by W E Johns
Scooping a hole for his hip, and piling up the sand to form a pillow, he lay down, and so exhausted was he that, in spite of his discomfort and anxiety, he was soon asleep. Nor did he awake until the dawn wind fanned his brow.
Refreshed, he sat up, drank a little water, and then, picking up his things, set off once more on the trail of the caravan, little dreaming that Biggles and the others were, at that precise moment, turning their backs on the Tourer and starting off down the wadi.
The pleasant conditions of dawn were short-lived. In a little while the sun flamed up above the hill-tops, and the dreaded heat came again to torture him. Inevitably his stride shortened, but he struggled on, with the hoof-marks of the camels now dancing before his eyes.
The trail seemed interminable as hour after hour he dragged his protesting body through a shimmering nightmare-world of heat and desolation. Would it never end? More than once he was on the point of giving up, almost overwhelmed by a sense of hopeless futility. He felt that he had been marching for weeks instead of hours; he had no idea of how far he had travelled, for time and distance had become meaningless.
He was nearly at the end of his endurance, and he was swaying as he walked, when, rounding a heat-distorted mass of rock, he saw the thing he had begun by hoping to find, but had long since dismissed from his thoughts: an oasis. At first he could not believe it, so unreal did the green palms look after the colourless wilderness through which he had passed; but when at last he convinced himself that it was really there, he took a good drink of water and strode on with renewed vigour.
The oasis was, he judged, not more than two miles away, but in this, like Biggles, he was mistaken, for it took him nearly an hour to reach it. On his right rose a towering hill, but he paid little attention to it, being more concerned with the oasis and the village which he now saw behind it.
As he neared the motionless palms, he began to move with more caution, realizing that the caravan had probably halted in their shade. Dodging from cover to cover, he approached, and he soon saw that there was good ground for his suspicions. Camels were standing among the trees, but all seemed very quiet, so, with the stealth of a Red Indian on the war-path, he crept nearer.
Presently he saw the pool, and passed his tongue over his dry lips at the thought of burying his face in the cool water. But this was a pleasure in which he could not immediately indulge, for lying near the edge were two Tuareg, asleep, judging by their attitudes. Several camels browsed in the palms behind them, beside their loads, which included the petrol-cans.
For some minutes he watched the two Arabs, but when they did not move he decided to take a chance. Creeping round to the opposite side of the pool, he wormed his way forward until he could reach the water; then, unslinging his water-bottle, he held it under the surface until it was full.
Still the Arabs did not move, so, emboldened by his success, he crept nearer, and was about to plunge his face into the water when an incident occurred that caused an abrupt change in his plan. The water on the far side of the pool parted as a long black object broke the surface and surged towards the sleeping man. He saw at once that it was an enormous crocodile, and he sprang back into the trees in a panic, fearing that there might be more.
In that brief moment the dreadful thing had happened. The crocodile, moving at a speed that he would not have imagined possible, dashed forward, and its huge jaws closed over the legs of the nearest Tuareg.
In a split second all was uproar and confusion. The doomed man let out a scream of terror, and clawed madly at the sand over which he was now being dragged towards the pool. He might as well have clutched at the air for all that it helped him. His companion seemed to lose his head. Aroused suddenly from a heavy sleep, at first he could only dash up and down shouting at the top of his voice; then, seeing that this was likely to be of no avail, he rushed into the trees and returned an instant later with a rifle. Hardly pausing to take aim, he blazed into the flying spray at the edge of the pool.
