The Sheik Retold(43)

"It's all right, Gaston. I understand," I whispered in reassurance, forcing a brave smile to my quivering lips. "I forgive you. Please just do it quickly!"

Another rattle of shots came as he raised his pistol to my temple. I closed my eyes, only to feel him crumple to the ground beside me. Pandemonium followed. I took up his gun, fired the last shot, and flung the empty revolver in the face of the man who sprang forward to seize me. I turned with a desperate hope of reaching Gaston's horse, but I was already trapped. The last thing I remember was a crashing blow to my head and the hard ground heaving up from under my feet.

***

Slowly through waves of deadly nausea and the surging of deep waters in my ears, I struggled back to consciousness, but all recollection was dulled in bodily pain and thought merged in physical suffering. The agony in my head was excruciating, and my limbs were bruised and battered. My eyes were still shut, weighted with lead, and the effort to open them was beyond my strength, but gradually the fog cleared and my memory supervened.

There were at first only fragments—Gaston with the horror in his eyes and the convulsive working of his mouth in the last moments. My own dread—not of the death, but lest the mercy of it be snatched away. Then the hail of bullets and Gaston's fall, the blood that poured from his wounds, rolling across my feet. I remembered vaguely the wild faces hemming me in, but nothing more.

Gaston was in all probability dead. A lump came into my throat. He had done all that he could to save me. He had proved his faithfulness, shielding me with his own body, sacrificing his life for his master's plaything. "Poor Gaston," I whispered.

I stretched out my hand as if to find him beside me, but instead of his body or the dry hot sand, my fingers closed over soft cushions. I sat up with a jerk, but nausea overcame me, and I fell back again, my arm flung across my face, shielding the light that pierced like daggers through my throbbing eyeballs.

I lay still until the horrible nausea passed and the agony in my head abated to a dull ache. Hoping to understand where I was and what had happened, I stole a glance through my lashes, screened by the sleeve of my coat. I lay on a pile of cushions in the corner of a small tented apartment that was bare, except for a single rug. I could only presume it must be the camp of the robber sheik, Ibraheim Omair.

In the opposite corner was an Arab woman crouched over a little brazier. I noted the smell of native coffee heavy in the air. After a time I sat up, looking at the Arab woman. She was quite handsome and must have been pretty as a girl, but there was no sign of softness in her sullen and vindictive eyes. By her expression, my mere presence in the tent was objectionable to her. I knew instantly there would be no help or compassion from that quarter.

The sentiment gave a necessary spur to my courage. I had learned to wield my own power among the natives of India the previous year, and here in the desert there was only one Arab whose eyes did not waver beneath mine. I speared her with all the haughtiness I could muster, and she instantly turned back to her coffee-making. This small triumph of wills helped to bolster my confidence.

When I leaned back again, my hand brushed against my jacket, coming away stained and sticky. One side and sleeve were soaked with blood. Was it Gaston's? I ripped the jacket off with a shudder and flung it away, rubbing the red smear from my hands with a feeling of horror.

The little tent was intensely hot, and it stank with a revoltingly pungent smell that I'd never experienced in the scrupulous cleanliness of Ahmed Ben Hassan's tents. A burning thirst was parching my throat. The effects of the blow to my head were slowly wearing off. I rose to my feet with infinite caution and crossed the tent to the Arab woman.

"Give me some water," I said in French, but the woman shook her head without looking up. I repeated the request in Arabic, one of the few sentences I knew. This time the woman rose and held out a cup of the coffee she had been making. I hated the sweet, thick stuff, but it would have to do until I could get the water I craved. But when I put out my hand to take the little cup, something in her malignant stare gave me pause. The coffee was drugged. I could not say what beyond the woman's expression made me think so, but I was certain of it. I pushed it away.

"No. Not coffee. Water," I repeated.

The woman tried to force the cup to my lips. She was strong, but I was younger and stronger, even in my battered condition. I dashed the cup to the floor and sent the woman crashing against the brazier, oversetting it and scattering brass pots and cups over the rug. She screamed in a shrill, piercing voice, scrambled to her knees, and beat out the glowing embers. In answer to her cries, a curtain tore open to admit a gigantic Nubian. She pointed at me while her lips poured out voluble abuse. The Nubian listened, white teeth flashing in a broad grin, and shook his head. He picked up the last remaining embers that had scattered on the rug, rubbed the smoldering patches until they were extinguished, and then turned to leave the room. But I called him back.

"Fetch me water!" I demanded.

He pointed to the coffee, but I stamped my foot more imperiously than before. "Water! Bring me water!"

With a wider grin, the Nubian made a gesture of acquiescence and went out, returning in a few moments with a water skin. Its condition made me hesitate, but my thirst was too great to allow niceties to interfere. I picked up one of the coffee cups that had rolled to my feet, filled it, and then drank. The water was warm and slightly brackish, but at least it relieved the dry, suffocating feeling in my throat.