The Veiled Raiders

by John Blaine

  He resumed counting.Hole in inner cave wall ready, with plenty of stone to close it up again. Food supply stored in inner cave. The food was dates, high in energy. They had filled their pockets each time they passed the chow tent.

  There was really only one flaw in the plan. They had not located bridles. It was probably safe to assume that where there were saddles there were also bridles, but they didn’t know. If, by some strange Tuareg custom, the bridles were not at the horse pen, they would have to make hackamores of rawhide, and the desert horses might balk.

  The plan also ignored the big chance of being discovered, but there was nothing they could do about it.

  Some of the other caves were slave quarters, too, although most of the slaves lived in the tents with their masters. If one of the cave dwellers suffered from insomnia, he could pose a real problem.

  Scotty and Tony were shadowy bulks in the faint starlight. Rick wondered how they could be so calm when he was tense, then decided he probably seemed calm to the others, too.

  The lights in camp went out. Time passed, and Rick’s tension grew with each passing moment. Now that he thought about it, the plan was pretty complicated. Many things had to work. Their assumptions had to be right, and they really didn’t know enough about how the Tuaregs would react to be absolutely sure.

  For instance, they assumed no one would work the salt cave after they vanished, at least not for a day.

  But for all they knew, the salt might be needed desperately.

  Rick resolutely squelched such thoughts. He stared from the cave mouth at the few stars that were visible through the harmattan wind. No moon until morning, fortunately.

  After an interminable time, Scotty whispered, “Let’s execute Plan X. Got everything?”

  They were ready. Scotty led the way along the path toward the horse pen. Tony followed, with Rick bringing up the rear. The path was hard-packed, and it was easy to be silent.

  They passed the camp, staying close to the cliff face. Scotty halted, and led them into a niche. “Stay here,” he whispered, and was gone. Rick’s ears strained to hear the sounds of struggle, or a cry of alarm from the horse guard. There was none.After an endless time Scotty reappeared and led them to the pen.

  Not until they were at the pen, well out of earshot of the camp, did he whisper. “The guard was asleep.

  He’s awake now, but not complaining. I stunned him, tied and gagged him, and pulled a goatskin over his head. He’s secure.”

  There were bridles attached to the saddles. Rick breathed a little easier, but inwardly he was still as tight as a guitar string. They worked slowly and carefully. There was no hurry, yet. Give the camp time to settle into deep slumber.

  The pen was small, and the horses were used to handling. One by one they caught, bridled, and saddled Page 64

  six, then wrapped their feet in goatskin squares, hair out, and lashed the skins in place with thongs.

  When all was in readiness they dropped the bars of the pen, took three of the saddled horses out, and put the bars up again. Then, with Rick leading two horses and Scotty scouting ahead on foot, they walked slowly to the well and tied half the water bags to the saddles.

  Rick was afraid one of the horses would nicker, and was ready to grab the beast’s muzzle at the first sound. Now came the ticklish part. They led the horses up the path, fearful of making a noise. But the goatskins muffled the hooves perfectly, and it was a ghostly procession that moved through the darkness.

  They reached the salt mine and turned in. Even the faint night glow was gone now, and they moved a foot at a time, Scotty in the lead. Tony and Rick kept a hand on the rump of the horse in front of them to keep from overtaking it in the darkness.

  Not until they reached the inner cave was there a flicker of light. Tony had built a tiny fire in an ancient pottery bowl, and it was still glowing. One of the horses snorted at the scent in the cave, but it didn’t matter now. They were safe-for the moment.

  Rick secured his horse to a block of stone, then leaned against the warm shoulder, shaking with relief.

  But it was only temporary. Scotty whispered, “Let’s go-“

  Now it was all to do over again, but they had the confidence of first success. Rack to the pen they went, collected the three remaining saddled horses and the rest of the goatskin water bags. One of the horses started to nicker, but Scotty grabbed the beast’s muzzle and whispered soothingly in its ear. In a surprisingly short time they were secure in the inner cave.

