He returned a slow smile and said, "I trust you."
I trust you. Did he not realize that I could shoot him in the back as he rode off? Of course, I would never leave the camp alive, but he would be dead nonetheless. His amused smile said he knew my thoughts and that I would never carry them out. He stooped to give me a light parting kiss, and then I watched him mount and ride away.
Moments later I went back into the tent and slipped the weapon into the holster he had left lying on a stool. I was still amazed that he had given me the gun. I thought of the parting promise I had given my sheik with a brief pang of guilt, but I did not hold myself accountable for any vow given while I was held against my will. Still, long after his departure, his final words echoed in my brain. I trust you.
CHAPTER NINE
Several hours after my sheik's departure, I dragged on my boots and donned a light riding coat with capacious pockets. Although it would be hot, it would allow me to carry a bit of food and an extra flask of water. I also pocketed the jambiya and then buckled the revolver the sheik had given me around my waist. With every passing second and each new act of defiance, I felt the old Diana returning.
I turned to the door but then paused to look around the room. My gaze traveled once more over the luxurious appointments and different objects that had become so curiously familiar in the last weeks—the medley of our personal belongings—my ivory toilet appointments jostling indiscriminately among his brushes and razors on the dressing table. My gaze lingered longest on the pillow where my lover's head had rested, and I was suddenly beset by a sense of melancholy and a strong pang of remorse.
When he entered this room and saw the same things, I wondered how he would react. Would he suffer the same regret? Would he rage at my escape? Would he feel anything at all?
I shook myself out of these thoughts with an impatient jerk of the head, drew a long breath, and ventured out of the tent and into the sunshine. Gaston stood with our horses and greeted me with a broad smile. He stood by my stirrup as I fondled the beautiful grey horse's soft nose and patted his satiny neck with a hand that trembled a little with my racing pulse.
Did I truly dare to make the attempt of escape? I already wondered how I would shake off Gaston. It would be no easy feat to elude his vigilance. Yet my stubborn pride compelled me to do or die.
Silver Star responded to my caresses with a slobbering mouth and soft whinny. I loved the horse, and today he would be the means of my salvation. I pulled on my riding gloves and cast one long, lingering gaze over the big double tent and then the rest of the camp. I then mounted and rode off without another backward glance.
I urged my horse forward into a slow, swinging canter while plan after plan passed through my brain only to be rejected as impracticable. Silver Star fretted at the moderate pace, tossing his head and catching at his bit. The horse was fresh and undoubtedly sensed my agitation, yet I knew I must be patient, that I must exercise a rigid control over myself.
To mask my nervousness, I tried to make conversation. I thought again of the revolver strapped to my waist and asked, "Gaston, what is the nature of Monseigneur's quarrel with—" The rival sheik's name escaped me.
"With Ibraheim Omair, madam?"
"Yes. Why are they such deadly enemies?"
Gaston was thoughtful. "I do not know precisely, madam, but Omair is a brigand in the blackest sense. He is a known raider, thief, and cold-blooded murderer. Monseigneur has been trained from boyhood to hate him as a deadly enemy. It has become an inherited blood feud that has lasted forty years. As to why? It may have begun as a rivalry based on land disputes and water rights. As you know, water is gold to these people.
"As long as Ibraheim Omair remains strictly within his own territory, there will be peace, but once Omair steps an inch over the border, there will be war until one or both of the chiefs are dead—in which case, the French government would take over. It is no secret that they would like nothing better, as they have never been able to control the nomadic tribes. No," he shook his head, "the governor would not discourage such a war. One even suspects he might encourage it. Thus, Monseigneur is ever vigilant, madam." He nodded to my revolver.
"Is this why Monseigneur is so frequently gone? He prepares for war?"
Gaston flushed. "I think perhaps I have already said too much about my master's affairs."
He was silent after that and so was I. My mind was already racing with thoughts of escape. Several times I had to tamp down the urge to put my horse into a hard gallop, but we were too near the camp. Should I act too early, I would only bring the whole horde in a wild chase at my heels.
