El Borak and Other Desert Adventures (77 page)

To the tribesman he said, fumbling in his girdle: “We are but poor travellers, who are glad to pay the toll justly demanded by your brave chief. We ride alone.”

“Then who is that behind you?” harshly demanded the Jowaki, nodding his head in the direction from which they had come. Hassan, for all his wariness, half turned his head, his hand still outstretched with the coins. And in that instant fierce triumph flamed in the dark face of the Jowaki, and in one motion quick as the lunge of a cobra, he whipped a dagger from his girdle and struck at the unsuspecting Persian.

But quick as he was, O’Donnell was quicker, sensing the trap laid for them. As the dagger darted at Hassan’s throat, O’Donnell’s scimitar flashed in the sun and steel rang loud on steel. The dagger flew from the Pathan’s hand, and with a snarl he caught at the rifle butt which jutted from his saddle-scabbard. Before he could drag the gun free, O’Donnell struck again, cleaving the turban and the skull beneath. The Jowaki’s horse neighed and reared, throwing the corpse headlong, and O’Donnell wrenched his own steed around.

“Ride for the gorge!” he yelled. “It’s an ambush!”

The brief fight had occupied a mere matter of moments. Even as the Jowaki tumbled to the earth, rifle shots ripped out from the boulders on the slopes. Hassan’s horse leaped convulsively and bolted for the mouth of the defile, spattering blood at each stride. O’Donnell felt flying lead tug at his sleeve as he struck in the spurs and fled after the fleeing Persian who was unable to regain control of his pain-maddened beast.

As they swept toward the mouth of the gorge, three horsemen rode out to meet them, proven swordsmen of the Jowaki clan, swinging their broad-bladed tulwars. Hassan’s crazed mount was carrying him full into their teeth, and the Persian fought in vain to check him. Suddenly abandoning the effort he dragged his rifle from its boot and started firing point-blank as he came on. One of the oncoming horses stumbled and fell, throwing its rider. Another rider threw up his arms and toppled earthward. The third man hacked savagely at Hassan as the maddened horse raced past, but the Persian ducked beneath the sweeping blade and fled on into the gorge.

The next instant O’Donnell was even with the remaining swordsman, who spurred at him, swinging the heavy tulwar. The American threw up his scimitar and the blades met with a deafening crash as the horses came together breast to breast. The tribesman’s horse reeled to the impact, and O’Donnell rose in his stirrups and smiting downward with all his strength, beat down the lifted tulwar and split the skull of the wielder. An instant later the American was galloping on into the gorge. He half expected it to be full of armed
warriors, but there was no other choice. Outside bullets were raining after him, splashing on rocks and ripping into stunted trees.

But evidently the man who set the trap had considered the marksmen hidden among the rocks on the slopes sufficient, and had posted only those four warriors in the gorge, for, as O’Donnell swept into it he saw only Hassan ahead of him. A few yards on the wounded horse stumbled and went down, and the Persian leaped clear as it fell.

“Get up behind me!” snapped O’Donnell, pulling up, and Hassan, rifle in hand, leaped up behind the saddle. A touch of the spurs and the heavily burdened horse set off down the gorge. Savage yells behind them indicated that the tribesmen outside were scampering to their horses, doubtless hidden behind the first ridge. They made a turn in the gorge and the noises became muffled. But they knew the wild hillmen would quickly be sweeping down the ravine after them, like wolves on the death-trail.

“That Waziri spy must have gotten back to Yakub Khan,” panted Hassan. “They want blood, not gold. Do you suppose they’ve wiped out Hawklin?”

“Hawklin might have passed down this gorge before the Jowakis came up to set their ambush,” answered O’Donnell. “Or the Jowakis might have been following him when they sighted us coming and set that trap for us. I’ve got an idea Hawklin is somewhere ahead of us.”

“No matter,” answered Hassan. “This horse won’t carry us far. He’s tiring fast. Their horses may be fresh. We’d better look for a place where we can turn and fight. If we can hold them off until dark maybe we can sneak away.”

They had covered perhaps another mile and already they heard faint sounds of pursuit, far behind them, when abruptly they came out into a broad bowl-like place, walled by sheer cliffs. From the midst of this bowl a gradual slope led up to a bottle-neck pass on the other side, the exit to this natural arena. Something unnatural about that bottle-neck struck O’Donnell, even as Hassan yelled and jumped down from the horse. A low stone wall closed the narrow gut of the pass. A rifle cracked from that wall just as O’Donnell’s horse threw up its head in alarm at the glint of the sun on the blue barrel. The bullet meant for the rider smashed into the horse’s head instead.

