Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [68]
I was quite out of breath when he released me, and gulped air for several seconds before I realized it was the clean, hot air of the outer world I breathed, and that sunlight was streaming into the vault.
The sunlight was too bright for my dazzled eyes, accustomed to darkness. I could just make out the silhouettes of the heads and shoulders of two men above the heap of rock that still lay on the threshold.
Emerson leaned back against the wall, his left arm hanging at an odd angle. As Abdullah and Lucas came scrambling in over the rocks, Emerson turned his head toward his foreman. Rivulets of perspiration were streaming down his face, turning the dust that covered it into a muddy mask.
“You d—fool,” he said.
“You are hurt,” said Abdullah intelligently.
“Words fail me,” said Emerson.
But of course they did not; he went on, though he spoke in gasps. “An experienced foreman… knows better… shoving like a battering ram…”
“I tried to tell him to go slowly,” Lucas broke in. “Unfortunately my Arabic is nonexistent.”
He looked so guilty, and Abdullah so particularly enigmatic, that I realized who was probably responsible for the accident. There was no point in pressing the matter, however.
“He was anxious to get us out,” I said. “Let us eschew recriminations and act. Is your arm broken?”
“Dislocated,” said Emerson, between his teeth. “I must get back… Walter knows how….”
“You cannot walk so far,” I said.
This was patently true, and anyone but Emerson would have admitted the fact at once. His knees were buckling, and only the wall at his back kept him upright.
“I can do… what I must,” he replied.
“No doubt; but there is no need. I saw our local surgeon perform this operation once, on a farmer whose shoulder had been put out of place. If you will direct me—”
The idea seemed to revive Emerson. His eyes rolled toward me; I swear, I saw a flash of enjoyment.
“You won’t like it,” said Emerson.
“Neither will you,” I replied.
I think I prefer not to describe the procedure that followed. Emerson was not in any mood to make jokes when it was over, but I was the one who had to sit down on the ground and put my head between my knees. Fortunately Abdullah had brought water; we both had been thirsty from the heat and dust even before the accident. A long drink revived me and helped Emerson. I then tore up my petticoat in order to fasten his arm to his body so that it would not be jarred unnecessarily. He had his wicked temper back by then, and made a rude remark.
“As you would say, my lord, it is just like one of Mr. Haggard’s romances. The heroine always sacrifices a petticoat at some point in the proceedings. No doubt that is why females wear such ridiculous garments; they do come in useful in emergencies.”
The way to the royal tomb had seemed long; the road back was interminable. Lucas’s strength was of great assistance, and Emerson did not disdain the help of his arm. As we walked along, Lucas explained how he had happened to find us.
He had had a little adventure of his own. Riding not far from the village, he had been accosted by the owner of his donkey, who had abandoned animal and rider when they first approached the camp. Now the donkey owner demanded his animal back.
“It occurred to me,” Lucas explained, “that you had probably been deprived of donkeys as well as workers, so I determined to keep that one, if I could. If the villagers had realized I was acquainted with you, I never should have gotten it in the first place. I offered to buy the wretched little beast—thinking of Evelyn’s using it, of course. But it was no use; when I insisted, I was set upon by a howling horde of villagers and forcibly removed from my steed. They offered me no violence, but I was shaken up and very angry. I was on my way back to camp when I met Abdullah. He said you had gone to the royal tomb; and after my adventure, I was somewhat concerned about you. So we came here