Whether the shot had any effect on either man or beast Algy did not wait to see, for, ricocheting off the water, it came near to hitting him, and he darted out of the line of fire. Vaguely he had wondered what had become of the rest of the caravan, and the crashing report answered the question for him, for, from the near distance —from the village, it seemed —came answering shouts. He waited for no more, but with the lance and water-bottle in one hand, and the rifle in the other, he made off as fast as his legs could carry him. Where he was going he did not know, for the palms obstructed his view. Not that he cared particularly; his one idea was to place himself as quickly as possible some distance from the pool, so that the other Tuareg, whom he could now hear running down the hill from the village, would not discover him. For a good ten minutes he ran, and then, hearing no sound of pursuit, he paused to recover his breath. A short distance away a tiny white object caught his eye, and he picked it up curiously, wondering what it could be. It was, he found, a piece of paper, but it was not that fact alone that made him drop his weapons and stare at it in dumb amazement. There was printing on it, and the words were in English. Reading them, he perceived that what he held was a fragment of one of the old newspapers that had been used to wrap up certain of their stores. The significance of it was not lost on him; he knew that the others must have been there, and that with food and water available they should still be alive.
Gone now was the old lethargy, and he looked eagerly to right and left in the hope of finding another clue. Seeing nothing of the kind, however, he turned his interest to his surroundings, and observed that he was on the edge of the oasis on the side nearest to the village. No one was in sight, and a babble of voices from the direction of the pool told him the reason: the Tuareg had forgathered there. Where were Biggles and the others? Where had they gone after leaving the oasis? With the Tuareg about, it seemed hardly likely that they could still be in it. Had they gone back to the machine, assuming that they knew the way, or had they gone up to the village? The latter seemed most likely; in any case, it seemed fairly certain that they would go and explore it before returning to the machine. His best plan, he decided, was to do the same thing. If he did not find them in the village then he would return to the original rendezvous.
Making a wide detour that took him some distance round the hill, to a position where he could not be seen from the pool, he beean his arduous ascent, beating off the flies that swarmed around his head. He could see no sign of a gateway, but following the wall as the others had done, although some distance from the point where they had struck it, he found a place where the rampart had crumbled, and up this, not without difficulty, he made his way.
Clambering down over the falling stones on the inside of the wall, he found himself in a narrow deserted street, but there appeared to be an open space at the far end, for he could see white sunlight blazing down into it. Still using the lance as a staff, in which capacity he had found it very useful, and with the rifle under his left arm, he made his way quietly down the street, keeping a sharp watch for signs of the others, but little dreaming of the spectacle that awaited him at the end. Alert for danger, he peeped round the corner into the square.
He must have remained motionless, staring, for a good half minute, while his eyes conveyed to his brain the almost unbelievable truth; and it was only Kadar’s voice raving in delirium, that finally spurred him to action.
In the centre of the square, not more than a score of paces away, lay three figures which he recognized at once, although the grim details were not immediately apparent. Standing near them, with their backs towards him, were three Tuareg, rifles under their arms. A short distance away a small group of camels patiently awaited their owners’ pleasure.
Algy realized that a few moments before all the Tuareg must have been there, but the diversion caused by the crocodile had sent most of them rushing down to the pool to see what was the matter; and, needless to say, he was more than thankful that it was so, for he had no delusions about the fighting qualitie
s of the Tuareg, and the three who had evidently been left on guard over the prisoners were likely to prove a formidable nut to crack.
His opening move was not very successful. Leaning the lance against the wall in order to leave his hands free, he took aim at the nearest Tuareg, for he knew that the only arguments the desert nomads understood were bullets and cold steel, and any other method of approach would be mere foolishness. So he prepared forthwith to reduce the number of his opponents to two.
But there is much truth in old proverbs, and the one about ‘many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip’ is no exception. In this case it was the lance that slipped, and even as his finger was tightening on the trigger, it slid down the wall and struck the ground with a crash.
The Tuareg, who by their very natures are always alert for danger, whirled round at the precise moment that Algy’s rifle cracked, with the result that the bullet missed its mark. Dropping on to one knee, he jerked another cartridge into the breech, and by that time the Tuareg were half-way towards him. The rifle spat again, and this time there was no mistake; the leading Arab crashed forward into the dust. One of the others fired as he ran; the bullet smashed against the wall near Algy’s face, and the sting of the soft lead, some of which splashed against his shoulder, nearly knocked him over. He fired again, and the second Arab went down, but he was only wounded, and was soon on his knees, still holding his rifle.
