Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  They both ran round to the other side of the stern. From there they could see the whole of the footbridge and were under cover from the snipers. Simon raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Fire!” cried Dolores, seeing him hesitate.

  The shot rang out. The foremost of the vagabonds fell. He roared with pain, holding his leg. The others hurried back, dragging him with them, and the promontory was cleared of men. But, though the tramps could not risk going on the footbridge, it was no less dangerous for Dolores and Simon to leave the protected area formed by the wreck. Directly they became visible, they were exposed to Forsetta’s or Mazzani’s fire.

  “We must wait till dark,” Dolores decided.

  For hours, rifle in hand, they watched the promontory, on which a head and shoulders or gesticulating arms appeared at frequent intervals and from which on several occasions also the threat of a levelled rifle forced them to hide themselves. Then, as soon as the darkness was dense enough, they set off again, convinced that Rolleston’s trail would continue to ascend the Somme.

  They travelled quickly, never doubting that the two Indians and the vagabonds would pursue them. Indeed, they heard their voices across the water and saw fleeting glimmers of light on the same bank as themselves.

  “They know,” said Dolores, “that Rolleston went in this direction and that we, who are looking for him, are bound to keep to it.”

  After two hours’ progress, during which they groped their way, guided from time to time by the vague shimmering of the river, they reached a sort of isolated chaos into which Simon wearily cast the light of his electric torch. It consisted of enormous blocks of hewn stone, sunk in some lighter, marble, as far as he could see, and partly awash.

  “I think we might stop here,” said Simon, “at all events till daybreak.”

  “Yes,” Dolores said, “at daybreak you go on again.”

  He was surprised by this reply:

  “But you too, I suppose, Dolores?”

  “Of course; but wouldn’t it be better for us to separate? Soon Rolleston’s trail will leave the river and Forsetta is sure to catch you up, unless I draw him off on another trail.”

  Simon did not quite understand the girl’s plan:

  “Then what will you do, Dolores?” he asked.

  “I shall go my own way and I shall certainly draw them after me, since it’s I they want.”

  “But in that case you’ll fall into the hands of Forsetta and Mazzani, who means to avenge his brother’s death. . . .”

  “I shall give them the slip.”

  “And all the brutes swarming in these parts: will you give them the slip too?”

  “We’re not discussing my affairs, but yours: you have to catch Rolleston. I am hampering your efforts. So let us separate.”

  “Not at all!” protested Simon. “We have no right to separate; and you may be sure that I shan’t leave you.”

  Dolores’ offer aroused Simon’s curiosity. What was the girl’s motive? Why did she propose to sacrifice herself? In the silence and the darkness, he thought of her for a long while and of their extraordinary adventure. Starting in pursuit of the woman whom he loved, here he was bound by events to another woman, who was herself pursued; and of this other woman, whose safety depended on his and whose fate was closely linked with his own, he knew nothing but the grace of her figure and the beauty of her face. He had saved her life and he scarcely knew her name. He was protecting her and defending her; and her whole soul remained concealed from him.

  He felt that she was creeping closer to him. Then he heard these words, which she uttered in a low and hesitating voice:

  “It’s to save me from Forsetta, isn’t it, that you refuse my offer?”

  “Of course,” he said. “He’s terribly dangerous.”

  She replied, in a still lower voice and in the tone of one making a confession:

  “You must not let the threat of a Forsetta influence your conduct. . . . What happens to me is of no great account. . . . Without knowing much about my life, you can imagine the sort of girl I was: a little cigarette-seller hanging about the streets of Mexico; later, a dancer in the saloons at Los Angeles. . . .”

  “Hush!” said Simon, placing his hand over her mouth. “There must be no confidences between you and me.”

  She insisted:

  “Still you know that Miss Bakefield is running the same danger as myself. By remaining with me, you sacrifice her.”

  “Hush!” he repeated, angrily. “I am doing my duty in not leaving you; and Miss Bakefield herself would never forgive me if I did otherwise!”

