Fifty-Fifty O'Brien (5 page)

Chapter Three

A
Tuareg, astride a charging black horse, burst into sight. A two-handed sword was held aloft, shattering the rays of the departing sun. The man was veiled, only his eyes showing. The white robe swirled about him.

Behind him came others. Hoofs and yells and the clatter and ring of steel deafened Grant. He waited, holding his fire until the targets were more certain.

The wall of running horses loomed large before the muzzle of the gun. Grant cut loose.

Sitting, he tried to keep the machine gun steady. But it jerked, hammered and rocked about him as though he were a small, roly-poly doll.

The bullets slashed through the Tuaregs, cutting a wide pattern. A horse screamed and reared, spilling its rider out of the saddle and under the hoofs. Another fell, skidding from excess momentum.

The Tuaregs shouted and tried to turn, but others were pressing from the rear. The gun hammered on with its appalling slaughter.

Abruptly the pass cleared. Grant ceased firing. His wounded back ached from the shock of the recoil. He felt a little sick. A horse was striving to raise its head. Grant picked up the gun and put the beast out of its misery.

He saw that the squad was gone, reduced to an occasional sparkle of metal far out on the plain. They would be able to make it now. He wondered what Muller would do when he regained his wits: stamp and swear and vow that he'd get Grant, of course.

But Grant knew there'd be no getting him. When the Tuaregs had succeeded in untangling themselves, they'd come back and kill him. His position was far from satisfactory. His back was exposed as well as his left flank. He couldn't cover three ways at once.

Strangely, none of this seemed to worry him so very much. In spite of pain, the rankling ugliness of his late existence had been wiped away. He'd gotten even with Muller. Of course that still left Boch, and the drillmaster.

The sergeant's pack was close at hand—also his canteen. Grant's own were back up the trail where he had been wounded. Unscrewing the cap, he drank of the liquid. It was hot and metallic, but it helped his throat.

Digging into the compartments of Muller's pack, he found some flinty biscuits and a tin of sausages. With his bayonet he opened the can.

He sat there taking a bite of sausage, a bite of bread and a swallow of water, repeating until nothing was left. He listened intently for the return of the Tuaregs. Of course they'd get him at the finish, but he might as well take a few along to Heaven with him.

For an hour he sat very still, thinking and waiting. The sun went down over the mountain rim and the moon began to turn the world into glossy blue white.

He realized that he was cold. He felt about him for his tunic and then remembered that it had gone with his pack. The sergeant's tunic lay near at hand. He looked at the chevrons and smiled. He donned it, trying not to move his back too much.

When the Tuaregs came back—

A sandal rasped behind him. He whirled, trying to level the rifle. A man in heavy robes sprang at him. Grant grabbed for the throat and his hands tangled in the veil.

Yells broke out on all sides. Suddenly he was drowning in a sea of cloth. A voice was above the rest, crying out orders.

A moment later he stopped struggling. He hadn't intended to go out this way. Probably he'd face torture now.

They pulled him to his feet, holding his arms. A Tuareg in a long blue veil studied him. The Tuareg's eyes were like silver dimes with holes bored in the center.

“A sergeant!” said “Blue Veil.”

Grant glanced down at the chevrons and then back at the Tuareg.

“Perhaps you'd like to die now,” said Blue Veil in very clipped French. He took a revolver from his belt and juggled it. “Yes, I think you would like to die now.”

“Go ahead,” replied Grant, unafraid.

Blue Veil put the revolver back in his belt. “But I do not think I will kill you. You are from Intelligence.” His eyes stabbed Grant's face. “Yes, Intelligence. We know a great deal. We also have intelligence.”

Grant's gaze was steady. His blue eyes were calm.

“And because you are from Intelligence,” continued Blue Veil, “perhaps you can buy your life. Where is that patrol?”

“What patrol?” said Grant.

“You know what I mean. You French think you are very clever. You think you can guard the pass and keep me from getting ammunition. But I will kill off that platoon.”

“I don't know of any platoon,” replied Grant.

“You're lying. You know where it is. Tell me and I let you go.”

“I don't know where it is,” said Grant, doggedly.

Blue Veil laughed derisively. “I know that you do. There are ants here, Sergeant. There are sweets here, Sergeant. Would you like to be tied across an anthill and smeared with honey? A sweet death, but rather painful. Tell me and I let you go.”

“I know of no platoon,” said Grant.

“You're a stubborn brute.” Blue Veil turned his back and snapped orders to his men. For a moment, Grant thought that he was about to receive punishment. Then he saw the Tuaregs haul forth their pack animals from the pass.

Camp was made in a short space of time. Fires were lighted and food was cooked. Grant was seated at the base of the wall, a guard at either elbow.

After he had eaten, Blue Veil squatted down before him. “It is too late to do anything tonight. I keep you under heavy guard. But you could go now if you would tell me.”

