The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [107]
The man emerged from behind a pile of boulders which Emerson had just passed. Noiseless on bare feet, his dirty white robe almost invisible against the pale limestone of the rock walls, he launched himself at Emerson’s back. The sunlight struck blindingly from the knife in his hand.
“Emerson!” I screamed. “Behind you!”
The echoes rolled from cliff to cliff. Emerson spun around. Mohammed’s upraised arm fell. The knife found a target; Emerson staggered back, raising his hand to his face. He kept his feet, though, and Mohammed, arm raised to strike again, circled warily around him. He was not fool enough to close with Emerson, weaponless and wounded as he was.
Needless to say, I had continued to move forward as fast as possible. I was of course carrying my parasol. It required no more than a second or two to realize it was not the weapon I wanted. I could never reach them in time to prevent another blow. Tucking the parasol under my arm, I pulled my revolver from my pocket, aimed, and fired.
By the time I came up to Emerson, Mohammed was long gone. Emerson was still on his feet, leaning against a spur of rock. His upraised arm was pressed against his cheek. Since he never has a handkerchief, I deduced he had substituted his shirt sleeve for that useful article, in an attempt to staunch the blood that was turning the left side of his beard into a sticky mass and dripping down onto his shirt front.
Between agitation, extreme speed of locomotion, and relief, I was panting too heavily to articulate. Somewhat to my surprise Emerson waited for me to speak first. Over his unspeakable sleeve his eyes regarded me curiously.
“Another shirt ruined,” I gasped.
The intent blue orbs were veiled, momentarily, by lowered lids. After a moment Emerson muttered, “Not to mention my face. What were you shooting at?”
“Mohammed, of course.”
“You missed by a good six yards.”
“The shot achieved the desired effect.”
“He got away.”
“I resent the implied criticism. Sit down, you stubborn man, before you fall down, and take your dirty sleeve away from your face in order that I may assess the damage.”
It was not as bad as I had feared, but it was bad enough. The cut ran from cheekbone to jaw, and it was still bleeding freely. My handkerchief was obviously inadequate for the task at hand. I unbuttoned my jacket.
“What the devil are you doing?” Emerson asked, alarm overcoming his momentary faintness as I cast the garment aside and began unfastening my blouse.
“Preparing bandages, obviously,” I replied, removing the blouse. Emerson hastily closed his eyes; but I think he was looking through his lashes.
It was a deuced awkward wound to bandage. He looked rather like a half-finished mummy when I was done, but the flow of blood had almost stopped.
“At least you will balance now,” I said, reaching for my jacket. “This will match the scar on your other cheek.”
Emerson squinted at me through half-closed lids. “It will have to be stitched up at once,” I went on. “And thoroughly disinfected.”
Emerson sat bolt upright and glowered at me. He tried to say something, but the bandages I had wound around his jaws made articulation difficult. I understood the word, however.
“I fear I have no choice, Emerson. It is necessary to shave the scalp before treating a head wound, you know; the same is true of a wound on the face. But cheer up; I will only have to cut half of it off.”
CHAPTER 10
“The worse a man is, the more profound his slumber; for if he had a conscience, he would not be a villain.”
In the midday stillness the sound of the shots had echoed far, and, as I later learned, our friends had already noted our absence and begun searching for