Such were the reflections made by Leo Saint-Clair as he urged his horse on–for he had seen the wall and the notices two days earlier. Instead of repeating what he had said earlier about their being saved because they would not be pursued in large numbers, therefore, he concluded: If anyone catches us, we must kill them! We can only save ourselves by stopping the pursuit–by bringing down the pursuers.
Although he and his companions had seen the six horsemen who had come out of the stables galloping across the valley, they had not seen the three Zuchts.
All the reflections that Saint-Clair was able to make regarding these contingencies did not, of course, prevent him from simultaneously devoting the greater part of his mind, and all of his heart, to his primary preoccupation: Laure’s condition. That condition remained unmodified. Saint-Clair held the young woman in front of him, seated sideways, with her side leaning against his breast. Her head was tilted back in his folded left arm, slightly tilted to one side so that he could see her dear face–the face of a dead woman, unarguably! No breath passed between the teeth and the slightly-parted lips. No respiration, however imperceptible, stirred her throat or her bosom. All her limbs were quite inert. Even so...
Yes, the lover, attentive to all these indicators, said to himself, Even so! That suppleness in her joints, that warmth in her flesh... this is no dead woman! If she no longer lives, what killed her? The blood trickling over her shoulder and left side was nothing: a rip in the ear-lobe, a platinum earring having been torn away in the course of the struggle in which the dressing-gown was reduced to tatters. The cut in her ear has already closed, the blood having clotted. Strangled? No–her neck is unblemished, without he slightest bruise. What then? Is she dead or alive? She certainly isn’t breathing–but cases of catalepsy have been observed in which respiration seemed to have stopped...
“Halt!” cried a muffled voice. It was Wolf, who was following the example set by Corsat in exercising the initiative he had received an hour before. As Saint-Clair, Corsat and Pilou came abreast of him, he pointed to a white rock that loomed up to the left 300 meters away. “There’s a short cut that leads straight to the pass. It turns off on this side of that white rock, I’ve just seen three men go up it, with rifles slung over their shoulders. They’ll get there before us and set an ambush.”
“And behind us,” Pilou said, “the six horsemen are gaining on us. Listen.”
They listened. Twenty-four iron horseshoes were striking the rocky path, displacing stones whose consequent rolling could easily be distinguished.
The Nyctalope did not hesitate. “We’re in enemy territory,” he said, coldly, “fully engaged in hostilities in a war without mercy. I presume they’ll only shoot at our horses, and will make any sacrifice to take us alive, for they want us to suffer more than death. We must defend ourselves and save ourselves. The life and liberty of millions of people depends on our liberty. It’s necessary that you keep that constantly in mind. We must be merciless. Corsat, Pilou, dismount. Hide here, to the right and to the left, and shoot down the six men who are pursuing us. Because the guns make no sound, you should each be able to kill two before being spotted, and you’ll have to strike the last two down quickly, in case they’re able to immobilize you in some unforeseen manner. We must expect them to use gas, or something else. I’m astonished that they haven’t fired shells containing asphyxiating gas at us. All that will doubtless be explained, and other things besides...” 25
He paused, listened, and murmured, after having satisfied himself; “We have the time.” He went on: “I’ll lead both your horses. As the path leads through the woods now, they won’t see that two of our horses are riderless. As soon as the job’s done, catch me up quickly–we’ll slow down to a walk in the wood.”
While listening, Corsat and Pilou had dismounted and tied the silent and passive red-haired man securely to one of the horses. He seemed utterly dazed, with the eyes of an idiot and slack features.
“Let’s go!” said Saint-Clair.
While Corsat and Pilou, Brownings in hand, hid themselves behind rocks and bushes to the right and left of the path, Wolf urged his mount forward. Saint-Clair followed, still holding Laurence tightly, leading the other two horses by the bridle.
