The crackle of Sniders and Mannlichers ceased but the auto-rifle raved on. The hard, heat-caked earth was hammered by the hoofs of departing horses. Another Berber dropped to the ground, choking and calling on Allah.
And then everything was quiet. The thin air of the Atlas was undisturbed beneath a spinning copper sun.
Boots were scraping the mud wall of the compound. Presently the regular steps of one man were audible.
Ann Halliday called out, “Over here! In this big hut!” Then, paradoxically, she wished she hadn’t spoken. Here she was nearly naked, hanging by her wrists from a beam. And one had heard things about Legionnaires. . . .
A lean, tanned, handsome face appeared in the entrance. Keen gray eyes opened wide with surprise under the Legion kepi. The man came forward, mute with astonishment.
His eyes traveled over her body. He swallowed hard and reached for his tri-bladed bayonet. “I’m sorry,” he said in English. “I don’t mean to stare . . . stare at you . . . but . . . God, lady, but you’re beautiful!” His eyes went hard after that. Hard and impersonal. He cut the thongs and she slumped into a sitting posture on the floor.
He eyed the remnants of her dress and then went outside. In a moment he was back, bringing some white garments—white except for the place a bullet had passed. There, they were red.
“I’m sorry, miss,” said the Legionnaire. “I guess you’ll have to wear this djellaba. The rest of the clothes are pretty fresh and clean. I found them in that dead . . . pardon me . . . in that Berber’s pack.”
Turning away from him, she slipped into the baggy garments and flung the cloak about her slim shoulders. Then, although she was white of face and weak from reaction, she smiled.
“You’re American,” she said.
“Yes. American. Come on. We’ll have to get out of here before they come back. They’ll stop running in a minute and . . .”
“But where are the rest of you? The rest of your outfit, I mean?”
“Outfit?” He stared at her blankly. “Miss, I haven’t any outfit. Not any more, that is.”
“And what does that mean?”
He glanced uneasily toward the distant trail and then turned again to her. “I’m . . . well, ma’am, I’m a deserter, I guess. I’ve been gone for twelve days.”
“But you mean you drove them off by yourself?”
He grinned, his tan face growing a little red. “Yes, I guess that’s right. You see, ma’am, I took this bugle and this auto-rifle when I left. That’s all I’m carrying. Those and bullets. I have to travel fast. These hills are dangerous and then . . . well, there’s a price on my head, you see. I . . . I killed a corporal back there at the post. He was going to shoot me and . . . well, I killed him.
“Right now, ma’am, we’d better get going. They’re liable to come back. I’m trying to make Casablanca and the Atlantic.”
“But how?”
“I heard the firing about three miles away from the pass and I went over and found a lot of dead men. Thinking they might have taken some captives, I came up to look into the matter. They thought . . .” he grinned again, more easily. “I guess they thought I was a whole regiment.”
“But who are you?”
“I was John Doe of the Legion, ma’am. But if I’m caught I’ll be John Doe of the bataillon pénal. My real name is Colton, ma’am. Dusty Colton. Let’s get going. They left a couple horses over there.”
She followed him across the body-strewn compound, the hot sun beating down upon her back. He held a barb for her and eased her up into the saddle.
A yell of rage and exultation came from the higher reaches of the trail. Looking back, Ann saw the swirling robes of the riders sweeping down upon them. The Berbers were some five hundred yards away, riding hard. They had discovered the trick, and Abd el Malek was burning with two distinct fires. He had temporarily forgotten one of them in the suddenness of the attack, but he remembered it now.
Dusty Colton’s barb plunged down a steep slope and veered sharply into the ravine. Hard on his heels came Ann Halliday, swinging low in her saddle, glancing back.
Spiteful puffs of dust were geysering about them. The Berbers were shooting from their saddles—picturesque but rarely accurate. If these men had been Arabs, thought Ann, the story would be different. A Berber is not exactly at home in the saddle.
Colton lashed his pony up a steep slope. The barb struggled, dust rising about its hoofs. Ann’s mount sidestepped the boulders, and under the pressure of whip and rein, labored in the wake of Colton.