  The girl irritated him. He suspected that she regarded herself as having triumphed over Isabel and that she had been trying to confirm her victory by proving to Simon that he ought to have left her.

  “No, no,” he said to himself, “it’s not for her sake that I’m staying with her. I’m staying because it’s my duty. A man does not leave a woman under such conditions. But is she capable of understanding that?”

  They had to leave their refuge in the middle of the night, for it was stealthily invaded by the river, and to lie down higher up the beach.

  No further incident disturbed their sleep. But in the morning, when the darkness was not yet wholly dispersed, they were awakened by quick, hollow barks. A dog came leaping towards them at such a speed that Simon had no time to do more than pull out his revolver.

  “Don’t fire!” cried Dolores, knife in hand.

  It was too late. The brute turned a somersault, made a few convulsive moments and lay motionless. Dolores stooped over it and said, positively:

  “I recognize him, he’s the tramps’ dog. They are on our track. The dog had run ahead of them.”

  “But our track’s impossible to follow. There’s hardly any light.”

  “Forsetta and Mazzani have their torches, just as you have. Besides, the firing would have told them.”

  “Then let’s be off as quickly as possible,” Simon proposed.

  “They will catch us up . . . at least, unless you abandon your search of Rolleston.”

  Simon seized his rifle:

  “That’s true. So the only thing is to wait for them here and kill them one by one.”

  “That’s so,” she said. “Unfortunately. . . .”

  “Well?”

  “Yesterday, after firing at the tramps, you did not reload your rifle.”

  “No, but my cartridge-belt is on the sand, at the place where I slept.”

  “So is mine; and both are covered by the rising water. Therefore there are only the six cartridges of your Browning left.”

  CHAPTER IV. THE BATTLE

  ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, their best chance of safety would have been to plunge into the river and escape by the left bank. But this plan, which would have cut them off from Rolleston and which Simon did not wish to adopt except in the last extremity, must have been foreseen by Forsetta, for, as soon as light was clear enough, they saw two tramps going up the Somme on the opposite bank. Under these conditions, how were they to land?

  Shortly afterwards, they saw that their retreat was discovered and that the enemy was profiting by their hesitation. On the same bank as themselves, some five hundred yards down-stream, appeared the barrel of a rifle. Up-stream an identical menace confronted them.

  “Forsetta and Mazzani,” declared Dolores. “We are cut off right and left.”

  “But there’s nobody in front of us.”

  “Yes, the rest of the tramps.”

  “I don’t see them.”

  “They are there, believe me, in hiding and well sheltered.”

  “Let’s rush at them and get by!”

  “To do that, we should have to cover a bare patch under the cross-fire of Mazzani and Forsetta. They are good shots. They won’t miss us.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, let’s defend ourselves here.”

  It was good advice. The cargo of marble blocks, piled higgledy-piggledy like a child’s building-bric
ks, formed a thorough citadel. Dolores and Simon climbed it and at the top selected a fort, protected on all sides, from which they could see the slightest movements of their enemies.

  “They’re coming,” Dolores declared, after an attentive scrutiny.

  The river had deposited along the banks trunks of trees and enormous roots, drifting it was impossible to say whence, which Forsetta and Mazzani were using to cover their approach. Moreover, at each rush forward they protected themselves with broad planks which they carried with them. And Dolores called Simon’s attention to the fact that more things were moving across the bare plain; more shields improvised of all sorts of stray materials: coils of rope, broken parts of boats, fragments of pontoons and pieces of boilerplate. All these things were creeping imperceptibly, with the sure, heavy pace of tortoises making for the same goal, along the radius that led to the centre. And the centre was the fortress. The tramps were investing it under the orders of Mazzani and Forsetta. From time to time a limb or a head appeared in sight.

  “Ah!” said Simon, in a voice filled with rage. “If only I had a few bullets, wouldn’t I stop this inroad of wood-lice!”