The beast lurched to a thundering fall, and O’Donnell jumped clear and rolled behind a cluster of rocks, where Hassan had already taken cover. Flashes of fire spat from the wall, and bullets whined off the boulders about them. They looked at each other with grim, sardonic humor.

“Well, we’ve found Hawklin!” said Hassan.

“And in a few minutes Yakub Khan will come up behind us and we’ll be between the devil and the deep blue sea!” O’Donnell laughed hardly, but their situation was desperate. With enemies blocking the way ahead of them and other enemies coming up the gorge behind them, they were trapped.

The boulders behind which they were crouching protected them from the fire from the wall, but would afford no protection from the Jowakis when they rode out of the gorge. If they changed their position they would be riddled by the men in front of them. If they did not change it, they would be shot down by the Jowakis behind them.

A voice shouted tauntingly: “Come out and get shot, you bloody bounders!” Hawklin was making no attempt to keep up the masquerade. “I know you, Hassan! Who’s that Kurd with you? I thought I brained him last night!”

“Yes, a Kurd!” answered O’Donnell. “One called Ali el Ghazi!”

After a moment of astounded silence, Hawklin shouted: “I might have guessed it, you Yankee swine! Oh, I know who you are, all right! Well, it doesn’t matter now! We’ve got you where you can’t wriggle!”

“You’re in the same fix, Hawklin!” yelled O’Donnell. “You heard the shooting back down the gorge?”

“Sure. We stopped to water the horses and were just ready to move on when we heard it and paused a bit. Who’s chasing you?”

“Yakub Khan and a hundred Jowakis!” O’Donnell purposely exaggerated. “When he’s wiped us out, do you think he’ll let you get away? After you tried to torture his secrets out of one of his men?”

“You’d better let us join you,” advised Hassan, recognizing, like O’Donnell, their one, desperate chance. “There’s a big fight coming and you’ll need all the help you can get if you expect to get out alive!”

Hawklin’s turbaned head appeared over the wall; he evidently trusted the honor of the men he hated, and did not fear a treacherous shot.

“Is that the truth?” he yelled.

“Don’t you hear the horses?” O’Donnell retorted.

No need to ask. The gorge reverberated with the thunder of hoofs and with wild yells. Hawklin paled. He knew what mercy he could expect from Yakub Khan. And he knew the fighting ability of the two adventurers — knew how heavily their aid would count in a fight to the death.

“Get in, quick!” he shouted. “If we’re still alive when the fight’s over we’ll decide who gets the idol then!”

Truly it was no time to think of treasure, even of the Crimson God! Life itself was at stake. O’Donnell and Hassan leaped up, rifles in hand, and sprinted up the slope toward the wall. Just as they reached it the first horsemen burst out of the gorge and began firing. Crouching behind the wall, Hawklin and his men returned the fire. Half a dozen saddles were emptied and the Jowakis, demoralized by the unexpectedness of the volley, wheeled and fled back into the gorge.

O’Donnell glanced at the men Fate had made his allies — the thieves who had stolen his treasure-map and would gladly have killed him fifteen minutes
before: Hawklin, grim and hard-eyed in his Afghan guise, Jehungir Khan, dapper even after leagues of riding, and three hairy Yusufzai swashbucklers, addressed variously as Akbar, Suliman and Yusuf. These bared their teeth at him. This was an alliance of wolves, which would last only so long as the common menace lasted.

The men behind the wall began sniping at white-clad figures flitting among the rocks and bushes near the mouth of the gorge. The Jowakis had dismounted and were crawling into the bowl, taking advantage of every bit of cover. Their rifles cracked from behind every boulder and stunted tamarisk.

“They must have been following us,” snarled Hawklin, squinting along his rifle barrel. “O’Donnell, you lied! There can’t be a hundred men out there.”

“Enough to cut our throats, anyway,” retorted O’Donnell, pressing his trigger. A man darting toward a rock yelped and crumpled, and a yell of rage went up from the lurking warriors. “Anyway, there’s nothing to keep Yakub Khan from sending for reinforcements. His village isn’t many hours’ ride from here.”

Their conversation was punctuated by the steady cracking of the rifles. The Jowakis, well hidden, were suffering little from the exchange.