The Berbers still on the level, swung closer. Some of them dropped to the sand, kneeling to fire. A leaden slug smashed the leather of Ann’s cantle. Another twitched her djellaba. Colton looked back through the suffocating haze and gave her a reassuring grin.
Colton’s khaki blended well with the dry tan fog. His blond hair streamed out from under his kepi.
The Berbers were toiling up the slope behind them. The marksmen were trying their best to bring the horses down. Ahead was a ridge, and beyond it lay temporary safety . . . perhaps.
Ann’s pony stumbled as a rock rolled under its hoofs. She stared up at the hogback. If they didn’t reach it in another half minute, the marksmen below . . .
It was too steep for the barbs. Colton swung down and tugged at the reins. Ann swung out of the saddle and by utilizing all the strength in her slender body, managed to aid the slipping horse toward the ridge top.
Later, a bullet slammed into rock beside her and she dodged. She knew it was useless to dodge. You never heard the bullet that hit you.
Colton disappeared. His face came back in an instant over the top of the ridge. He yanked her up and shoved the pony into the shelter of a boulder. The auto-rifle was in Colton’s hands.
“Don’t look!” he ordered.
But she couldn’t help but look. The auto-rifle started up like a triphammer. The Berber horsemen on the slope were cornered. One after another they fell, an avalanche of dead bodies and dust and tumbling rocks.
The marksmen at the base screamed and sought cover. A handful of them made it.
Colton stopped firing, looking steadily down at the havoc he had brought. “I guess,” he said, “that that will hold them back for a little while.”
“Did . . . did you get Abd el Malek? The leader?”
Colton snorted and rolled himself a cigarette from black tobacco. “Don’t be foolish, ma’am. That coyote isn’t going to expose himself any more than he can help.”
She looked at his damply clinging shirt, noting the enormous strength which it concealed. He was handsome in profile, this Colton.
He looked at her sideways. “We’ll stay for a minute and see to it that they don’t try it again. We’re not rid of them.” Once more he looked at her. “Ma’am,” he said, hesitantly, “do you happen to have any money?” Then he laughed at his own question. She couldn’t have—not the way he had found her.
“Why money?”
His laugh was erased. “Why, ma’am, it takes money to buy your way out of Casablanca. I know some fellows there and it would be easy. . . . But it takes the dough, get me? The filthy lucre.”
“I have some money in the Fez bank.”
“Then you can forget about it. You’ll be officially dead.”
“Dead?”
“Sure. I can’t turn you over or let you run the risk of going back alone. There’s a price on my head. These Berbers want me bad enough, even though I was just a private. The Legion wants me worse than the Berbers. The bataillon pénal . . . Well, you just don’t get discharged from the bataillon pénal.”
“Money,” she murmured, thinking. The hood of the djellaba almost concealed her face, but where the loose shirt parted at the throat, the beginning of . . . Colton jerked his face away and looked over the edge of the ridge.
“Listen,” said Ann. “I know this sounds silly and all that, but there’s only one place I can think of which would have money.”
“And where’s that?”
“In . . . you’ll laugh at me. In the village of Abd el Malek!”
He did laugh. Recklessly. His fine teeth flashed in the sun and he pushed his kepi back away from his eyes. “Sïdï, you would make a fit mate for Hell’s Legionnaire.” Instantly the grin vanished. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean disrespect.”
“Hell’s Legionnaire? Why that?”
“They called me that in the company. They couldn’t understand why I never had anything to do with women or liquor. They thought the devil was saving me for some vast purpose.”
“Why didn’t you . . . didn’t you take on liquor and women?”
He stared at her and then relaxed. “A girl in Saint Louis said she loved me once. I loved her—or thought I did. She double-crossed me . . . It’s an old story, why go on?” He fired a burst from the gun as a warning to those below.
Turning again, he said, “Abd el Malek’s village, eh? Well, ma’am, I guess we’ll just have to go down there and get the dough. You don’t buy boat tickets with air.”
