The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [130]
I had taken off my belt before I reclined. Much as I would have liked to take it with me, I dared not risk the noise. Thanking heaven and my own foresight for my useful pockets, I distributed several important tools among them. One of the most important, my handy little knife, provided me with a convenient exit from the tent. After cutting a long slit I returned the knife to my pocket, picked up my parasol, and exited.
Cyrus had placed my tent some distance from the others in a thoughtful attempt to give me as much privacy as the terrain allowed. It was not much, for at its greatest extent the wadi was only a few hundred feet wide. My tent backed up onto the slope of scree that bordered the cliffs. Carrying my boots, I crept along the base of it. Even our Egyptian friends wore sandals here, for the thick integument that years of going barefoot had developed on the soles of their feet was insufficient protection against the sharp-edged stones littering the floor of the canyon. My thick stockings served me no better, but I did not dare assume my boots until after I had gone some distance and was concealed from sight of the camp by a series of outcroppings.
It was extremely hot and very still. The only shade was high up on the steep, loose scree of the slope at the base of the cliff. Since haste was imperative, I had to follow the path winding among the boulders on the bottom, now in full sunlight. If I had not been in such a hurry I would have enjoyed the walk. It was the first time in many days I had been alone.
Naturally I kept a firm grip on my parasol and a sharp eye on the surroundings, but I was more inclined to trust that sixth sense that warns of lurking danger. Persons like myself, who are sensitive to atmosphere and who have been often subject to violent attack, develop this sense to an acute degree. It had seldom failed me.
I cannot explain why it failed on this occasion. No doubt I was preoccupied with composing the speech I meant to make to Kevin. The men must have been lying concealed and motionless for some time, for I certainly would have heard sounds of someone descending the slope.
They did not come out of hiding until after I had passed the first of them, so that when they emerged, simultaneously, I found retreat cut off. A second man popped out of a hole opposite me; two others appeared ahead. They looked very much alike in their turbans and grubby robes, but I recognized one of them. Mohammed had not run away after all. I had to admire his persistence, but I did not like the way he was grinning at me.
The cliff face was split by innumerable crevices and cracks. Some of the fallen boulders were big enough to conceal not one but several men. How many opponents must I defeat? Taking a firm grip on my parasol, I considered alternatives with a rapidity of thought my measured prose cannot attempt to convey.
Flight, in any direction, would have been folly. I could not scramble up the scree fast enough to escape those who would follow. A rapid advance would have sent me straight into the waiting arms of two adversaries, who were now advancing slowly toward me. Retreat—not flight, but a considered, deliberate withdrawal—eastward, in the direction from which I had come, appeared to offer the best hope. If I could dispose of the single man who barred my way…
But even as I shifted my parasol to my left hand and reached for my pistol, that hope was reduced by the rattle and crunch of rock. Another man was coming from the east to reinforce his confederate, and at considerable speed. There was not much chance, I feared, that I could incapacitate or elude two men. A hand weapon is inaccurate except at very close range, and I would be running as I fired. I would have to try, of course.
The second man came into view, and my fingers froze on the barrel of the pistol (which had shifted around in my pocket in a way I had not anticipated). Astonishment paralyzed