Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 50

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helmet with one hand and placed the muzzle of the Beretta pistol in the

driver's vacant ear hole "I, your Colonel, command you."

"Keep going," growled Castelani. And the driver closed his eyes

tightly, not daring to move his head, and roared straight at the

ramparts of red earth that guarded the wadi.

In the moment before the Rolls ploughed headlong into a wall of

sunbaked earth, the driver's dilemma was resolved for him. Gregorius,

for lack of another ally, had appealed to his grandfather's warrior

instincts, and despite the vast quantities of tej that he had drunk,

that ancient had responded nobly, gathering his bodyguard about him and

outstripping them in the race down the wadi. Only Gregorius himself

kept pace with the tall, gangling figure as he ran down to the plain.

The two of them came out side by side, and found the Rolls and the

white-painted armoured car bearing down on them at point-blank range in

a storm of dust. It was a sight to daunt the bravest heart, and

Gregorius dived for the shelter of the red earth ramparts. But the Ras

had killed his lion, and did not flinch.

He flung up the trusty old Martini Henry rifle. The explosion of black

powder sounded like a cannon shot, a vast cloud of blue smoke blossomed

and a long red flame shot from the barrel.

The windscreen of the Rolls exploded in a silver burst of flying glass

splinters, one of which nicked the Count's chin.

"Holy Mary, I'm killed," cried the Count, and the driver needed nothing

further to tip his allegiance. He swung the Rolls into a tight,

roaring U-turn and not all of Castelani's threats could deter him. It

was enough. He could take no more. He was going home.

"My God," breathed Jake, as he watched the battered Rolls swinging

tightly away, and then gathering speed as it accelerated back towards

the ridge, the arms and weapons of its occupants still waving wildly,

and their voices raised in loud hysterical argument that faded with

distance.

The Ras's cannon boomed again, speeding them on their way, and Vicky

slowed the car as they came up to him. Jake reached down and helped

the ancient gentleman aboard.

His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled like an abandoned brewery, but

his wizened old face was crinkled into a wicked grin of satisfaction.

"How do you do?" he asked, with evident relish.

"Not bad, sir, "Jake assured him. "Not bad at all." little before

noon, the formation of armoured cars parked in the open grassland

twenty miles beyond the wells. A halt had been called here to allow

the straggling mass of refugees that had escaped the slaughter at

Chaldi to come up with them, and this was the first opportunity that

Vicky had to work on Sara's leg. It had stiffened in the last hour,

and the blood had clotted into a thick dark scab. Though Sara made no

protest, she had paled to a muddy colour and was sweating in tiny beads

across her forehead and upper lip as Vicky cleaned the wound and poured

half a bottle of peroxide into it. Vicky sought to distract her as she

worked by bringing up the subject of the dead they had left scattered

about the water, holes under the Italian guns.

Sara shrugged philosophically. "Hundreds die every day of sickness and

hunger and from the fighting in the hills.

They die without purpose or reason. These others have died for a

purpose. They have died to tell the world about us--" and she broke

off and gasped as the disinfectant boiled in the wound.

"I am sorry," said Vicky quickly.

"it is nothing, "she said, and they were quiet for a while, then Sara

asked, "You will write it, won't you, Miss Camberwell?"

"Sure," Vicky nodded grimly. "I'll write it good. Where can I find a

telegraph office?"

"There is one at Sardi," Sara told her. "At the railway office."

"What I write will burn out their lines for them, "promised Vicky, and

began to bind up the leg with a linen bandage from the medicine chest.

"We'll have to get these breeches off you." Vicky inspected the

bloodstained and tattered velvet dubiously. "They are so tight, it's a

wonder you haven't given yourself gangrene."

"They must be worn so," Sara explained. "It was decreed by my

great-grandfather, Ras Abullahi."

"Good Lord." Vicky was intrigued. What on earth for?"

"The ladies in those days were very naughty," Sara explained primly.

"And my great-grandfather was a good man. He thought to make the

breeches difficult to remove." Vicky laughed delightedly.

"Do you think it helps? "she demanded, still laughing.

"Oh no, Sara shook her head seriously. "It makes it very hard." She

spoke with the air of an expert, and then thought for a moment. They

come down quickly enough it's when you want to get them up again in a

hurry that can be very difficult."

"Well, the only way we are going to get you out of these now is to cut

you loose." Vicky was still smiling, as she took a large pair of

scissors from the medicine chest and Sara shrugged again with

resignation.

"They were very pretty before Jake tore them now it does not matter."

And she showed no emotion as Vicky snipped carefully along the seam and

peeled them off her.

"Now you must rest." Vicky wrapped her naked lower body in a woollen

sham ma and helped her settle comfortably on one of the thin coir

mattresses spread on the floor of the car.

"Stay with me," Sara asked shyly, as Vicky picked up her portable

typewriter and would have climbed out of the rear doors.

"I must begin my despatch."

"You can work here. I will be very quiet."

"Promise?"

"I promise," and Vicky opened the case and placed the typewriter in her

lap, sitting cross-legged. She wound a sheet of fresh paper into the

machine, and thought for a moment. Then her fingers flew at the keys.

Almost instantly, the anger and outrage returned to her and was

transferred smoothly into words and hammered out on the thin sheet of

yellow paper. Vicky's cheeks flamed with colour and she tossed her

head occasionally to keep the tendrils of fine blonde hair out of her

eyes.

Sara watched her, keeping very still and silent until Vicky paused to

wind a fresh sheet into the typewriter, then she broke the silence.

"I have been thinking, Miss Camberwell,"she said.

"You have?" Vicky did not look up.

"I think it should be Jake."

"Jake?" Vicky glanced at her, baffled by this sudden shift in

thought.

"Yes," Sara nodded with finality. "We will take Jake as your first

lover." She made it sound like a group project.

"Oh, we will will we?" The idea had already entered Vicky's head and

was almost firmly rooted, but she baulked instantly at Sara's bold

statement.

"He is so strong. Yes!" Sara went on. "I think we will definitely

take Jake," and with that statement she dashed as low as they had ever

been the chances of Jake Barton.

Vicky snorted derisively, and flew at the typewriter once again. She

was a lady who liked to make her own decisions.

The river of moving men and animals flowed wedge shaped across the

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