“We’ve a sporting chance behind this wall,” growled Hawklin. “No telling how many centuries it’s stood here. I believe it was built by the same race that built the Red God’s temple. You’ll find ruins like this all through these hills. Damn!” He yelled at his men: “Hold your fire! Our ammunition’s getting low. They’re working in close for a rush. Save your cartridges for it. We’ll mow ’em down when they get into the open.” An instant later he shouted: “Here they come!”

The Jowakis were advancing on foot, flitting from rock to rock, from bush to stunted bush, firing as they came. The defenders grimly held their fire, crouching low and peering through the shallow crenelations. Lead flattened against the stone, knocking off chips and dust. Suliman swore luridly as a slug ripped into his shoulder. Back in the gorge-mouth O’Donnell glimpsed Yakub Khan’s red beard, but the chief took cover before he could draw a bead. Wary as a fox, Yakub was not leading the charge in person.

But his clansmen fought with untamed ferocity. Perhaps the silence of the defenders fooled them into thinking their ammunition was exhausted. Perhaps the blood-lust that burned in their veins overcame their cunning. At any rate they broke cover suddenly, thirty-five or forty of them, and rushed up the slope with the rising ululation of a wolf-pack. Point-blank they fired their rifles and then lunged at the barrier with three-foot knives in their hands.

“Now!”
screamed Hawklin, and a close-range volley raked the oncoming horde. In an instant the slope was littered with writhing figures. The men behind
that wall were veteran fighters, to a man, who could not miss at that range. The toll taken by their sweeping hail of lead was appalling, but the survivors came on, eyes glaring, foam on their beards, blades glittering in hairy fists.

“Bullets won’t stop ’em!” yelled Hawklin, livid, as he fired his last rifle cartridge. “Hold the wall or we’re all dead men!”

The defenders emptied their guns into the thick of the mass and then rose up behind the wall, drawing steel or clubbing rifles. Hawklin’s strategy had failed, and now it was hand-to-hand, touch and go, and the devil take the unlucky.

Men stumbled and went down beneath the slash of the last bullets, but over their writhing bodies the horde rolled against the wall and locked there. All up and down the barrier sounded the smash of bone-splintering blows, the rasp and slither of steel meeting steel, the gasping oaths of dying men. The handful of defenders still had the advantage of position, and dead men lay thick at the foot of the wall before the Jowakis got a foothold on the barricade. A wild-eyed tribesman jammed the muzzle of an ancient musket full in Akbar’s face, and the discharge all but blew off the Yusufzai’s head. Into the gap left by the falling body the howling Jowaki lunged, hurling himself up and over the wall before O’Donnell could reach the spot. The American had stepped back, fumbling to reload his rifle, only to find his belt empty. Just then he saw the raving Jowaki come over the wall. He ran at the man, clubbing his rifle, just as the Pathan dropped his empty musket and drew a long knife. Even as it cleared the scabbard O’Donnell’s rifle butt crushed his skull.

O’Donnell sprang over the falling corpse to meet the men swarming on to the wall. Swinging his rifle like a flail, he had no time to see how the fight was going on either side of him. Hawklin was swearing in English, Hassan in Persian, and somebody was screaming in mortal agony. He heard the sound of blows, gasps, curses, but he could not spare a glance to right or left. Three blood-mad tribesmen were fighting like wildcats for a foothold on the wall. He beat at them until his rifle stock was a splintered fragment, and two of them were down with broken heads, but the other, straddling the wall, grabbed the American with gorilla-like hands and dragged him into quarters too close to use his bludgeon. Half throttled by those hairy fingers on his throat, O’Donnell dragged out his
kindhjal
and stabbed blindly, again and again, until blood gushed over his hand, and with a moaning cry the Jowaki released him and toppled moaning from the wall.

Gasping for air, O’Donnell looked about him, realizing the pressure had slackened. No longer the barrier was massed with wild faces. The Jowakis were staggering down the slope — the few left to flee. Their losses had been terrible, and not a man of those who retreated but streamed blood from some wound.

But the victory had been costly. Suliman lay limply across the wall, his head smashed like an egg. Akbar was dead. Yusuf was dying, with a stab-wound in the belly, and his screams were terrible. As O’Donnell looked he saw Hawklin ruthlessly end his agony with a pistol bullet through the head. Then the American saw Jehungir Khan, sitting with his back against the wall, his hands pressed to his body, while blood seeped steadily between his fingers. The prince’s lips were blue, but he achieved a ghastly smile.