The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [167]
I poured a cup for the afflicted journalist and reminded him that it was his own fault he was enduring thirst and heat. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know, Kevin. I hope yours may not be the death of you.”
“Speaking of cats,” Kevin said, “tell me about that diabolical-looking creature that follows the professor around. I thought when I first saw it that it was the one you adopted after I’affaire Baskerville, but this one appears to be much more savage and less domesticated.”
“We are taking care of it temporarily for a friend,” I replied. “There is no news story in that, Kevin. Will you excuse me? I want to see what they are doing.”
“Should you be walking on that ankle?” Kevin asked, as I levered myself to my feet with the aid of my trusty parasol.
“It is not broken or sprained, only a trifle sore. Stay here, Kevin, I don’t need you.”
Under Emerson’s direction the men were fitting together a rough scaffold, binding the strips of wood together with rope. It was a horribly ramshackle affair, but I knew that it was a good deal sturdier than it looked. I had often seen our men scampering up and down such structures with the insouciance of tightrope walkers, apparently oblivious to the way the boards creaked and swayed. This time, I knew it would have to bear a heavier weight.
Cyrus was so intent on the work that he did not see me until I stood next to him. I brushed aside his protests and his attempt to pick me up. He followed me, still protesting, as I hobbled on.
Beyond the shoulder of rock a ravine cut at a sharp angle into the cliff. The usual litter of broken stone and flood-deposited pebbles covered its floor, and the sides were laced with black shadows where crevices of all sizes and shapes broke the rocky walls.
I looked up and my heart gave a great leap as I saw the figure of a man silhouetted against the sky. Then I recognized Ali. Leaning precariously over the edge, he helped another of the men to climb up beside him. Turning, they looked down, not at me but at those just around the corner of the cliff.
“What are they doing?” Cyrus asked curiously.
“Ali and Daoud are lowering ropes. The men below will fasten them to the top of the scaffold. There is no other way of anchoring the structure, since even steel spikes, which we do not have, would be difficult to drive into solid rock. Emerson will tie another rope around his waist as a safety measure. At least I hope he will.”
“If he does not, you will remind him,” Cyrus said with a smile.
“Certainly. I had better go and make sure.”
Before we went on, I turned for another look at the desolate valley behind us and at the cliff that bounded its northern side. The rickety scaffold and those on it were fully exposed to anyone who might be lying in hiding behind the tumbled rocks on the top.
“You and your men are still armed, I observe,” I said.
“And will be,” Cyrus said grimly. Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked up. “Yep, that would be a good spot for a lookout. I’ll send one of the boys, if you’ll go back and sit down.”
He gave me no opportunity to argue, picking me up and walking with long strides back to the rug. Emerson was already on the scaffold and Rene was climbing up to join him. Both, I was relieved to observe, wore safety ropes.
The sun rose higher and the shade shrank. Cyrus’s foresight had provided even for that; his men rigged a little shelter, with piled-up rocks and canvas stretched over it. By the time the men stopped for food and rest, the temperature was well into the nineties. Of them all, Rene appeared most exhausted, which was no wonder, since he had been on the scaffold in the boiling sun for several hours.
As the long afternoon wore on without incident, the uneasiness with which I had faced the day ought to have lessened. Instead it mounted, hour by slow hour, until every inch of my skin felt