At the beginning of the ride we had passed several vedettes sitting motionless on their impatient horses. They had swung their rifles high in the air in salute as I passed. After Gaston's illumination on the feud, I understood their presence.
It was a long ride, and once or twice Gaston shouted a question as he galloped after me, but I pretended not to hear him. He ranged alongside me with a murmured apology, Seeming very much alive to the hour. "Will madam please turn?" he said respectfully. "It is late, and it is not safe riding amongst these slopes. One cannot see what is coming, and I am afraid."
For the last few miles we had seen nothing and no one. The desert was undulating here, rising and falling in short, sharp declivities that made a wide outlook impossible.
"Afraid, Gaston?" I rallied with a laugh.
"For you, madam," he answered with a worried look. "We have ridden far past what is safe, well beyond what Monseigneur would permit. And it grows late." He submitted his trench watch for my inspection.
I pulled up and mopped my forehead, frowning at my own wristlet that displayed quite a different hour. I don't know why I still wore it when it had stopped working days before. Suddenly an idea flashed into my mind, a perfect way to break from Gaston. If anything was to be done, it must be done now or not at all.
"But it is only four o'clock,” I argued, displaying my timepiece to him.
"No, madam, I am certain that is not correct. The sun, you see." He indicated the sinking ball of fire.
I chewed my lip. "I hope the sand hasn't damaged this. Perhaps it just needs winding and setting," I said hopefully. I released the band from my wristlet and held the dead timepiece to my ear. "Could you perhaps look at it for me, Gaston?"
"But of course, madam."
I held it out to him, but just as he would have taken it, I jabbed my horse with my spur, gasping as the watch fell to the ground. I then spun around, stirring up the sand. I cried out in dismay, "Oh my! Where is it? That was a gift from my dead father."
"Do not fear, madam." In an instant the gallant little Frenchman had slipped to the ground. The moment he released the horse's bridle to begin digging in the sand, I brought my riding crop down with a smack on his horse's rump, stampeding it in the direction of the camp.
Then, deaf to Gaston's cries, I wheeled Silver Star due north, spurring him hell-for-leather across the dunes.
Wild with excitement and free to go his own pace at last, my mount galloped swiftly. I rode hard with the wind whistling in my ears, paying no heed to the fate of the Frenchman left so far from the camp. I had no thought for anybody but myself. I laughed and shouted like a crazed thing, and my excitement only added to that of the grey, who was already going at racing speed. He was wildly out of control, and I could not have stopped him if I tried. I knew I was mad to attempt the desert alone, but desire for freedom only added to my delirium. As long as I judged the direction right, I didn't care. He could go until he exhausted himself.
I was fast putting miles between me and the camp that had been a prison, miles between me and the barbaric brute, who had dared to do what he had done. But thoughts of my sheik invoked simultaneous feelings of longing and fear. I recalled the terror of my first night with a shudder and then thought about all I had gone through since. The girl who had started out so bold and triumphant from Biskra had become a woman in every sense of the word.
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br /> What if he should catch me?
I tamped down my apprehension as idiotic, impossible. It would be hours, perhaps even the next day, before the alarm was even given. And they would not even know what direction I had taken. I had miles of start on one of his fleetest horses. With those reassurances, I tried to put him out of my mind.
I had escaped. The nightmare of captivity was over.
Silver Star had settled down into a less-punishing pace, the steady, tireless gallop for which Ahmed Ben Hassan's horses were famous. There was little breeze, and I roasted in the heat, but it would cool quickly once the sun dipped below the horizon.
What would I do when night came?
It was madness what I had done. I had only a bit of bread, fruit, and cheese wrapped in a napkin in my pocket and only a single water skin. Heaven alone knew where the next well might be. I was alone in an unknown country among a savage people with only a few shots in the revolver as protection. I might come across an encampment, or I might wander for days and see no one. In any case, a strong possibility of death from hunger and thirst stared me in the face.