He slid down to the waiting horses and helped her mount once more. After that they rode through an unending sea of brown mountains, hot dry dust, looming boulders.
Eyes keenly alert for suspicious movements anywhere, he doubled their trail—confusing it. He twisted and turned through the ravines which lay like black gashes through the mountains. He seemed to know where he was going, thought Ann.
Darkness overtook them beside a pool of spring water where the grass grew deep and cool. He tethered the horses, laid the gun down over a boulder where it would command the trail, and then pulled some squares of bitter chocolate from his shirt pocket. Passing the biggest piece to Ann, he ate silently.
With the going of the sun, a cold wind sprang up, incongruously chill after the 110 degrees of the day. Ann hunched down, folding the cloak tightly about her.
Across the pool from her, the Legionnaire stretched in the grass, pillowing his head on his pack. He lay there so quietly that she thought he must be asleep.
It grew even colder. The night was filled with the strange sounds of birds and the faraway calls of mountain cats. Ann shivered and looked through the chilly darkness at Colton’s shadowy body. She thought time and again that she heard hoofs drumming up the dark trail.
At last she could stand it no longer. Crawling on her hands and knees she approached him. Her fingers found his arm and stayed there. He did not move. She crept in close to him, lying at full length. His body was warm. His face was a white blur six inches above hers. She snuggled closer, feeling security and companionship flood through her. She thought he still slept.
His arm moved easily and he drew her closer to him. His face came slowly toward her own. Her heart pounded with a sudden, great joy.
Abruptly he jerked his head back to the pack. His hands moved up to her shoulders and stayed there. In the darkness she could see that his jaw was set and hard. With a small sigh, she fell asleep, unheeding the night sounds of the Atlas.
Afternoon of the next day found them plodding through waves of suffocating heat. The mountains were thinning out and the air seemed to be more breathable. Grass was lusher and water ran in roistering streams toward the sea.
Mopping his damp brow, the Legionnaire turned to her. “We’re almost there, ma’am. Abd el Malek’s village is less than ten minutes’ ride.”
“But won’t it be guarded?”
“Certainly. But the sun will be down in twenty minutes. And if Abd el Malek is away . . .”
“But if he’s there before us?”
“What the hell, ma’am. We’ve got nothing to lose. That is, I haven’t. Maybe you’d better stay behind in case . . .”
“I go where you do.”
He shrugged. “If we’re caught, it won’t be pleasant watching me die. They’ll gouge out my eyes and cut out my tongue. They’ll lash me until I can’t stand. . . . Pardon me, ma’am. I get used to talking about these things. And if they catch you . . .”
“I’m still going,” she said, but her face was white and strained.
They dismounted and waited until the last shadows of the dying day stretched long across the valley. Colton went ahead after tethering their horses behind a boulder, out of sight.
The village came to them with astonishing rapidity. It had been around just two bends in the trail.
A dog barked, savagely. Lights glowed in two windows but no heads came forth to investigate the cause of the uproar. Cooking fires sent a haze of sweet-smelling smoke across the cleared space.
A man stood beside a boulder, staring out across the trail and valley, rifle resting in the crook of his arm. A cigarette burned against his dark face, giving away his position.
Colton sidled up, shadow among shadows. His hand shot out like a pile driver. His other hand snatched at the sentry’s throat. Ann heard a choking rattle. Colton shook the body, holding it up from the ground with one hand. When he dropped it, it sprawled as limp as an empty sack. The cigarette still glowed on the ground.
Coming back to Ann, Colton breathed, “That big house over there is Abd el Malek’s. You stay outside and here’s the sentry’s rifle. If anything happens . . .” He shrugged.
Walking straight across the bare ground, Colton approached the large square hut with the lighted window. A horse was tethered at the entrance. That meant but one thing. Abd el Malek was there!
Without pausing, Colton walked straight through the entrance, auto-rifle held out before him like a lance.
The interior, smoky and poorly lit, was filled with mats and stacked guns. Two women stiffened against the far wall.
A man whirled about, his face drawn with surprise. It was Abd el Malek!
