The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
Within twenty minutes the start was made—Spence and Barbarroja leading, Shaw and Mistress Betty following, the two Spahis bringing up the rear with Yimnah. The party would reach the Cisterns some time that night.
Spence had no talk with Dr. Shaw until later. He noted that Barbarroja had lost his bold and jaunty air, seemed silent and uneasy, and often pawed his huge beard as though in deep thought; nor did the man respond to conversation. Spence thought little of it.
At the halt for sunset prayer, in which all save the three Christians joined, Dr. Shaw drew his horse alongside that of Spence.
“Patrick, I am told by Mistress Elizabeth that when you engaged this ruffianly red-beard, you told him you would discuss wages with him at Tlemcen. What agreement reached you?”
“Eh? Why, none! I forgot it.”
Shaw shook his head.
“That looks bad, my son! If the man were what he seemed—well, well, let be. I gather that we reach the Cisterns tonight, and halt until morning?”
“No halts,” said Spence curtly. “We must save Mulai Ali’s neck, and that means hard riding. It’s only fifty miles to Udjde, our horses are in good condition, and we must push on.”
“But stop a few moments at the Cisterns,” pleaded the doctor anxiously. “I have heard of notable inscriptions there, on a pillar near the wells. The moon will be at the full tonight, and I can copy it in a few moments.”
Smiling, Spence agreed. So small a boon, which meant so much to Shaw, could not be denied.
After the prayer and a brief repast, they went on again at a brisk pace. An hour after nightfall the moon rose, full and glorious, lightening all the cold countryside with silver brilliance. Muffled against the cold, the party pressed their horses vigorously.
It lacked an hour of midnight when they approached El Joube, or the Cisterns.
There was no native village here; only a bleak hillside, covered with ancient ruins, where two brackish wells supplied water for travelers. The moon was at her zenith. The place, with its white marbles and broken columns, and jackals howling afar, was the very epitome of desolation. Spence sighed in relief when he saw that the camping ground was empty. Evidently they were ahead of any ambush. Mulai Ali might have come with them after all.
“No unsaddling!” ordered Spence. “We stop for food and water, then on again. May I spread cloaks on the ground for you, Mistress Betty?”
Shaw, forgetting all else, was already scrambling away amid the ruins.
Spence laid out his burnoose for the girl, fed his horse, and joined her with dates and couscous. Presently he lighted his pipe, and was getting it to draw when he heard the voice of Shaw from the tumbled ruins, excitement in its tone.
“Patrick! Come here at once and see what I have found!”
Laughing, Spence essayed to find the divine. This was no small matter, but, after circling a huge cistern, and stumbling over heaps of ruins, he came upon Shaw. The latter was seated before a broken pillar, notebook in one hand, sword in other; with the rapier he was scratching lichens from an inscription—the use to which he most often put the weapon. Dr. Shaw looked up excitedly.
“Patrick! Let me read you this remarkable inscription:
“Q. POMPEIO CN. F. QVIRIT. CLEMENTI
PA—DIIVR EX TESTAMENTO.
Q. POMPEIO F. QVIR. ROGATI FRATRIS SUI
POMPEIA A. P. MABRA POSVIT.”
“Does that suggest nothing to you, Patrick? Does it betray no significance?”
Spence laughed. “Only that somebody wasted a lot of time. What’s the big find, doctor?”
“Man, man! Do you not realize that this broken inscription refers to the grandson and great-grandson of Pompey himself? Finding them buried here beneath us, what a force and beauty are lent to the sublime epigram of Martial! Think of them being entombed here.”
“I’m cold,” said the practical Spence. “I’m thinking a lot more of ourselves than of Pompey’s family. If you’ve finished copying those letters, suppose we move on.”
“I forgot!”
The other rose.
“Patrick, I saw some men watching me from behind those stones—I said nothing of it, lest they interrupt before I had copied the words.”
Spence stifled a curse.
“Come along, then! We’ve done enough talking—hello! Who’s this?”
A swaggering figure approached them at this instant. It was Barbarroja, one hand at his hilt, the other twirling his mustaches. Beyond, Spence saw that Mistress Betty and the others were already mounting. Yimnah was lying down, drinking from the well.
“A word with you, señores!” exclaimed Barbarroja. “I have an offer to make you.”
“Confound you!” snapped Spence. “What are you talking about?”
“Why, truce! Terms, capitulation, armistice! In a word, peace or war!”
“Are you mad?” demanded Dr. Shaw, peering at the renegade. Barbarroja chuckled.
“Not quite, señor. Listen! There is a company of men hidden here. At a call from me, they will attack. Now let us speak together—terms! My friend, who captains those hidden men, desires the person of the lady yonder. Now, how much is she worth to you? A word, and I can get you away from here without molestation.”
“Villain!” cried Dr. Shaw, and hurled himself forward.
So unexpected was his attack, that Barbarroja was taken unawares. The amazed Spence saw his companion twine both hands in the flaming beard and jerk the ruffian forward. A wild howl of pain broke from the renegade, to be quenched in a groan as the lusty divine kicked him amidships and stretched him senseless on the stones.
“That’s the way to deal with such gentry!” panted Shaw. “Now, to horse, Patrick!”
From the Spahis broke a shout of warning. A spattering of musket fire leaped from the hillside; men shouted, a ring of dark figures appeared, closing on the party. Spence and Dr. Shaw ran forward, trying to gain the horses.
“Ride, Shaw!” shouted Spence. “Ride with Mistress Betty and send aid! They’ve got us.”
The ring of figures closed in upon them. Steel flashed in the moonlight.
CHAPTER VII
“An honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails.”
The shots set the blooded, sensitive horses to plunging madly. One of the Spahis caught the bridle of Mistress Betty and spurred away with her, the other, his horse slain, leaped into the empty saddle of Barbarroja and galloped after his comrade.
Shaw was mounted, but two men were stabbing at him, a third had gripped his bridle rein. Yimnah was caught afoot. Spence missed his horse, which shied away; the two beasts were careering madly around, headed from the road and finding no outlet from the ruins.
Spence cut down the first man who sprang at him, and shouted again at the divine:
“Spur for it, Shaw! After her! Spur!”
“He who takes the sword,” quoth the doctor, neatly putting his rapier through one of his assailants, “shall even perish by the same.” And the thin blade split the throat of the man at his rein. “Farewell, Patrick! Woe is me that I must leave you.”
His voice was lost as he thundered away.
Spence conjectured that a score of men must have fallen upon them. He himself was ringed in against a block of marble, which secured his back. He pistoled two of the men before him, seized his sword again, and they recoiled momentarily from his attack.
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