But Algy was now in an evil case,for the last Tuareg was on him. Fortunately, as it happened, he was the man who had already discharged his weapon, but, whirling it round, he prepared to use the butt. Algy made a desperate attempt to get another cartridge into the breech, but his haste was his undoing, and, in attempting to close the bolt before the cartridge was in line, the weapon jammed. There was no time to clear it. Springing to his feet, he swung it above his head to protect himself from the other’s flailing butt. He was only just in time. The big, old-fashioned weapon came down with a crash across his own, splintering to pieces under the impact and knocking him over backwards.
In an instant the Tuareg had whipped out a long, curved knife, and with his evil, pock-marked face grinning with savage delight, he leapt forward to drive the weapon home. Algy twisted like an eel as he endeavoured to thrust himself to one side, and his hand closed over the haft of the lance. Acting now under the sheer impulse of self-preservation, he jerked the weapon up just as the Tuareg flung himself on him. The point of Mazeus’s lance never found a more fatal mark; it caught the Tuareg squarely in the throat and impaled him as cleanly as a butterfly is impaled upon a pin.
Exerting all his strength. Alay flung the weapon sideways, and the Tuareg with it, for he had seen that he was by no means out of danger. The fellow he had wounded had levelled his rifle, and he leapt aside as the weapon roared. The bullet whistled past his face, and the Arab, seeing that he had missed, drew his dagger.
Algy did not hesitate. He took out his automatic and deliberately shot the savage dead. For a moment he stood swaying while he recovered from the shock; then, snatching up the dagger that lay near his feet, he ran forward, cold with the fear that he might be too late. He reached Biggles first, and shuddered as he saw the broad, black line of ants hurrying towards him.
Biggles was far gone, but he managed to smile, and whisper ‘Good boy.’
In four swift slashes Algy had cut him free. Unslinging the water-bottle, he thrust it into his hands. Then he cut the thongs that held the others, by the end of which time Biggles was sitting up, drinking.
Algy did not stay. For all he knew there were other Tuareg near at hand and, being a soldier, his first thought was the consolidation of their position. ‘Look after the others,’ he shouted at Biggles, and then dashed back to his fallen rifle. It took him a moment to clear the jam, and this done, he ran to the gateway, prepared to hold it until Biggles was able to take charge. To his relief he saw that the hillside was clear, although two or three Arabs, no doubt alarmed by the shots, had run out from the trees and were staring up the track. Others joined them, and they began to run forward, so he dashed back to inform Biggles of the circumstances.
Biggles and Ginger, he was relieved to find, were already on their feet and helping Kadar, who was sitting up, although clearly in a bad way. Not that Biggles or Ginger were themselves normal; Biggles’s lips were bleeding, and Ginger had a bad sun-blister on the side of his face; also he still seemed somewhat dazed. Kadar appeared to be suffering chiefly from shock; his eyes rolled and he rambled incoherently, although with each gulp of water he seemed to improve. They all suffered more or less from ant bites, but they were not serious for the main body of the ants had not quite reached the spot.
‘You were just about in time,’ Biggles told Algy in a brief aside, while he brushed several ants from his person. ‘Another five minutes and we were goners. What is happening down below?’
‘The Tuareg are on their way back— to see what the shots were about, I suppose.’
‘Somebody fired a shot down by the pool; it was that and somebody shouting that sent them rushing down there,’ Biggles told him. ‘Was that anything to do with you?’
‘No. I’ll tell you about it later on. What are we going to do — try to hold the gate?’
‘I don’t think so. It is as hot as Hades up there, and the place is alive with poisonous snakes, anyway. I haven’t had time to think properly yet, but the first thing we must do is to make ourselves scarce, and leave that swine Zarwan and his toughs wondering where we have gone. Did you know he was here?’