  The security didn’t last long. Tony remained in the cave, while Rick and Scotty parted at the entrance.

  Scotty headed toward the camel pasture while Rick went back to the horse pen.

  Rick’s ears were sharpened by the pervading silence. His footsteps sounded loud, but he knew they couldn’t be heard more than a yard or two away. He walked on the balls of his feet, moving carefully.

  One of the horses greeted him with a low whinny. Rick put the bars down, slapped the horses on the rumps, and got them moving. They paused to forage outside the pen and he left them moving slowly, feeding as they went. He hurried back to the cave as rapidly as caution would allow. Scotty had not yet returned. Tony had spaced the horses around the inner cave and had put the water bags against one wall.

  He was just starting to fill in the entrance to the inner cave when Rick arrived.

  Rick helped him stack blocks, leaving only enough of an entrance for the three. They were nearly done when Scotty arrived.

  “The camel guard is tied up like a Christmas goose,” Scotty reported. “He was sound asleep. He got the same treatment as the horse guard.Ready to smoke that cigar, Tony?”

  “No,” the scientist said. “I’m not ready, but I’ll do it.”

  Scotty had obtained the cigar, as promised. He had prepared for the trick by cutting an inch off one of the fuses and wrapping it in a piece of cloth torn from his shirt, leaving one end of fuse sticking out. After performing a couple of tricks with another borrowed string and the rings, he had pantomimed borrowing a cigar from the boss, who had obliged.

  Under pretext of lighting it from the cooking fire, Scotty had popped the prepared fuse into his mouth Page 65

  and lighted the end. Pretending to inhale smoke from the cigar, he had blown hard through half-open lips, spewing out an extraordinary amount of smoke, sparks, and bits of burning cloth. The audience had laughed so hard no one noticed that he pocketed the cigar, because he had made a great fuss over drinking a gourd of goat’s milk to put out the supposed fire.

  By blowing outward very hard, no sparks had touched his flesh, and the cloth, moistened by a mouthful of milk just before the lighting act, had protected him completely. He explained that it was the oldest fire-eater trick in show business.

  Now Tony had the cigar, and was actually lighting it. Rick and Scotty each had a bomb, and their slings.

  Outside, they could see the shadowy shapes of the horses. The herd had reached the well, within sling range.

  Rick took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

  Tony held the cigar, shielded by cupped hands. The boys applied the fuses to the glowing end. The fuses began their slow sputter. The bombs were placed in sling pouches. Rick walked quietly toward the horses, Scotty toward the camels.

  Rick kept his eye on the fuse. The timing was ticklish. If he let go too soon, the bomb would break without exploding when it hit the ground. If he held it too long, it would go off in his hand.

  He reached the predetermined point, held the sling in throwing position, and kept his eye on the fuse.

  The sputtering string gave its own light. When it was a bare eighth of an inch from the clay he let the pouch go, and as the rapidly whirling sling came up behind him, he put his entire weight into the throw.

  Then he turned and hurried back to the cave.

  The bomb arched high in the air. For a second the sputtering fuse was visible, then the glow ran into the clay plug. About fifty feet above the ground, the bomb exploded i
n a brilliant flash. The sound was louder than Rick had expected. Scotty had said it would be loud, because the old cartridges were loaded with fast-burning black gunpowder, of a kind no longer in use.

  Over his shoulder Rick glimpsed the horses breaking into a panicky run as clay shards rained among them. He reached the cave, and in the same instant Scotty’s bomb went off above the camels.

  Scotty was on Rick’s heels. The three fugitives hurried into the salt mine and proceeded to get into the inner cave, building up the blocks behind them. If they were truly lucky, no one would look in the cave for the next twenty-four hours. Slightly less lucky, and someone might glance in and not notice that one wall was a little peculiar. If unlucky-they would be trapped like rabbits in a box trap.

  Time would tell!

