The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [152]
He insisted on my riding Risha, and mounted my amiable but plodding mare. “What is your father up to?” I inquired.
“He is lying in wait for Mr. Paul and Sir Edward, I believe. With M. Maspero’s dahabeeyah arriving tomorrow, he is increasingly concerned about the contents of the burial chamber.”
“He would be. I do wish I could persuade him not to interfere. Maspero is already vexed with him.”
The horses were picking their way through the rocky defile that led from the Valley when I heard something that made me look round. It took me a moment to locate the source of the agitated bleating, for the goat’s dusty coat was almost the same color as the surrounding rock.
Risha stopped at a touch. I dismounted and started toward the animal, which appeared to be caught by the leg.
“Damn it, Mother!” Ramses shouted. “Watch out!”
Since I am not as stupid as my children believe I am, I had immediately realized this might be a ruse, but I was not at all averse to a confrontation. In fact, I had been hoping for some such thing. My hand was in my coat pocket, therefore, when the man appeared from behind a boulder and started toward me. He carried a knife, so I had no compunction about taking out my pistol and firing at him. As I pulled the trigger Ramses flung himself on the fellow and both of them fell to the ground.
“Curse it,” I cried, hastening to them. “Ramses, what the devil do you mean by . . . Ramses, are you wounded? Speak to me!”
Ramses rolled over and sat up. His eyes were narrowed to slits and his dark brows had drawn together. I had seldom seen a more impressive scowl, even on the face of his father. He drew a deep breath.
“No, don’t speak,” I said hastily. “Compose yourself. Heavens, I do believe I have killed the fellow! ”
There was certainly a bloody hole in the front of the man’s robe. His eyes were wide open, in the unseeing stare of the dead. The rest of his face was hidden by a tightly wound scarf.
Ramses’s lips were moving. I wondered whether he was swearing or praying—no, not praying, not Ramses—or perhaps counting to himself, as I had once suggested as a means of controlling one’s temper. Whatever he was doing, it achieved the desired result. When he spoke his voice was reasonably calm.
“I doubt it, Mother. This appears to be an exit wound. He was shot in the back, by someone concealed among the rocks. Stay here and stay down.”
Before I could stop him he was gone, surefooted as a goat over the tumbled rocks. Within a few seconds I had lost sight of him.
The dead man was not very good company. I crouched beside him, listening anxiously for the sound of another shot. I heard nothing; even the Judas goat, as I believe I may term it, had stopped complaining. I hoped it was not seriously hurt, but I decided I had better not leave the dubious cover of the rocks in order to find out. If Ramses had not acted so precipitately I would have gone with him, or at least insisted that he take my pistol. Young people are so impulsive. There was nothing I could do now but wait.
It seemed a long time before Ramses returned, as silently and suddenly as he had vanished. He was carrying a rifle.
“Ah,” I said, as he sat down beside me and placed the rifle on the ground.“The would-be assassin had fled, I take it.”
“Yes. He was up there.” Ramses folded his arms and rested them on his raised knees. He appeared quite composed and relaxed, except for his hands, which were tightly clasped.
“After shooting this person he dropped his rifle and ran?” I picked up the weapon and examined it. Ramses hastily shifted position.
“Mother, please put that down. There is a bullet in the chamber.”
“So I see. That is odd. Why didn’t he fire again?”
“He may have counted on one of us shooting the other,” said Ramses. Slowly and gently he removed the rifle from my hand and put it behind him. Then he lowered his head onto his arms. His shoulders shook.
It was not like Ramses to yield to weakness, even after the event. I was touched, for I felt sure it had been my danger that had unmanned him. I patted