I gazed at that same horizon that seemed so different now with an endless, undulating expanse stretching out before me. As the grey topped each rise my interest had grown keener, but for the past hour or more the ground rose and fell in monotonous succession. My horse was tiring, and I was slumping in the saddle. My head ached, and I was growing dizzy—sure signs of heat exhaustion.
Might there be an oasis soon?
The desert grew level again, and quite suddenly I could see for miles. There it was at last! About two miles distant, a few palm trees clustered. They probably meant a well. We could ride no farther. It was past time to rest. I pulled up my horse and dismounted. Beside the well, forming a triangle, stood what had been three particularly fine palm trees, but the tops had been broken off about twenty feet up from the ground, and the mutilated trunks reared themselves bare and desolate. The sad notes of the pigeons and the broken palms vaguely suggested a tragedy and lent an air of mystery to the place that I found strangely unnerving, but I shook it off.
I took off my heavy helmet and tossed it to the ground, allowing the faint breeze to stir my hair and cool my head. It was the tiniest little oasis, but there was a well, albeit much silted up. I set to work to clear it and procure water for me and Silver Star. It was tiring work, but I managed to satisfy us both. After loosening my horse's girths, I flung myself down in a small patch of shade with my helmet over my eyes.
The grey, tired of nosing around the well and blowing at the thorn bushes, wandered to my side and nuzzled me. I caught at his velvety nose and drew it down to me. He was a very affectionate beast and gentler than most of the others. He pressed close up to me, whinnying softly and gazing at me with large expressive eyes. I fed him a single date.
"I haven't anything more to give you, poor old boy," I said regretfully, kissing his muzzle.
I looked toward the sun that had already begun dipping to the horizon. It would be dark soon. Surely I had ridden far enough away to make camp for the night, but then I realized I had nothing with which to make a fire. If I camped with no shelter and no fire, I risked exposure from the freezing nighttime temperatures. I leaped to my feet and looked frantically around the little oasis, at the few palm trees and clumps of camel thorn, the broken well and the grey horse.
What was I to do?
I was frightened for the first time. I was alone in a desolate, unending space. I was an atom, insignificant, the least of all things. But even in my panic, I could not repent. I was free again. I took another calming breath. I would sleep, I decided, just for a couple of hours, and then ride through the night. The moon would be almost full tonight and I would be much warmer and safer on the move, but the exposure to the desert heat had taken its toll on my body, fatiguing me to the extreme. With my head cradled on my arms, I leaned back against a broken palm and went into an almost-instant sleep.
***
I slept deeply and more heavily than I would ever have thought possible, but the muffled sounds of horses penetrated my consciousness. I leaped instantly to my feet and withdrew my pistol, but it was too late. I was already surrounded by half a dozen cloaked men—with rifles. My heart leaped into my throat. Had I escaped the frying pan only to fall into the fire?
One man amongst them threw himself from his horse with an exclamation. "Grâce à Dieu. We have found you!" It was Gaston. "Thank God you are safe. I shudder to think what Monseigneur would do…Please madam now to return?" He extended his hands in a plaintive gesture.
"And if I say no?" I challenged, looking from his pleading face to the stern ones behind him, and knowing already that my ill-conceived ruse to runaway was over.
"I am sorry, madam. While I would never force you, these men…" Gaston shrugged. "They have pledged their loyalty and their very lives to their sheik. They answer only to him."
I glanced up at the formerly gregarious young lieutenant Yusef, who failed even to blink at me. I noticed him fidgeting in his saddle, his eyes wandering past mine and looking at the broken trees with a scowl.
"All right, Gaston." I gave a huge sigh of surrender. "Do you intend to drag me back now, or do we make camp until morning?"
"We must depart at once, madam, and with all haste. We are too close to the territory in dispute. It is not safe."
"No man rests here, madam," Yusef said. "It is the place of devils. The curse of Allah is upon it." His horse sidled restlessly. He made a quick gesture with his fingers. "Death lurks beside those broken palm trees."
