The Sheik Retold(11)

Twice they galloped around, their long cloaks fluttering, tossing their rifles in their hands. Bewildered by this chain of events, I strove to soothe my fretful horse. Perhaps this was just some kind of demonstration? Maybe they intended to simply fire a parting salute and move on? I knew the decharge de mousqueterie was much loved by the Arabs. Of course by then I was grasping at straws.

My excited horse spun in an attempt to bolt. I managed to regain control only to discover the rifles no longer pointing up into the heavens, but aiming straight at us. By now my mind was reeling with disbelief. What were they doing? What was their intent? Were they bandits? If so, I had nothing of value for them to steal. Everything was with the caravan. Surely this would only be a question of a ransom. It was an annoyance, but the experience would add a certain piquancy to my trip.

Mustafa Ali's men were blotted out from my sight, cut off by the band of Arabs. A volley of shots caused an icy hand to clutch my heart and a moan to burst from my lips. My guide slid out of his saddle to the ground. My mind reeled, but I took a deep breath, telling myself that the Arabs hadn't really meant to hurt anyone, that they were just excited and someone's shot had mistakenly aimed wide. It could only be that. I still would not acknowledge that there was any real threat, though my heart was pounding out of my chest. I was too near Biskra for any true danger. Wasn't I?

The French authorities had tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen. In my proud obstinacy I had taken none of it seriously, but now the sheer gravity of the situation had come home to me—that my very life was in danger, a notion that filled me with both fury and terror. My guide was wounded, his men surrounded, and nobody had even put up any kind of a fight! I reeled with a sudden faintness and then dragged my horse's head around. I was trapped, and the net was closing fast. My hands shook, and my legs trembled beneath me. Reading my fear, my horse responded accordingly, rearing and plunging.

In the midst of this chaos, a steely resolve settled over me. Crouching low over the mare's withers, I clutched her neck and jammed my heels into her flanks. At the sudden contact of my spurs in her sides, she bolted, bursting through the armed barrier like flood waters through a dam. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the leader turn in his saddle and raise his hand high above his head with a wild shout. Clearly I had taken them by surprise, and I clung to that advantage as tightly as I could.

I expected shots to follow me, but it didn't matter. I had no thought beyond escape. The horse needed no encouragement either. We were both running wild and scared, frantically tearing across the desert back in the direction from whence we had come. After about a half mile, I shot a glance behind me to discover a solitary Arab in a black cloak—the leader— had given chase.

Panic-stricken, I crouched forward on the bay's neck and rode as I had never ridden in my life, spurring, coaxing, and shouting, heedless of the rough and dangerous track. Better an ugly toss and broken neck than to be taken by him. I wanted to shriek but clenched my teeth on my lips to keep back the scream that rose in my throat.

I glanced back again. He was at least a hundred yards away but appeared to be gaining. There was a sinister deliberation in the way he followed, as if riding me down. The thought made me dig my spurs even deeper. As a sportswoman, I'd often wondered how a hunted creature felt. Now I was in a fair way of finding out. Like the fox to the hound, I was determined to give this Arab dog a run for his money. I could ride, and there still seemed plenty of steam in the frightened animal beneath me. I kept down, lying low against her neck, alternately coaxing and spurring. I would ride until I dropped—or the horse did.

From behind came a long, shrill whistle and the mare's mood instantly changed. Her ears pricked, and her pace noticeably lagged. Clearly she was responding to a signal she knew. The whistle came again, and again, and despite my relentless spurring, she continued to check her pace.

Damn her! Damn her to bloody hell!

Perhaps it was the horse that was the cause of all the trouble? The guide's reluctance to give any history of her came back to me. She must have been stolen and belonged to the Arab. The sum of Mustafa Ali's delinquencies was mounting up fast. But it was his affair, not mine. I had paid for the horse and was not about to be waylaid by Arab bandits. I dared not look behind again, but only straight ahead, as I hauled the bay around perilous corners, bending lower and lower in the saddle to aid her. I was approaching open desert with nothing but the sheer speed of my horse to save me. I wondered how long I could count on that.

I had ridden hard all day, but the other rider was much larger and his weight considerably greater. Maybe we could still break away. The perspiration was rolling down my face, and my lungs burned as if I were the one running. Though I urged the horse on with all my power, it was still to no avail. I flashed another backward look over my shoulder. The Arab was perilously close—closer than I had been aware. I had a fleeting glimpse of a big cloaked figure, dark piercing eyes, and gleaming white teeth. I could see the mockery in his expression, and the knowledge enraged me.

Driven by a sudden madness, I withdrew my revolver and fired twice—full in his face.

But rather than plunging from the saddle, a low laugh rang out from him, sending a cold ripple down my spine. I had missed again, just as I had missed that morning. It was inexplicable. With a curse, I flung away the useless revolver, trying once more in vain to force my horse's pace.

A deep voice called out to me, not in Arabic but in pure unaccented French. "Arrêtez ou je tire sur le cheval!"