  CHAPTER XVII

  Page 66

  The Fugitives

  Rick, Scotty, and Tony moved cautiously to the mouth of the salt-mine cave and looked out. The camp was quiet. No lights were on anywhere. Scotty slipped from the cave and disappeared into the night.

  Rick and Tony hurried back to the inner cave and made final preparations for departure. Sleeping bags were rolled up and lashed behind the high pommels of the Tuareg saddles. The thongs lashing the precious water supply were checked.

  The horses already had been watered. They would be fed on the trail, when the three passed from desert into grassland. If they didn’t reach grassland, the Tuaregs who captured them would have to feed the mounts.

  Final checking completed, Rick went back to the cave mouth and waited. The day had been a long one, with only fitful snatches of sleep. Unable to stay quietly in the inner cave, they had stolen out now and then to see what was going on. The bombs, plus stampeding horses and camels, had thrown the camp into an uproar. As they had figured, the speeding shapes in the darkness had caused the guard to assume the escaped slaves had gone by him.

  With daylight, the few horses and camels that had stayed within the valley were saddled, and the Tuaregs went out to find the others. Water bags had been filled, and small parties had spread out to overtake the fugitives.

  This was the heart of Plan X. Had they made a run for it as soon as the horses were ready, the speedy camels would surely have overtaken them. Now, with nearly all the veiled men out searching, they could literally walk out of camp and take an unlikely route, with a good chance of escaping detection. True, they might meet a search party returning, but it seemed probable that the searchers would continue the hunt for at least two days and perhaps more.

  Anyway, Rick thought, he and his companions were committed. It was all or nothing. They would ride day and night, changing horses often, resting the mounts when necessary.

  Scotty returned. “The camels they left are in the horse pen with a few horses.Guard there, and one up the valley from him. There was a guard on duty on the way out of the valley, but he won’t bother us now.

  I’ve taken care of that. All else is quiet. Let’s get going.”

  The goatskin pads were still on the horses’ hooves. They led them outside the cave, then each Spin-drifter mounted, leading one horse by a long thong attached to its bridle. The spare horses carried most of the remaining water supplies, but each fugitive had a water bag slung from his saddle horn.

  Scotty took the lead. They passed along the cliff front and took the trail leading out of the valley. They had agreed that an alarm would set them running.

  As they went by a shelf at the end of the valley, Scotty whispered, “There’s the guard. He’s probably awake by now, but he won’t be able to sound any alarm until his relief arrives and releases him.”

  Rick looked at the bundle on the rock shelf, a dim figure against the lighter color of the stone. “When does his relief come?”

  “Don’t know.Probably not for a few hours, and maybe not until morning.”

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  They followed the trail for perhaps two miles, then dismounted and removed the pads from the horses’

  hooves. Camp was far enough behind so the noise wouldn’t matter.

  “How long before we get down from the mountains to the desert?” Tony asked. “If I remember correctly, it seemed like about a two-hour ride when they brought us in.”

  “That’s about right,” Rick agreed. “Can you see the path clearly enough, Scotty? It’s pretty dark.”

  “I can see it sometimes, but the horse knows the trail, so I give him his head.”

  They mounted and started off, letting the mounts choose their own speed, a fast walk. The two-hour estimate proved about right, as far as they could tell without their wrist watches. They emerged from a rocky defile to the desert.

  The Big Dipper and Polaris, the North Star, were faintly visible through the high dust layer of the harmattan. They took bearings, then struck out in a westerly direction. This was according to plan. The Tuaregs had not blindfolded them, and from the sun’s position, they were able to tell that the veiled raiders had followed a course to the northwest to reach the camp. Logically, pursuers would expect them to head southwest when escaping, or at least south.

  “Think they can track us?” Rick asked.

  “Not on this stuff,” Scotty replied. The desert was broken rock, difficult walking for the horses.

  The moonrose finally, a pale crescent that shed little light. They plodded on, reached better ground where the sandstone had not broken up into a continuous rock pile, and picked up a little speed.