I shook my head at the ridiculous superstitious fancies of the Arab race. "For you, perhaps, but not for me," I replied. "Allah's curse rests only upon those who fear it."
But perhaps the curse was true after all. Before I realized what was happening, innumerable Arabs sprang up out of the dunes on all sides of us. My escort wheeled their horses and began a furious fire at the horde of men who poured in upon us. The noise was deafening— the raucous shouting of the Arabs, the continuous sharp crack of the rifles, the bullets whizzing past. Mechanically, my fingers closed over the revolver, but Gaston threw me onto my horse with a groan.
"Come, madam! Vent du terre!" He seized my bridle and urged our horses back in the direction from which we had come.
I glanced over my shoulder to watch with a sudden sickening feeling as the men who formed my escort were beaten back by the superior numbers that enclosed them. Already two were down and the rest were on foot, soon swallowed up in the mass of men that poured over them.
Within minutes, a party of about twenty horsemen detached themselves from the main body to gallop after us. A fierce yelling and a hail of bullets came next. I crouched lower in the saddle, and Gaston loosed my bridle to drop behind, interposing himself between me and our pursuers. When I realized the meaning of his tactics, I deliberately checked my horse.
"No, Gaston. I won't leave you. You must ride with me," I cried, wincing as another bullet came perilously close. The bullets continued to screech past, but the men who fired them were not Ahmed Ben Hassan's carefully trained marksmen.
"Mon Dieu! Do you think I can face Monseigneur if anything happens to you?" replied Gaston fiercely. "Do as I tell you. Go on!" All deference to me was supplanted by a greater fear for my safety. "Perhaps you do not understand. This is no camel raid. For me it would be probably torture with certain death, but for you—!" He gave me a meaningful look. His eyes were panic-stricken. Perspiration poured down his face. "You will not be treated gently in their hands."
We had refrained from shooting, reserving our ammunition for a last resource, but the brigands were gaining fast. Gaston fired slowly and steadily, picking his men with careful precision. Our only hope—and it was a forlorn one at best—was to stay ahead until we got clear of the undulating country and back into the open where the sounds of firing might reach some of the sheik's outpost sentinels.
Our pursuers seemed to guess our tactics and opened out into
an irregular, extended line, swerving and making accurate shooting impossible. They urged their horses to a terrific pace in an effort to outflank us. I was shooting now, but my revolver emptied all too quickly. Suddenly my horse stumbled, recovering himself for a few steps, only to lurch onto his side, blood pouring from his mouth. I just managed to spring clear.
Gaston was beside me in an instant, thrusting me behind him, shielding me with his own body, as he continued a steady fire at the oncoming Arabs. I was overcome by the same nerve-deadening feeling of unreality I had experienced the night of my abduction. The intense stillness—for the Arabs had ceased shouting—the hot, dry sand with the shimmering surface, the cloudless night sky overhead, the band of menacing horsemen circling nearer and nearer, the dead horse. It all seemed fantastic and unreal.
I pressed closer to the man beside me, brave and devoted to the end, but we were both silent; there seemed nothing to say. Gaston's left hand clenched over mine, contracting as a bullet gashed his forehead. He let go to brush his arm across his face and remove the blood from his eyes. A spasm crossed his features, and he looked to me with an expression of infinite sadness. "Madam, I have but one shot left. I cannot protect you…" he muttered desperately. "Please turn your head. I cannot do it if you—"
"It's all right, Gaston. I understand," I whispered in reassurance, forcing a brave smile to my quivering lips. "I forgive you. Please just do it quickly!"
Another rattle of shots came as he raised his pistol to my temple. I closed my eyes, only to feel him crumple to the ground beside me. Pandemonium followed. I took up his gun, fired the last shot, and flung the empty revolver in the face of the man who sprang forward to seize me. I turned with a desperate hope of reaching Gaston's horse, but I was already trapped. The last thing I remember was a crashing blow to my head and the hard ground heaving up from under my feet.
The Sheik Retold Page 13
