The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [131]
I took it that the order was addressed to me, and I was certainly in no position to object to the way it had been phrased. Emerson’s sudden appearance and abrupt action had sent our opponents into momentary confusion; I had no difficulty in outstripping the man who was nearest to me. They were all close behind, though, and when Emerson caught my hand and fled, dragging me with him, I was in full agreement with his decision. I did wish he would get over his prejudice against firearms, however. A rifle would have been particularly useful just then.
We were over a mile from the camp and I did not see how we could reach it without being overtaken. Had he come alone? Was help on the way? Questions flooded my mind but I was too short of breath to articulate them, which is probably just as well, because Emerson was obviously in no mood to permit debate. After rounding an outcrop of rock he turned abruptly to the right, caught me round the waist, and threw me up onto the rocky slope. “Go on,” he gasped, emphasizing the suggestion by a sharp slap on a convenient part of my anatomy. “Through that opening. Hurry!”
Looking up, I saw the opening he referred to—a black irregular hole in the cliff face. It was roughly triangular in shape, narrowing to a crack that turned at a sharp angle to meet the top of the slope. Only at its widest part was there room for the passage of a body. Mine passed, with little conscious volition on my part but with considerable assistance from Emerson, shoving from behind. I did not resist, though the prospect of dropping down into blackness, with no idea of what lay below and beyond, was not especially appealing. It was more appealing than the alternative, however.
I landed somewhat forcibly on an uneven surface about six feet below the opening. The floor was littered with stones and other objects which pressed painfully into my bare hands. As I struggled to my feet I heard a nasty crunching sound and a scream, followed by a rumble of falling rock. I deduced that Emerson had kicked one of our pursuers in the face. The ensuing confusion gave him time to make a more dignified entrance into the hole than I had managed; feet first, he dropped down beside me, and for a few moments he was too out of breath to do more than pant heavily.
The space in which we stood was quite small. Immediately behind us the floor sloped sharply up toward the ceiling. The width was no more than five or six feet, but from the relative regularity of the side walls I deduced it must be the entrance to one of the tombs Emerson had mentioned.
Emerson got his breath back. “Where is that ridiculous pistol of yours?” was his first question.
I produced it and handed it to him. Extending his arm out the opening, he pulled the trigger three times.
“Why are you wasting bullets?” I demanded. “There are only six in the pistol, and you didn’t even—”
“I am summoning assistance,” was the brusque reply.
Summoning assistance is not something Emerson often does. In this case it seemed the only sensible course. The entrance to the tomb-cave was so narrow and inconveniently located our adversaries could only pass through it one at a time—at the considerable risk of being knocked on the head, one at a time, by Emerson, as they did so—but neither could we get out while they were waiting for us. Emerson had— for once—accepted the inevitable, but he obviously did not like it.
“Oh,” I said. “Then you came alone?”
“Yes,” said Emerson, very softly. Then his voice rose to a roar that deafened my ears. “You damned-fool woman! What the devil possessed you to do such an idiotic thing?”
I started back, but I did not go very far; Emerson’s hands shot out and gripped my shoulders. He shook me like a terrier with a rat, shouting all the while. Distorted by echoes, the words were relatively unintelligible, but I got the idea.
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