Ten minutes later, during which he had heard three cries and the sound of something heavy rolling downslope with the pebbles, Saint-Clair was rejoined by the Provençal and the Burgundian. “It’s done,” said Pilou, mounting his animal. “The six men were unarmed, although each had a lasso.”
“Good,” said Saint-Clair.
Corsat, who said nothing, and did not want to untie or displace the red-haired man, simply took the bridle from his employer’s hand and walked beside the horse,
Shortly afterwards, they arrived at the extremity of the wood. The road zigzagged over the bare mountain, which was crowned by an irregular wall, between two crags separated by a large breach: the pass through which it was necessary to go, close to which the three riflemen must be lying in ambush.
They stopped. They could not see anything moving. in the light of the sun–which was still high in the sky–pebbles shone here and there. The scene was calm, serene and bright, and the silence as now absolute.
“I see their strategy,” Saint-Clair said, in a low voice, as if talking to himself. “The six horsemen would have captured us with their lassos when the three awaiting us up there shot our horses, or at least obliged us to rein them in. A stupid strategy–it’s not Lucifer who’s in command of Schwarzrock at present. He can’t have made a full recovery if, as I dread, he still lives. I ought to have put a bullet in his head and another in his heart–but I was only thinking of Laure! Then again, to kill an unconscious man, even when he’s an enemy of that magnitude... no!”
He fell silent, looked at Laurence, stifled a sob and turned towards the Burgundian. “Corsat, I’m entrusting this woman to you. You must return her to me or be dead. Wolf, stand guard over the red-haired man and our horses. Pilou, dismount and come with me. Corsat, if you hear a shot without it being immediately followed by a whistle-blast, I’ll be dead. In that case, wait for Pilou for a quarter of an hour, then flee. And–listen to this, Corsat... If you see that this woman is about to be recaptured by the men of Schwarzrock, my friend, plant your dagger in her heart. Perhaps she’s dead already, but if she’s alive, I don’t want her to wake up in front of that monster. If she knew what was going on and were able to speak, she’d beg you to kill her. So kill her!”
Corsat was very pale. He received the beautiful inanimate body in his arms, wrapped in its white mantle. “I’ll kill her, boss!” he said, hoarsely.
“Good. Thank you, on her behalf and mine. Come on, Pilou!”
Saint-Clair had considered the possibility that the three men Wolf had mentioned might also be equipped with lassos. To risk approaching the pass without first rendering the three men harmless would, therefore, be foolish. They might also be first-rate marksmen, capable of bringing down Saint-Clair’s, Corsat’s and Pilou’s mounts with three simultaneous shots. While a fourth shot was fired at Wolf’s head or heart, two lassos might immobilize Saint-Clair and Corsat. Thanks to the disposition of the rocks to either side of the path, the three assailants would be able to act virtually without being seen by their victims.
Even given all that, they might still have been able to triumph, but to risk a fight in such circumstances would be deplorable. It was much better to take the enemy by surprise, if possible, and to risk being wounded or killed in doing so–for it might well be the case that if they could not take them captive, the men of Schwarzrock would be licensed to kill them, so long as no stray bullet could strike the woman...
This was why Saint-Clair and Pilou, creeping through the bracken at the edge of the wood, made rapid progress in the direction of the narrow path on which Wolf had seen the three men. It could not be very far away, since it led to the pass.
“Without any doubt,” Saint-Clair said, “it must wind through the chaos of that landsl
ide of black rocks over there. Anyone could climb up there without being seen. While the path zigzags through the rocks, it will serve us as well as it served them.”
“We’ll fall upon them before they see us, boss!” Pilou murmured.
“I hope so. Faster!”
The Nyctalope was not mistaken. A visible path meandered through the chaos of black rocks.
“Excuse me, boss!” Slithering like a snake, Pilou went on ahead before Saint-Clair could object–and in the absence of a formal order, the positions of the two men could not be reversed, for the path was too narrow for Saint-Clair to overtake Pilou unless Pilou stopped and moved aside into some cranny. Saint-Clair did not give any order. He sometimes rewarded the devotion of his men by permitting them to look out for him, and that was the reward they most desired. One can imagine the prudence with which they advanced, albeit with all possible haste.