  Dolores had made a display of the two useless rifles, in the hope that the threatening aspect would intimidate the enemy. But the confidence of the attackers increased with the inactivity of the besieged. It was even possible that the two Indians had scented the ruse, for they scarcely attempted to conceal themselves.

  To show his skill, one of them — Forsetta, Dolores declared — shot down a sea-gull skimming along the river. Mazzani accepted the challenge. An aeroplane, humming in their direction and flying lower than most, seemed suddenly to drop from the clouds and silently glided across the river, over the blocks of marble. When it came level, Mazzani threw up his rifle, slowly took aim and fired. The pilot was hit, bore downwards, heeled over on either side alternately, until he seemed about to capsize, and passed on, disappearing in a zig-zag flight like that of a wounded bird.

  And suddenly, Simon having shown his head, two bullets fired by the two Indians ricochetted from the nearest stone surface, detaching a few splinters.

  “Oh, please don’t be so imprudent!” Dolores implored.

  A drop of blood trickled down his forehead. She staunched it gently with her handkerchief and murmured:

  “You see, Simon, those men will get the better of us. And you still refuse to leave me? You risk your life, though nothing can affect the issue?”

  He pushed her away from him:

  “My life is not at stake. . . . Nor yours either. . . . This handful of wretches will never get at us.”

  He was mistaken. Some of the vagabonds were within eighty yards of them. They could hear them talking together; and the men’s hard faces, covered with grey stubble, shot up from behind their bucklers like the head of a Jack-in-the-box.

  Forsetta was shouting his orders:

  “Forward! . . . There’s no danger! . . . They’ve no ammunition! . . . Forward, I tell you! The Frenchman’s pockets are stuffed with notes!”

  The seven tramps ran forward as one man. Simon levelled his revolver briskly and fired. They stopped. No one was hit. Forsetta was triumphant:

  “They’re done for! . . . Nothing but short-range Browning bullets! . . . At them!”

  He himself, protecting his body with a piece of sheet-iron, ran up at full speed. Mazzani and the tramps formed up in a circle at thirty or forty yards.

  “Ready!” bellowed Forsetta. “Out with your knives!”

  Dolores remarked to Simon that they must not remain in their observation-post, since most of their enemies would be able to reach the foot of the fortress unseen and slip between the marble blocks. They slid through a gap which formed a chimney from the top to the ground.

  “There they are! There they are!” said Dolores. “Fire now! . . . Look, here’s a chink!”

  Through this chink Simon saw two big ruffians walking ahead of the rest. Two shots rang out. The two big ruffians fell. The party halted for the second time, hesitating what to do.

  Dolores and Simon profited by this delay to take refuge at the extreme edge of the river. Three single blocks of marble formed a sort of sentry-box, with an empty space in front of it.

  “Charge!” shouted Forsetta, joining the men. “They’re trapped! Mazzani and I have got them covered. If the Frenchman stirs, we’ll shoot him down!”

  To meet the charge, Simon and Dolores were obliged to stand up and half-expose themselves. Terrified by the Indian’s threat, Dolores threw herself before Simon, making a rampart of her body.

  “Halt!” ordered Forsetta, restraining his men’s onrush. “And you, Dolores, you leave your Frenchman! Come! He shall have his life if you leave him. He can go: it’s you I’m after!”

  Simon seized the girl with his left arm and drew her back by main force:

  “Not a movement!” he said. “I forbid you to leave me! I’ll answer for your safety. As long as I live those brutes shan’t get you.”

  And, with the girl pressed against the hollow of his shoulder, he stretched out his right arm.

  “Well done, M. Dubosc!” jeered Forsetta. “Seems that we’re sweet on the fair Dolores and that we’re sticking to her! Those Frenchmen are all alike! Chivalrous fellows!”

  With a wave of the hand he gathered up the tramps for the final attack:

  “Now then, mates! One more effort and all the notes are yours! Mazzani and I bag the pretty lady. Is that right, Mazzani?”