Colton’s face was a dead mask. “One sound,” he said in Shilha, “and this sprays death.”
Abd el Malek sank back on the mat. His eyes had a searing quality as he stared up at the Legionnaire.
Colton wanted to laugh. It was too easy, this. One sentry and nothing else for protection. “I heard,” said Colton, “that you had money.”
Abd el Malek started. He involuntarily glanced toward a small cabinet at the far end of the room.
“So that’s where it is,” said Colton. “Thank you. I’m taking it in payment for the equipment and lives of the Halliday Expedition.”
Abd el Malek chuckled. “You think you can do this, eh, Legionnaire? You think that one man is good enough? You have learned little with la Légion.”
Edging along the wall, Colton approached the cabinet—out of place in this Berber scene. He reached down without taking his eyes from Abd el Malek. The door swung open. Several sacks came to view. Colton scooped them up with a single sweep of his hand and crammed them into his musette bag. They were heavy and jangling, those bags. God knew what wealth and loot they contained.
Suddenly the night was torn apart by a man’s shout. Dogs began to bark hysterically.
They had found the sentry! Perhaps Ann!
Abd el Malek smiled. “Torture, Legionnaire, will be your lot. And worse if you fire that auto-rifle. We shall see to it that the woman is torn to pieces before your eyes—if the woman is still with you.” He stood up, his gray eyes triumphant.
The women standing near, began to laugh with relief. Men were pounding toward the hut, calling out for Abd el Malek. Suddenly the doorway was filled with alarmed faces.
Colton glanced to the right and left. He was trapped and doomed. He had been a fool to try this. Why hadn’t he let well enough alone? They knew he came to them singly now. With only a woman to back him. They would find Ann and torture them both.
Abd el Malek was standing with folded arms. “Take away his plaything, my children.”
Colton braced his back against the mud wall. “Try it.” But he knew he was only prolonging things—that they would be harder on him if he resisted. He was whipped.
Berber hands were reaching out for the flared muzzle of the auto-rifle.
A shot rapped harshly through the gloom!
; Abd el Malek weaved slightly. He took one step to the right, tried to stay on his feet. A red flood of frothy crimson bubbled from his thin lips.
In his eyes was the agony of death!
Colton stared, unbelieving. He could not understand. The Berbers were transfixed by the sight of their leader.
Hands flexing like talons, Abd el Malek went down on his knees. The flood of red doubled, trebled.
He coughed and fell on his face to lie quite still.
And then came the ragged notes of a bugle!
Colton caught his breath. La Légion! Then that meant the bataillon pénal—the Zephyrs for him. Colton, murderer and deserter.
But something in him wouldn’t believe it. Something in him made him swing up the gun and fire—although Berber torture was nothing compared to the living death of the Zephyrs.
The auto-rifle spewed an unending stream of ragged flame. Berbers, swerving away too late, caught the bursts full in their chests. Colton strode forward to the door, his path cleared and carpeted by dying men. His face was set and hard.
Men streamed at him across the clearing. More Berbers. He fired the rest of the clip, replaced it, kneeling in the shadow of the wall.
Screams of terror and rage went up before him. The auto-rifle clattered on, punctuated by the bark of rifles. Slugs whined out across the darkness, bit into the running bodies and drove them to earth.
Ann’s voice was in his ears. A pony’s rein was in his hand. “Ride! Ride, for God’s sake!”
And then he knew that she had blown the bugle and that she had killed Abd el Malek. For him? For herself? No, thought Colton, wind against his hot face, for both of them.
It was nearing dawn and the chill night was slowly ebbing away into faint yellowness in the east. Colton drew in and looked behind them and saw nothing. He smiled and pointed down to pinpoints of lights which glowed far below.
“Casablanca,” he said.
“We’ve made it,” murmured the girl, softly. “We’ve made it, you and I.” And she sighed happily.
“We’ll rest before we go on. There’s a spring here. Yes,” he said, dismounting, “we’ve made it and we’ve got God knows how many thousands of dollars in this musette bag. Enough to keep us the rest of our lives.”