Part 34 (1/2)

”I ought to have antic.i.p.ated this,” he remarked, as, panting and perspiring, I came up to him. ”Can't a man go for a peaceful stroll without you following like a hound on the scent? Return at once.”

”Peaceful stroll?” I gasped. ”Do you think I was fooled by all that nonsense about Nefert.i.ti's tomb? I suppose you think you can order the rest of us to continue digging out that wretched village while you pretend to work in the royal wadi. You have no intention of wasting time there, the proposal is only a blind- a lure, rather, for an enemy stupid enough to believe your boasts about secret tombs- with yourself as the bait in the trap!”

”You are mixing your metaphors,” said Emerson critically. His tone was mild, but I knew that soft purring voice, and there was a gleam in his eyes I had seen before- but never directed at me ”Now turn around and go back, MISS Peabody- or squat there, on a rock if you prefer, till I return- or I will put you over my shoulder and carry you back to your friend Vandergelt, who will make sure you don't wander off again.”

He took a step toward me. I took a step back. I had not meant to.

”Cyrus would not do that,” I said.

”I think he would.”

I thought he would too. And there was no doubt in my mind that Emerson would do what he had threatened to do.

The idea had a certain attraction, but I put it aside. I could not stop Emerson, short of shooting him in the leg (an idea that had its own kind of attraction, but that might prove counterproductive in the long run). If I were to guard and protect him, craft and cunning were my only weapons. I proceeded to employ them, dropping down on the rock he had indicated and blinking my eyes furiously as if I were trying to hold back my tears.

”I will wait here,” I said, sniffing.

”Oh,” said Emerson. ”Well, then. See that you do.” After a moment he added gruffly, ”I won't be long.”

As I believe I have mentioned, the wadi takes a turn to the east almost immediately, and a spur of rock cuts off the explorer's view of the plain. Emerson pa.s.sed around it. I waited, watching the spot over the handkerchief I had raised to my eyes. After a short time Emerson's head appeared, his narrowed eyes glaring at me. I bowed my head to hide my smile and pressed the handkerchief to my lips.

The head vanished, and I heard the crunch of rock under his feet as he walked on. As soon as the sounds faded I followed

My heart was thudding as I hastened on, threading a path among the boulders that littered the floor of the canyon. The difficulty for me now was not concealment but a clear line of vision, the twists and turns of the path, the heaped-up detritus, gave me only flas.h.i.+ng glimpses of Emerson's form as he proceeded. It was pure luck- or the blessing of Providence, as I prefer to believe- that one such glimpse showed me what I had feared to see.

The man emerged from behind a pile of boulders which Emerson had just pa.s.sed. Noiseless on bare feet, his dirty white robe almost invisible against the pale limestone of the rock walls, he launched himself at Emerson's back. The sunlight struck blindingly from the knife in his hand.

”Emerson!” I screamed. ”Behind you!”

The echoes rolled from cliff to cliff. Emerson spun around. Mohammed's upraised arm fell. The knife found a target, Emerson staggered back, raising his hand to his face. He kept his feet, though, and Mohammed, arm raised to strike again, circled warily around him. He was not fool enough to close with Emerson, weaponless and wounded as he was.

Needless to say, I had continued to move forward as fast as possible. I was of course carrying my parasol. It required no more than a second or two to realize it was not the weapon I wanted. I could never reach them in time to prevent another blow. Tucking the parasol under my arm, I pulled my revolver from my pocket, aimed, and fired.

By the time I came up to Emerson, Mohammed was long gone. Emerson was still on his feet, leaning against a spur of rock. His upraised arm was pressed against his cheek. Since he never has a handkerchief, I deduced he had subst.i.tuted his s.h.i.+rt sleeve for that useful article, in an attempt to staunch the blood that was turning the left side of his beard into a sticky ma.s.s and dripping down onto his s.h.i.+rt front.

Between agitation, extreme speed of locomotion, and relief, I was panting too heavily to articulate. Somewhat to my surprise Emerson waited for me to speak first. Over his unspeakable sleeve his eyes regarded me curiously.

”Another s.h.i.+rt ruined,” I gasped.

The intent blue orbs were veiled, momentarily, by lowered lids. After a moment Emerson muttered, ”Not to mention my face. What were you shooting at?”

”Mohammed, of course.”

”You missed by a good six yards.”

”The shot achieved the desired effect.”

”He got away.”