  All together they came rushing on. All together, at an order from Forsetta, they hurled, like so many projectiles, the pieces of wood and iron with which they had protected themselves. Dolores was not hit, but Simon, struck on the arm, dropped his Browning at the very moment when he had fired at Mazzani and brought him down. One of the tramps leapt upon the pistol, which had rolled away, while Forsetta struggled with Dolores, avoiding the girl’s dagger and imprisoning her in his arms.

  “Oh, Simon! I’m done for!” she screamed, trying to hang on to him.

  But Simon had the five tramps to deal with. Unarmed, with nothing but his hands and feet to fight with, he was shot at three times by the man who had picked up his pistol and was clumsily firing off the last few cartridges. He staggered for a moment under the weight of the other brutes and was thrown to the ground. Two of them seized his legs. Two others tried to strangle him, while the fifth still kept him covered with his empty pistol.

  “Simon, save me! . . . Save me!” cried Dolores, whom Forsetta was carrying off, wrapped in a blanket and bound with a rope.

  He made a desperate effort, escaping his assailants for a few seconds, and, before they had time to come to close quarters again, acting on a sudden impulse he threw his pocket-book to them, shouting:

  “Hands off, you blackguards! Share that between you! Thirty thousand!”

  The bundles of notes fell out of the leather wallet and were scattered over the ground. The tramps did not hesitate, but plumped down on their hands and knees, leaving the field to Simon.

  Fifty yards away, Forsetta was running along the river, with his prey slung over his shoulder. Farther on, the two tramps posted on the other bank were punting themselves across on a raft which they had found. If Forsetta came up with them, it meant his safety.

  “He won’t get there,” Simon said to himself, measuring the distance with his eye.

  With a quick movement, he snatched the knife of one of his aggressors and set off at a run.

  Forsetta, who believed him to be still struggling with the vagabonds, did not hurry. He had, so to speak, rolled Dolores round his neck, holding her legs, head and arms in front of him and crushing them to his chest with his rifle and his brawny arms. He shouted to the two men on the raft, to stimulate their ardour:

  “Here’s the girl! She’s my share. . . . You shall have all her jewels!”

  The men warned him:

  “Look out!”

  He turned, saw Simon at twenty paces’ distance and tried to throw Dolores to t
he ground with a heave of the shoulder, like an irksome burden. The girl fell, but she had so contrived matters, under cover of the suffocating blanket, that at the moment of falling she had a good grip on the barrel of the Indian’s rifle; and in her fall she dragged him down with her.

  The few seconds which Forsetta needed to recover his weapon were his undoing. Simon leapt upon him before he could take aim. He stumbled once more, received a dagger-thrust in the hip and went down on his knees, begging for mercy.

  Simon released Dolores’ bonds; then, addressing the two tramps who, terror-stricken when on the point of touching ground, were now trying to push off again:

  “See to his wound,” he ordered. “And there’s the other Indian over there: he’s probably alive. Look after him too, you shall have your lives.”

  The tramps were scattering so rapidly in the distance, with Simon’s bank-notes, that he gave up all idea of pursuing them.

  Thus he remained master of the battle-field. Dead, wounded, or in fight, his adversaries were defeated. The extraordinary adventure was continuing as it were in a savage country and against the most unexpected background.

  He was profoundly conscious of the incredible moments through which he was passing, on the bed of the Channel, between France and England, in a region which was truly a land of death, crime, cunning and violence. And he had triumphed!

  He could not refrain from smiling and, leaning with both hands on Forsetta’s rifle, he said to Dolores:

  “The prairie! It’s Fenimore Cooper’s prairie! The Far West! It’s all here: the attack by Sioux, the improvised blockhouse, the abduction, the fight, with the chief of the Pale-Faces coming out victorious! . . .”

  She stood facing him, very erect. Her thin silk blouse had been torn in the struggle and hung in strips around her bosom. Simon added, in a tone of less assurance:

  “And here’s the fair Indian.”

  Was it emotion, or excessive fatigue after her protracted efforts? Dolores staggered and seemed on the verge of fainting. He supported her, holding her in his arms:

  “You’re surely not wounded?” he said.