Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [64]
“You and your omens! It is a good sign. We are on the right track.”
Leaving the desolate heap of bones behind, we went on until the stars faded and the sky began to lighten. We were making good time, better than we had on our first trip, but Emerson gave no indication of halting. The sun rose behind us, sending our shadows leaping forward across the ground. One elongated outline grew more rapidly and I saw that Ramses had come up beside us.
“Father. Look there.”
At first it was only a little puff of pale yellow, but it soon expanded, like a moving cloud.
“It is a sandstorm?” I asked apprehensively.
“Worse,” said Ramses.
“Can you tell how many?” Emerson asked.
“No. They’re still too far away.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. He yanked violently on the head rope of his camel, turning it. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Ramses set his beast to a trot and rode toward the end of the caravan.
I do not approve of cruelty to animals, but the only way to get the attention of a camel is to whack it. The men needed no such inducement; they too had seen the approaching cloud and knew what it portended. With blows and shouts they formed the recalcitrant beasts into a rough circle and forced them to kneel.
“Quite like the Old West, is it not?” I said to Nefret. “Camels instead of wagons, but it is the same principle, and—”
“Get down, Peabody,” Emerson said, reinforcing the suggestion with a push that made my knees buckle. “And pay attention.”
“Let me have one of those guns,” I demanded. It was possible now to see moving forms in the dust, the forms of mounted men.
“Not on your life,” said Emerson. “Selim, Daoud, here, on my right. Ready, Ramses?”
The armed men knelt behind their camels, their weapons aimed. Most of them had rifles, and some of the Bedouin prided themselves on their marksmanship. However, according to Emerson, they were inclined to exaggerate their skill, and many of the guns were old, verging on antique. We appeared to be outnumbered by at least ten to one. I crept closer to Emerson and took out my little pistol.
“Don’t fire until I give the word,” said Emerson coolly. He repeated the order in Arabic. “That includes you, Peabody. Aim high, over their heads. On second thought, Peabody, don’t fire at all. Ready? Now.”
A somewhat ragged volley shook the clear air. “Again,” Emerson said.
The second volley slowed them, but the leader came on. He was brandishing a weapon—not a rifle, a huge sword. So it was to be hand-to-hand fighting! I heard Nefret gasp and saw her grip the hilt of her knife. I wondered if Emerson would have the decency to shoot me after all hope had failed. I wondered if I could bring myself to shoot Nefret rather than let her endure the hideous alternative—capture and slavery in a Turkish harem. They might not bother taking me prisoner, since by their standards I was a trifle elderly, but Nefret was a prize worthy of a pasha.
To my horror, Emerson suddenly bounded to his feet. Exposed from the waist up, he raised both arms and shouted something in Arabic. The leader was now so close I could make out his face—hawk-nosed and bearded, decaying teeth bared in a ferocious fighting grin. The blade of the sword flashed as he whirled it over his head. Emerson dropped the rifle, folded his arms, and stood motionless.
“Shoot,” I shrieked. “Ramses, shoot the bas——the man immediately, do you hear me?”
His finger was on the trigger and the gun was aimed at the rider’s breast. Then it shifted, just a little, and he fired. The bullet struck the raised sword blade with a ring like that of a gong, and the weapon flew out of the rider’s hand. With a howl of pain and surprise, he jerked at the camel’s head rope and the beast veered off, followed by the rest of the attackers. They swept past in a cloud of sand.
“Well done,” said Emerson, giving his son a clap on the back. “Thank you, my boy, for ignoring your mother’s hysterical order.”
“Yes, sir,” Ramses said. He lowered the rifle and sat down rather