‘Yes, and they’ve still got the petrol with them. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as we get clear. The street I came down is the best way for us to go, I think, because there is a breach in the wall through which we can get clear of the town.’ Algy spoke rapidly, knowing that their position was still desperate.
‘All right,’ agreed Biggles. ‘You get the others into it, while I try to hold up the Tuareg. Grab a water-skin off one of those camels and take any weapons that are likely to be useful.’ With that he took the rifle out of Algy’s hands and hurried across to the gateway.
Chapter 15
Captured
Algy managed to get Ginger and Kadar into the shade of the narrow street down which he had come, and the sight of the lance seemed to bring Kadar round to normal more quickly than the water had done.
‘Where did that come from?’ he gasped.
‘I found it in the desert,’ Algy told him, as he recovered the weapon.
‘It’s Persian work,’ cried Kadar. ‘I hope you remember where you found it.’
‘We’ll talk about that later on, if you don’t mind,’ suggested Algy. ‘We’re not out of the wood yet— or rather, the village. The Tuareg are on our track. Hark at that,’ he went on, as Biggles’s rifle cracked twice in quick succession. ‘He wouldn’t use ammunition at that rate if things weren’t getting hot. Come on; we must keep going.’
They reached the spot where the wall had broken down, and there, a few minutes later, Biggles joined them.
‘Where are we bound for?’ he asked quickly. ‘We’ve no time to waste. Those black devils are crawling up the hill under cover of the rocks; they’ll be at the gate in a minute or two.’
‘From where they are they will not be able to see us if we go out this way,’ declared Algy. ‘We’re too far round the comer. I vote that we evacuate the place and try to find a hide-up in that corn down below. That will at least give us time to get our breath and make some sort of plan. Zarwan is bound to think we are still in the village, and will probably spend some time looking for us.’
‘That sounds a sensible idea to me,’ agreed Biggles, ‘although I am tempted to wait and try to get a shot at that murdering villain Zarwan. Still, that will come in time, no doubt. Perhaps we had better get down below. I am anxious to hear about this petrol.’
Without any further waste of time they made their way down over the fallen boulders of which the wall had been built and, hurrying on, at length came to rest in the w
elcome shade of a spreading fig-tree that stood at the junction of the belt of prickly pear and a wide expanse of maize.
‘Now then,’ said Biggles, sitting down at the foot of the tree. ‘Cut out the details; what about the petrol?’
In as few words as possible, yet omitting nothing of importance, Algy told the others his story: of how he had seen the caravan coming out of the desert, and his subsequent discovery of the petrol. He also told them about that affair at the pool when the Tuareg had been seized by the crocodile.
‘We all know about that gentleman,’ declared Biggles grimly, referring, of course, to the crocodile. ‘He jolly nearly got Ginger.’
‘What on earth happened to you?’ asked Algy. ‘Why didn’t you come back to the machine?’
‘We got lost,’ replied Biggles tersely. ‘As a matter of fact, we did find our way back to the machine at the finish, only to discover that you weren’t there. We couldn’t stand the heat, so we decided to go back to the oasis which we had found — the one down below. We left a note for you pinned on the fuselage, saying that we had been back and had gone again, with a map showing you how the oasis could be found.’
‘When was that?’
‘This morning. We left the machine at dawn.’
‘Ah! I haven’t been back to the machine since then, so I didn’t find the note. I spent last night in the desert.’
‘I see,’ nodded Biggles. ‘We haven’t time to discuss these things now; the one thing that really matters above everything else is the petrol. If we can get it, it answers all the questions in front of us. We should then be able to get away, and deal with Zarwan in our own time. By jove! I believe we could do it. How many Tuareg do you reckon there were altogether when you first saw them, Algy?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Very well. You got three. The croc, got one, and I just plugged one from the gate — that leaves fifteen, and there must be very nearly that number now storming up to the gate. If a guard has been left over the petrol and stores it can’t be more than two or three men, and we should be a match for them.’
