The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [128]
“I made no promises” was the evasive reply. “But we owe the rascal, Peabody. It was through el-Gharbi, or rather one of his sources, that I was able to—er—acquire the motorcar. He also gave me the name of the man who forges official papers for him, and a chit telling him to comply with my request. Good, aren’t they?”
“Let us hope all our difficulties will be so easily solved,” I said.
“Don’t be such a pessimist, Peabody,” said Emerson. “Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me to enjoy the moment, without worrying about what the future may bring? What could be more enjoyable than this?”
I could have mentioned quite a number of things, but it was pleasant to sit round the fire with the fresh breeze of the desert cooling our faces and the blazing stars of the desert shining down. The infinite eyes of God—and nowhere in that vast wasteland to hide from them.
Fortunately my conscience was perfectly clear.
It was to be our last peaceful hour for several days. From Romani on, the road surface worsened, and we encountered a great deal of traffic. Heavy lorries lumbered past, loaded with supplies; troops of soldiers plodded through the sand. They gave us curious glances, but no one ventured to address us. The magnificent presence of Emerson, his nose jutting out from the spreading blackness of his beard, was imposing enough to win respect, and the presence of two veiled females forbade interference. The men had been warned to leave Moslem women strictly alone. Squeezed uncomfortably in our nest of baggage, Nefret and I looked enviously at the troops of cavalry that occasionally contested our right of way. Most of them were Australians or New Zealanders, and a splendid-looking lot of men they were.
It was after we passed el-Arish, the farthest advance of the railroad, that the real trouble began. Men were working on the tracks and our unusual group had begun to attract undesirable attention. Emerson, who thinks he knows everything—and usually does—declared he knew of another path that would lead us through the Wadi el-Arish and into Palestine from the southwest.
There had been fighting at Maghdaba, some twenty miles west of el-Arish, and the ground was strewn with the debris of battle, including the pathetic remains of horses and camels. After the second tire blew I began to worry about supplies. We were down to our last three cans of petrol, and the water was running low. The bed of the wadi was rough but not impassable; Selim kept turning and swerving, trying, as I supposed, to avoid the worst bumps. He could not avoid all of them; holding Nefret in a firm embrace, I began to wonder how the devil we were to get out of the cursed canyon. It was one of the longest wadis in the region, stretching all the way down into the desert. Suddenly there was a shout from Emerson.
“There!” he cried, pointing. “Left, Selim.”
I took one appalled look at the slope, littered with boulders, and shrieked, “Stop!”
Selim did, of course. When faced with conflicting orders from Emerson and me, he knew whose command to obey. Emerson turned and shot me an outraged glare. “What’s the matter with you, Peabody? There is no easier way out of the wadi for another five miles, and—”
“Easier? Well, Emerson, I will take your word for it, but I am not going to be bounced up that incline. Nefret and I will ascend on foot. Get out of those clothes, Nefret.”
I began stripping off my own garments as I spoke. Flushed with heat but perfectly composed, Nefret said meekly, “Yes, Mother,” and followed my example.
The men raised all sorts of objections. Emerson declared, “You can’t climb in those clothes!” and Selim, deeply offended, assured us that he was perfectly capable of getting the confounded motorcar up the slope without difficulty. Naturally I ignored these complaints. After fumbling about, I located one of the bundles I had brought and took out two pairs of boots.
“What the devil,” Emerson began.
“I believe in being prepared for all possible contingencies,” I replied. “And as you see, it is as well