The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [106]
He had stretched out on the ground, his hat shading his face. I occupied one of the tents, Cyrus another. The young men had gone to the house Cyrus had built. Where Bertha was I did not know, but I felt certain the man Cyrus had assigned to watch her did know.
Less than half an hour had passed when Emerson removed the hat from his face and sat up. He gave the tent where I lay concealed a long, suspicious survey before rising to his feet.
I waited until he was out of sight behind the ridge before I followed. As I had suspected, he was heading east, toward the cliffs and the entrance to the royal wadi.
The plain and the crumpled faces of the cliffs were utterly devoid of life. At this time of day even the desert animals sought their burrows. The only moving objects were a hawk, circling high in the sun-whitened sky, and the tall, erect figure ahead. My skin was prickling as I hurried after it. Emerson had—quite deliberately—given Mohammed or another adversary precisely the opportunity he wanted. Such a man would watch and follow, waiting in deadly patience for the moment when he might find his victim alone.
I waited until Emerson had almost reached the cleft in the cliff before I hailed him. I dared wait no longer; there were a hundred hiding places in the tumbled rock at their base, thousands among the narrowing walls of the wadi. He heard; he turned; an explosive comment floated to my ears. But he waited for me to join him.
“I ought to have anticipated this,” he remarked, as, panting and perspiring, I came up to him. “Can’t a man go for a peaceful stroll without you following like a hound on the scent? Return at once.”
“Peaceful stroll?” I gasped. “Do you think I was fooled by all that nonsense about Nefertiti’s tomb? I suppose you think you can order the rest of us to continue digging out that wretched village while you pretend to work in the royal wadi. You have no intention of wasting time there; the proposal is only a blind—a lure, rather, for an enemy stupid enough to believe your boasts about secret tombs—with yourself as the bait in the trap!”
“You are mixing your metaphors,” said Emerson critically. His tone was mild, but I knew that soft purring voice, and there was a gleam in his eyes I had seen before—but never directed at me. “Now turn around and go back, MISS Peabody—or squat there, on a rock if you prefer, till I return—or I will put you over my shoulder and carry you back to your friend Vandergelt, who will make sure you don’t wander off again.”
He took a step toward me. I took a step back. I had not meant to.
“Cyrus would not do that,” I said.
“I think he would.”
I thought he would too. And there was no doubt in my mind that Emerson would do what he had threatened to do.
The idea had a certain attraction, but I put it aside. I could not stop Emerson, short of shooting him in the leg (an idea that had its own kind of attraction, but that might prove counterproductive in the long run). If I were to guard and protect him, craft and cunning were my only weapons. I proceeded to employ them, dropping down on the rock he had indicated and blinking my eyes furiously as if I were trying to hold back my tears.
“I will wait here,” I said, sniffing.
“Oh,” said Emerson. “Well, then. See that you do.” After a moment he added gruffly, “I won’t be long.”
As I believe I have mentioned, the wadi takes a turn to the east almost immediately, and a spur of rock cuts off the explorer’s view of the plain. Emerson passed around it. I waited, watching the spot over the handkerchief I had raised to my eyes. After a short time Emerson’s head appeared, his narrowed eyes glaring at me. I bowed my head to hide my smile and pressed the handkerchief to my lips.
The head vanished, and I heard the crunch of rock under his feet as he walked on. As soon as the sounds faded I followed.
My heart was thudding as I hastened