The tall rocks looming over the path projected a continuous shadow through which they slid, sometimes hugging the left-hand side of the natural wall and sometimes the right. Their dark leotards rendered them nearly invisible. They paused for a few seconds at each bend in the path–for just enough time for Pilou to stick out his head and see what lay ahead. Then, they set off again, lithe and alert, their Brownings in their hands.
Suddenly, at one such bend, Pilou whispered: “Wait, boss!”
“Are they there?”
“Yes.”
“Have they stopped?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Footsteps sounded, though, and Pilou raised his hand in warning. After a minute, the footsteps faded away. “Two have gone,” Pilou whispered. “One’s still there.”
“In ambush?”
“Yes.”
“The place must overlook the other path. Pilou!”
“Boss?”
“Is he positioned in such a way that we can attack him and gag him without his having the time to...?”
“Yes. He’s kneeling down, with his back to us. He’s concentrating on the path.”
“His rifle?”
“Propped up against the rock beside him.”
“How far away is he?”
“Twenty meters. Along the path to the right-hand side, though, there’s a ribbon of rock, bare and smooth, on which our footsteps won’t make any noise.”
“I want to avoid killing him, since it’s possible,” Saint-Clair said. “We won’t shoot him if he doesn’t hear or see us. The gag?”
“I have it in my hand–a headscarf.”
“Good! I’ve got the cord. Let’s go–but keep your hand on the butt of your Browning, half-holstered. If we have to shoot, the weapons can be drawn and cocked in less than a second. If we can get close enough to him to jump him, the weapons will fall into their holsters. Ready?”
“I am.”
“Go!”
“Right!”
Pilou rounded the rocky outcrop from whose shelter he had made his observations, without the risk of been seen, thanks to indentations that masked everything while permitting the passage of rays of light. Saint-Clair followed him immediately. Their thick rubber soles made no noise. There were no stones on the rocky ribbon that formed a sort of irregular sidewalk which would have rolled away if accidentally kicked, because the ribbon was steeply inclined towards the middle of the path. The two men sometimes had to put their shoulders to the rock and brace themselves in order not to slip; fortunately, the rock was dry.
Saint-Clair and Pilou gazed steadfastly at the broad back, thick neck and Tyrolean hat of the kneeling man, who was intently watching a patch of ground that Pilou and Saint-Clair could not see.
Suddenly, the man sat back on his heels, while maintaining his kneeling position, and his right hand reached out to his rifle–but he never completed the gesture. Pouncing like a cat, Pilou landed on his back and wrapped his large scarf twice around the man’s head, covering his mouth. The man fell backwards, his arms raised–but two hands seized his wrists and rapidly bound them together.
The man found himself laid flat on his back, his feet tied together as quickly as his hands. His furious eyes were wide open.
Saint-Clair leaned over him. “No harm will come to you, friend,” he whispered, in German, “if you stay still. My companion is tightening your bonds so that you can’t get free. I’m going to use the muzzle of my Browning to stuff the scarf further into your mouth, and my comrade will attach a second gag made out of your own scarf. That way, it will take a long time for you to free yourself from the gag, even if you rub your neck against the rock.”
“He’ll get there in the end, though,” Pilou said.
“Of course–but we’ll be far away by then. He won’t be able to give chase, because it will take him even longer to work through the cords tying his arms and legs. I’ll disarm him completely: his ammunition belt–empty the cartridges from his rifle, Pilou–his hunting-knife... perfect! I saw a pool of water in the middle of the path, ten paces...”
“I know where it is, boss–I understand!”.
