He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [144]
The rifle spoke again. Sand spurted up from beside the carcass of the horse. The second bullet struck its body with a meaty thunk.
“He’s somewhere on that rocky spur to the southeast,” Ramses said. Emerson opened his mouth. Ramses anticipated him. “Forget the binoculars. A flash of reflected sunlight would give him his target. I fired three . . . no, four times. That leaves me with only six shots, and—”
“And a rifle has greater range than a pistol,” Emerson said. “You needn’t belabor the obvious, my boy. It appears we’ll be here awhile.”
Ramses looked round. A few yards to his right the ground dropped into a kind of hollow, bordered on two sides by the remains of the wall. He indicated the place to his father, who was graciously pleased to agree that it offered better protection for all concerned. He even accepted the loan of Ramses’s arm. Getting Risha into shelter was a more nerve-wracking procedure, but they made it into the hollow without incident.
They celebrated with another swallow of warm water and another smoke. The slanting rays of sunlight beyond their shelter had turned gold.
“Someone will come looking for us in the morning,” Ramses said.
“No doubt.”
He seemed to have accepted the idea of waiting for rescue. That wasn’t like him. Ramses had other ideas, but he did not intend to propose them. Short of knocking his father over the head, there was no way he could keep Emerson from trying to help him, and he didn’t want help, not from an injured man who also happened to be someone he . . .
Someone he loved.
Emerson had dropped off to sleep, his head resting on Ramses’s folded coat. Ramses watched the shadows darken across his father’s still face and wondered why they all found that word so difficult. He loved both his parents, but he’d never told them so; he doubted he ever would. They had never said it to him either.
Was the word so important? He had never seen his mother cry until the other night, and he knew the tears had been for him: tears of worry and relief, and perhaps even a little pride. It had been a greater acknowledgment of her feelings than hugs and kisses and empty words. All the same . . .
Emerson’s eyes opened, and Ramses started, as embarrassed as if his father could read his private thoughts. Emerson had not been asleep; he had been thinking. “Were our brilliant deductions about the route wrong after all?”
“I don’t think so,” Ramses said. “There’d be no point in killing us to prevent us from telling the authorities what we found; we haven’t found a damned thing! It’s more likely that someone took advantage of our being out here in the middle of nowhere to rid himself of . . . Father, it’s me he’s after. I’m damned sorry I got you into this.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool,” his father growled.
“No, sir.”
Emerson’s eyes fell. It took Ramses several long seconds to interpret his expression correctly; he couldn’t remember ever seeing his father look . . . guilty? Downcast eyes, tight mouth, bowed head—it was guilt, right enough, and all at once he understood why.
“No,” he said again. “I didn’t get you into this, did I? You went out of your way to find Hamilton this morning. You told him we were coming here. You—”
His father coughed apologetically. “Go on,” he muttered. “Call me anything that comes to mind. I was the bloody fool; I knew that between the two of us we could deal with a few assassins or an ambush, but I didn’t count on falling off the damned horse. If harm comes to you because of my clumsiness and stupidity, I will never forgive myself. Neither will your mother,” he added gloomily.
“It’s all right, Father.” He felt an incongruous rush of pleasure. “Between the two of us . . .” Did his father really think that highly of him? “In fact, there’s no one I would rather—er—well, you know what I mean.”
Too English, David would have said. Both of them. Emerson raised his head. “Er—yes. I feel the same. Hmph.”
Having got this effusive display