The Sheik Retold(42)

***

I slept deeply and more heavily than I would ever have thought possible, but the muffled sounds of horses penetrated my consciousness. I leaped instantly to my feet and withdrew my pistol, but it was too late. I was already surrounded by half a dozen cloaked men—with rifles. My heart leaped into my throat. Had I escaped the frying pan only to fall into the fire?

One man amongst them threw himself from his horse with an exclamation. "Grace à Dieu. We have found you!" It was Gaston. "Thank God you are safe. I shudder to think what Monseigneur would do…Please madam now to return?" He extended his hands in a plaintive gesture.

"And if I say no?" I challenged, looking from his pleading face to the stern ones behind him, and knowing already that my ill-conceived ruse to runaway was over.

"I am sorry, madam. While I would never force you, these men…" Gaston shrugged. "They have pledged their loyalty and their very lives to their sheik. They answer only to him."

I glanced up at the formerly gregarious young lieutenant Yusef, who failed even to blink at me. I noticed him fidgeting in his saddle, his eyes wandering past mine and looking at the broken trees with a scowl.

"All right, Gaston." I gave a huge sigh of surrender. "Do you intend to drag me back now, or do we make camp until morning?"

"We must depart at once, madam, and with all haste. We are too close to the territory in dispute. It is not safe."

"No man rests here, madam," Yusef said. "It is the place of devils. The curse of Allah is upon it." His horse sidled restlessly. He made a quick gesture with his fingers. "Death lurks beside those broken palm trees."

I shook my head at the ridiculous superstitious fancies of the Arab race. "For you, perhaps, but not for me," I replied. "Allah's curse rests only upon those who fear it."

But perhaps the curse was true after all. Before I realized what was happening, innumerable Arabs sprang up out of the dunes on all sides of us. My escort wheeled their horses and began a furious fire at the horde of men who poured in upon us. The noise was deafening— the raucous shouting of the Arabs, the continuous sharp crack of the rifles, the bullets whizzing past. Mechanically, my fingers closed over the revolver, but Gaston threw me onto my horse with a groan.

"Come, madam! Vent du terre!" He seized my bridle and urged our horses back in the direction from which we had come.

I glanced over my shoulder to watch with a sudden sickening feeling as the men who formed my escort were beaten back by the superior numbers that enclosed them. Already two were down and the rest were on foot, soon swallowed up in the mass of men that poured over them.

Within minutes, a party of about twenty horsemen detached themselves from the main body to gallop after us. A fierce yelling and a hail of bullets came next. I crouched lower in the saddle, and Gaston loosed my bridle to drop behind, interposing himself between me and our pursuers. When I realized the meaning of his tactics, I deliberately checked my horse.

"No, Gaston. I won't leave you. You must ride with me," I cried, wincing as another bullet came perilously close. The bullets continued to screech past, but the men who fired them were not Ahmed Ben Hassan's carefully trained marksmen.

"Mon Dieu! Do you think I can face Monseigneur if anything happens to you?" replied Gaston fiercely. "Do as I tell you. Go on!" All deference to me was supplanted by a greater fear for my safety. "Perhaps you do not understand. This is no camel raid. For me it would be probably torture with certain death, but for you—!" He gave me a meaningful look. His eyes were panic-stricken. Perspiration poured down his face. "You will not be treated gently in their hands."

We had refrained from shooting, reserving our ammunition for a last resource, but the brigands were gaining fast. Gaston fired slowly and steadily, picking his men with careful precision. Our only hope—and it was a forlorn one at best—was to stay ahead until we got clear of the undulating country and back into the open where the sounds of firing might reach some of the sheik's outpost sentinels.

Our pursuers seemed to guess our tactics and opened out into an irregular, extended line, swerving and making accurate shooting impossible. They urged their horses to a terrific pace in an effort to outflank us. I was shooting now, but my revolver emptied all too quickly. Suddenly my horse stumbled, recovering himself for a few steps, only to lurch onto his side, blood pouring from his mouth. I just managed to spring clear.

Gaston was beside me in an instant, thrusting me behind him, shielding me with his own body, as he continued a steady fire at the oncoming Arabs. I was overcome by the same nerve-deadening feeling of unreality I had experienced the night of my abduction. The intense stillness—for the Arabs had ceased shouting—the hot, dry sand with the shimmering surface, the cloudless night sky overhead, the band of menacing horsemen circling nearer and nearer, the dead horse. It all seemed fantastic and unreal.

I pressed closer to the man beside me, brave and devoted to the end, but we were both silent; there seemed nothing to say. Gaston's left hand clenched over mine, contracting as a bullet gashed his forehead. He let go to brush his arm across his face and remove the blood from his eyes. A spasm crossed his features, and he looked to me with an expression of infinite sadness. "Madam, I have but one shot left. I cannot protect you…" he muttered desperately. "Please turn your head. I cannot do it if you—"