The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [169]
I have never struck an animal and I did not do so on this occasion. The sound of my voice crying “Yalla! Yalla!” was spur enough. Ears back, the little donkey thundered on at a speed it had probably never attained before. Like all the donkeys on all my expeditions, it had been given good care since it came into my hands, and now kindness had borne useful fruit, as the Scripture assures us it must.
As I rode I strained my eyes in the hope of seeing a moving form among the foothills. I saw nothing; the uneven terrain offered ample opportunity for concealment, and his dusty clothing would blend with the pale shade of the rocks. He had gone that way, I felt certain, following the curve of the bow while the rest of the group headed straight south along the royal road. I could only guess at his ultimate destination, but I knew his purpose as clearly as if I had heard him proclaim it. Somehow, by some means that eluded me, he had arranged for an encounter with our deadly enemy.
I hoped to head him off before he got to wherever he was going. The donkeys had walked slowly; Emerson’s pace could equal theirs, even over rough ground. By cutting across the plain at an angle, I intended my path to intersect his, not at the point where I judged he must be at this moment, but at some point ahead of where he would be when I arrived. He could not be far from his intended destination now; even Emerson would not be fool enough to tackle such a dangerous foe in darkness. At least Abdullah was with him, and two armed men. Perhaps the situation was not so desperate as I had feared. Nevertheless, I did not regret my action. Emerson’s impulsive nature requires the restraint of a cooler individual.
I expected there would be pursuit, but I did not look back. My eyes were fixed on the cliffs, which were rapidly drawing nearer, and as I realized where I was headed a hand seemed to grip my heart and squeeze it. To the left a row of dark rectangles broke the glowing pink of the sunset-brightened cliffs. They were the entrances to the northern tombs, the final resting places of the nobles of Akhenaton’s court. To the right, not far distant, was the entrance to the royal wadi. Was it that ill-omened place Emerson had selected for the setting of the last act of the drama?
No, it was not. The entrance was some distance away when I saw him. For once he was wearing his pith helmet, so even the distinctive black hair was concealed. It was a cloud of smoke that betrayed his presence. Perched comfortably on a rock, he was smoking his pipe and watching my approach. Perched comfortably on a nearby rock was the cat Anubis, watching Emerson. On the ground at Emerson’s feet was a rifle.
Rising, he brought the donkey to a stop by tearing the reins out of my hand. “ ‘Ubiquitous’ is certainly one word for you,” he said. “ ‘Inopportune’ is another that comes to mind.”
I was not deceived by the calm of his voice, for it had the low purring note that indicates Emerson’s really serious rages, as opposed to his little fits of temper. His eyes moved from my face to that of the rider who was bearing down upon us. Cyrus must have taken Bertha’s donkey. I hoped he had not whipped the poor thing, to come so fast.
“Can’t I trust you to carry out the simplest assignment, Vandergelt?” Emerson inquired.
Cyrus dismounted. “I will tie her to the donkey. Hold her hands while—”
I brandished my parasol. “The first man who lays a hand on me or the donkey—”
“It is too late,” Emerson said. “He, or one of his men, is behind that ridge just north of us. There is another one to the south. It is a safe assumption that they are armed, and you would be a tempting target on the open plain. He let you approach unharmed so that he could gather us all into his little trap before he pulled the strings tight.”
He rose to his feet, stretching. “Get down,” I exclaimed.
“Neither of them can get us in their