camel quickened its pace instantly. There is never any need to strike a well-trained mehari. . . . The ghostly riders to right and left of me kept their positions. . . . I had gained nothing. . . .
I must not appear to be trying to escape. . . . With faint pressure on the left nose-rein of my camel, I endeavoured to edge imperceptibly toward the shadow on my left. I would speak to him as though I were a brother Targui, as soon as I was close enough to shoot with certainty if he attacked me.
The result showed me that the raiders had not taken me for one of themselves--I could get no nearer to the man, nor draw further from the rider on my right. . . .
Wits against wits--and Mary Vanbrugh's life in the balance. . . .
Gently I drew rein, and slowed down very gradually. My silent nightmare companions did the same.
This would let the caravan draw ahead of us, and give my men more time for action, when the time for action came.
Slower and slower grew my pace, and I drooped forward, nodding like a man asleep, my eyes straining beneath my haik to watch these devils who shepherded me along.
My camel dropped into a walk, and very gradually the two shadows converged upon me to do a silent job with sword or spear. . . .
And what of the man behind me? The muscles of my shoulder-blades writhed as I thought of the cold steel that even then might be within a yard of my back. . . .
Suddenly I pulled up, raised my rifle, and fired carefully, and with the speed that has no haste, at the rider on my right. I aimed where, if I missed his thigh, I should hit his camel, and hoped to hit both. As my rifle roared in the deep silence of the night, I swung left for the easier shot, fired again, and drove my camel bounding forward. I crouched low, as I worked the bolt of my rifle, in the hope of evading spear-thrust or sword-stroke from behind.
As I did so a rifle banged behind me, at a few yards range, and I felt as though my left arm had been struck with a red-hot axe.
With the right hand that held the rifle, I wheeled my camel round in a flash, steadied the beast and myself and, one-handed, fired from my hip at a camel that suddenly loomed up before me. Then I wheeled about again and sent my good beast forward at racing speed.
My left arm swung useless, and I could feel the blood pouring down over my hand, in a stream. . . .
This would not do. . . .
I shoved my rifle under my thigh, and with my right hand raised my left and got the arm up so that I could hold it by the elbow, with the left hand beneath my chin.
I fought off the feeling of faintness caused by shock and the loss of blood--and wondered if Suleiman, Djikki, Achmet and Dufour would shoot first and challenge afterwards, as I rode into them. . . .
Evidently I had brought down the three camels at which I had aimed--not a difficult thing to do, save in darkness, and when firing from the back of a camel, whose very breathing sways one's rifle. . . .
I was getting faint again. . . . It would soon pass off. . . . If I could only plug the holes and improvise a sling. . . . As the numbness of the arm wore off and I worried at it, I began to hope and believe that the bone was not broken. . . . Fancy a shattered elbow-joint, in the desert, and with the need to ride hard and constantly. . . .
I was aware of three dark masses in line. . . .
"Major! Shout!" cried a voice, and with great promptitude I shouted--and three rifles came down from the firing position.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"I made her ride on with Achmet, hell-for-leather," replied Dufour. "I swore she'd help us more that way, till we can see what's doing. . . . What happened, sir?"
I told him.
"They'll trail us all right," said Dufour. "Those were scouts and there would be a line of connecting-links between them and the main body. Shall we wait, and get them one by one?"
"No," I replied. "They'd circle us and they'd get the others while we waited here. It'll be daylight soon. . . ."
* * *
It was in the dim daylight of the false dawn that we sighted the baggage-camels of the caravan.
"Those baggage-camels will have to be left," said Dufour.
"You