Pilou went to the pool, which was quite deep, and gently lowered into it the ammunition-belt, the unloaded rifle and the eight cartridges removed from its magazine. He slid the hunting-knife into a nearby fissure, in which it disappeared entirely.
“That’s one!” said Saint-Clair, quite satisfied by not being obliged to kill the man, and hoping to do the same with the others.
“Shall we go?” asked Pilou.
“Yes.”
They went on, leaving the recumbent man where he was. Pilou was now in the lead. After five or six minutes, they were able to ascertain that they were only 100 meters from the pass, as a bird flies. They redoubled their concentration, because the other two ambushers could not be far away.
Almost immediately, they stopped, holding their breath. A man was standing three paces in front of them, rifle in hand, with the butt under his arm. His back was turned to them, but he undoubtedly had the sensation of being watched, for he made a movement of his head which displayed three-quarters of his face.
“Don’t move! Silence!” growled Saint-Clair, in a restrained voice. His Browning was aimed in a threatening manner. Immediately, still speaking in German, he added: “Pilou–fire at the rock to demonstrate that our weapons make no noise.”
The Provençal fired. There was a dull impact as the bullet flattened, but no other sound.
The man was not stupid. He understood that if he opened his mouth, a bullet in the head would kill him instantly and cut off his cry before it could even emerge from his larynx. His sacrifice would be futile, for the deadly bullet would do its work without any detonation to testify that it had been done. As for firing his rifle, that was impossible–for the good reason that he no longer had it. As prompt as his master, Pilou had seized the butt of the rifle and snatched it away, during an instant of hesitation immediately after he had received the order to fire at the rock. He had kept the rifle in his left hand while the right drew the Browning from its holster and fired; it was all done with Pilou’s incomparable rapidity and sureness of movement.
“Surrender or die–choose!” Saint-Clair went on. “Reply quietly.”
“I surrender,” the man said, sheepishly.
“Bind and gag him, Pilou. He has a scarf. He must also have a handkerchief–use his bootlaces.” Then, addressing his captive, he continued, as calmly as if he had been engaged in the most ordinary conversation: “It must have been your brother that we met back there. He resembles you strongly.”
“Yes, he’s my brother,” the man replied, as Pilou tied him up before gagging him.
“I would have been able to kill him even more easily, for we seized him before he saw us–but I’m content to render him incapable of crying out or getting to his feet for some time. If you don’t want the third man to lose his life, tell me where he is and how I can best take him by surprise. The first two coups have succeeded, by virtue of good luck–I’m afraid that the third...”
The man respon
ded straightforwardly, his gaze calm and direct. “The other man is my father, Adalbert Zucht. I’m Franz, the younger son; the one over there is the elder, Berthold. In the absence of any direct order from our father against you–whom I shall recognize if ever I see you again–you may count on the fact that Berthold and Franz Zucht will not forget that you spared our lives. We are not Prussian brutes, but honest and loyal mountain men of Baden. Don’t kill my father! He’s up there–look! That white stone hides him from us as it hides us from him. He’s covering the pass. You can surprise him by continuing along this path, which turns sharply around the rock. He has no reason to expect an enemy from that side, so he won’t be on his guard–but he has fine ears, and he’s very quick. Don’t kill him! He speaks French, as I and my brother do.”
“We shan’t kill him,” Saint-Clair said, gravely, in French, “provided that he doesn’t shoot at us. If he does, we’ll be obliged to break his arm, at least, for if his first shot misses–as I’m almost sure it will–I can’t permit him to fire a second. But we’ll hurt him as little as we possibly can. You’ve spoken well, and I believe that your thoughts match your speech. I trust your word. Will you swear to me that, from this moment on, you’ll be neutral? if so, you’ll be untied and not gagged.
“I swear!” said Franz, raising his hand.
“Can you answer for your brother?”
“I’ll answer for him.”
“Good. Go set him free. Untie him, Pilou. Take back your rifle, Franz–but don’t make any noise going down to your brother.”
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer! Page 23
