Part 18 (2/2)

Homer Crawford, old in rough and tumble, was already rolling out.

Before the inertia of his fall had given way, his right hand, only a split second before in the grip of the other, was fumbling for the 9 mm Noiseless holstered at his belt.

Rex Donaldson, a small handgun magically in his hand, was standing, half crouched on his thin, bent legs. The two brothers from Trinidad hadn't moved, their eyes bugging.

Moroka was spinning with the momentum of the sudden attack he'd made on his new chief. Now there was a gun in his own hand and he was darting for the tent opening.

Cliff yelled indignantly, ”Stop him!”

Isobel, on her feet by now, both hands to her mouth, was staring at the goatskin tent covering, against which, a moment earlier, Crawford had been gently leaning his back as he talked.

There was a vicious slash in the leather and even as she pointed, the razor-sharp arm dagger's blade disappeared. There was the sound of running feet outside the tent.

Homer Crawford had a.s.similated the situation before the rest. He, too, was darting for the tent entrance, only feet behind Moroka.

Donaldson followed, muttering bitterly under his breath, his face twisted more as though in distaste than in fighting anger.

Cliff, too, finally saw light and dashed after the others, leaving only Isobel and the Peters brothers. They heard the m.u.f.fled coughing of a silenced gun, twice, thrice and then half a dozen times, blurting together in automatic fire.

Homer Crawford shuffled through the sand on an awkward run, rounding the tent, weapon in hand.

There was a native on the ground making final spasmatic muscular movements in his death throes, and not more than three feet from him, coolly, David Moroka sat, bracing his elbows on his knees and aiming, two-handed, as his gun emptied itself.

Crawford brought his own gun up, seeking the target, and clipping at the same time, ”We want him alive--”

It was too late. Two hundred feet beyond, a running tribesman, long arm dagger still in hand, stumbled, ran another three or four feet with hesitant steps, and then collapsed.

Moroka said, ”Too late, Crawford. He would have got away.” The South African started to his feet, brus.h.i.+ng sand from his khaki bush shorts.

The others were beginning to come up and from the Tuareg encampment a rush of Guemama's men started in their direction.

Crawford said unhappily, looking down at the dead native at their feet, ”I hate to see unnecessary killing.”

Moroka looked at him questioningly. ”Unnecessary? Another split second and his knife would have been in your gizzard. What do you want to give him, another chance?”

Crawford said uncomfortably, ”Thanks, Dave, anyway. That was quick thinking.”

”Thank G.o.d,” Donaldson said, coming up, his wrinkled face scowling unhappily, first at the dead man at their feet, and then at the one almost a hundred yards away. ”Are these local men? Where were your bodyguards?”

Cliff Jackson skidded to a halt, after rounding the tent. He'd heard only the last words. ”What bodyguards?” he said.

Moroka looked at Crawford accusingly. ”El Ha.s.san,” he said. ”Leader of all North Africa. And you haven't even got around to bodyguards? Do you fellows think you're playing children's games? Gentlemen, I a.s.sure you, the chips are down.”

VI

El Ha.s.san's Tuaregs were on the move. After half a century and more of relative peace the Apaches of the Sahara, the Sons of Shaitan and the Forgotten of Allah were again disappearing into the ergs to emerge here, there, and ghostlike to disappear again. They faded in and faded away again, and even in their absence dominated all.

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