  Daybreak found them in the midst of a seemingly endless plain. They paused, watered the horses very sparingly and drank themselves, then ate a few dates. A change of horses and they continued on, wrapping their heads in the cloths the Emir had provided and which the Tuaregs had returned to them along with toilet kits.

  The sun rose and the harmattan ceased. The temperature mounted above 100 degrees in the shade-except that there was no shade.

  When the flaming ball was overhead they stopped again, drank, changed mounts, and continued on.

  There was no other sign of life on the desert.

  Sunset brought another stop and they paused to let the horses rest, and tried to doze for an hour or so without success. They were tired, but too tense to relax and sleep.

  They mounted again as dusk fell. When Polaris became visible they took bearings and swung to the southwest. With luck, they had gone around the Tuareg search parties.

  At first they conversed now and then, but as fatigue set in more acutely they fell silent, only the plodding footsteps of the horses breaking the desert silence. In the middle of the night they paused again, rested the horses and changed mounts, then pressed on.

  By morning the character of the landscape was changing. Bits of vegetation appeared, and by mid-morning there was even a baobab tree. Butnoon found them in completely barren desert again.

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  When the cool of evening replaced the desert heat they stopped for nearly four hours, and each of them managed a little sleep. Because they were so exhausted even the sleeping bags failed to keep out the night chill.

  Tony, who took the last watch, roused them when the stars told him it was about two in the morning.

  They saddled and mounted, shivering in the cold. The horses felt it, too, and worked up their own warmth by increasing the pace.

  Aboutnoon , Rick, who was almost asleep in the saddle, was awakened by Scotty’s exclamation:

  “Dust!Ahead and to the west.”

  Rick looked up. A tiny pillar of dust rose into the air from something moving several miles away. He asked faintly, “Tuaregs?”

  “The dust cloud is moving too fast,” Tony answered. “I don’t think it’s made by horses or camels.”

  Scotty estimated quickly. “If we cut southeast we can intercept it. If it’s a vehicle, it can’t be the veiled men, and I doubt if it’s the Emir.”

  The tired horses stirred themselves to a fast canter. Rick turned in the saddle and surveyed the way they had come. They had been going downhill on a very gradual slope, and
as he looked, he saw more dust on the horizon.

  “Someone behind us!” he called.

  Tony and Scotty turned.

  “That’s about as much dust as we’re making,” Scotty said quickly.“Could be Tuaregs. Let’s go!”

  Rick dug his heels into his horse and the animal responded. The spare horse galloped along behind, water bags bouncing.

  A two-mile run brought them to a wide trail marked by camel and horse droppings and even a slight oil slick.

  “Caravan trail,” Tony announced. “It must be. I’m surprised we haven’t crossed one before. The vehicle must be on it.”

  Scotty looked back at the dust cloud that might be caused by Tuaregs. It hadn’t drawn appreciably closer. “We can wait and see.”

  The faster-moving dust cloud in the west was nearer to them, and in a short time they could see that it was made by a truck of some kind. As the trio drew closer, Rick identified it as a British Army lorry of a kind he had seen aroundKano .

  Instead of slowing down as it approached, the truck speeded up. It had high board sides in the back, and a single occupant, a black driver who crouched over his wheel and gave the lorry all the gas it would take.

  The truck slewed around them so close the horses reared with alarm, then it was gone down the trail.

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  CHAPTER XVIII

  Freedom Road

  Before Rick could even let out a yell, the truck’s brakes locked and it slid to a stop in a whirling cyclone of dust, then backed up at high speed until the cab was even with them.

  A smiling black face looked out and called the Hausa greeting, “ Sannu , batures ! I thought you were Buzos until I got close.What you do out here?”

  “We’re escaping from the Buzos,” Tony answered. “Where are we?”

  “In the desert east from Timboulaga .”

  Rick turned and looked at the dust cloud behind them. It was much nearer.

  “Could you take us to the nearest town?” Tony asked “We must get transportation toKano or Sokoto.”