“I do not know anything to tell you,” replied Grant.

Blue Veil stood up. “Bah!” He spat deliberately into Grant's face. “Tomorrow morning you will tell.” He turned and entered a tent.

Grant hunched his knees up under his chin and stared at the cooking fire. Blue Veil was wise to postpone this thing until morning. Even a stout heart will go soft if given too much time for thought.

By this time Muller and the rest would be struggling homeward. Or perhaps they would stay for more information. At any event, the word would go through about the uprising.

These Tuaregs were bad medicine. As desert raiders they were under the impression that they ruled the world. No caravan captain would think of venturing forth without a Tuareg guard. If he did, then the Tuaregs would wipe out his command.

Desert racketeers, that's what they were. Ugly devils, spooky in their veils—but every inch soldiers. That was their profession and had been for centuries.

The black guards were silent, staring ahead, hands propped up by their rifles. Grant looked at their hawk profiles. Swell chance he had of getting away. And in the morning—

The platoon would have to succeed in wiping out that ammunition train. If ammunition did come through, there'd be hell to pay in plenty. Grant began to realize just what French control meant in this part of the world. A handful of soldiers policed this district. Things could so easily get out of hand.

Something like
esprit de corps
was born in Grant. This was real. He did not have to take a sergeant's bullying abuse. He was here to think for himself, act for himself—even though death was not far distant.

The glowing fire died to a pile of pulsating red coals. The camp slept.

Chapter Four

I
N
the silence of a Sahara night, Grant heard voices which had no earthly form. They were the voices of his past, calling to him across oceans and continents and years—a snatch of song, a hearty curse, the brassy blare of a bugle.

How far away it seemed. He squirmed as he thought of the part he had played. The disgrace of that court-martial had only been capped by the disgrace of running away.

His fine, narrow face twitched when memory hit too hard. Pain clouded his eyes. It was his curse to have to think. Where others only acted and realized nothing of their danger, he knew he had to act anyway. He knew fear as does every intelligent man.

Sergeants! Damn the part that they had played. Why hadn't he remembered the things he had heard about the sergeants of the Legion—those towering, awful figures who had to be addressed as “sir”?

As Lieutenant Stephans, he had had nothing to do with sergeants. He had been above them and beyond them. But as Legionnaire Grant—

A chill coursed over him like a bucket of cold water. The desert night was icy. The cooking fire had died. Looking at his guards, he was snapped back into the realness of his danger.

The Tuaregs had bowed their heads over their rifles. Their breathing was regular. Grant went as taut as a cocked gun. They were asleep!

No, maybe they were shamming. Maybe they wanted him to run so that they could plug him.

Nothing stirred in the camp. Even the horses drowsed after a hard day of riding. Grant moved a little, just to test the guards. Their breathing did not change. Grant moved again.

Suddenly bold, he stood up without touching them. His back was stiff where the bullet had left a furrow. By this time the khaki shirt had frozen into the wound, making an effectual bandage.

Still the sentries did not move. Their heads were pillowed on their hands. Their veils were a filmy cloud behind the vertical stocks of their rifles.

Grant saw his canteen beside the cooking fire. He stepped silently toward it. His revolver was there. Hastily, realizing that this was too good to be true, he shook the canteen and found it half full. Something was wrong. They wouldn't let him get away like this.

The plain stretched out before him, hazy in the moonlight. Grant took a cautious step toward it. Certainly the sentries would awake and plug him. His back crawled, waiting for a bullet.

He took step after step, placing distance between himself and the camp. Looking back he saw that the guards had not moved. Almost out of earshot now, he quickened his pace.

Plotting his position by a star, he headed north. He looked back once more. No sounds of pursuit were to be heard. The coals of the cooking fire were faintly visible like a red eye.

He began to run. The wind was cooling against his face, the plain fled by under his hobnailed boots. He couldn't make for the hills. He'd have to take the middle course and trust to luck. When morning came, he'd be far away.

Until now the thought of his return had not bothered him. He had been too certain of his execution. But now he realized that he was walking straight into the
bataillon pénal
. He'd be a
joyeux
when he got back to the Legion.

He closed his mouth like a trap. This was one time when he'd stay and take his medicine. He'd have to. He'd face Muller's charges and take the rap.

One hour, two hours, and he still headed into the north. By the ragged outline of the mountains around him, he knew exactly where he was. And the knowledge made him stop.

He was heading straight in toward the hidden platoon! But then, that would be his only salvation. Alone out here the Tuaregs would get him again. He'd go up to the pass and surrender himself to the lieutenant there. He'd tell him what he had done and Muller could bring his charges later.

Feeling better in his decision, he slogged toward the range where lay the pass. Some twenty miles beyond the platoon was another post—a squadron assigned to the Legion. He knew it was there. He had seen their two-seaters over the desert on their patrols.

Hours slipped by, and he found himself walking through the blackest night he had ever known. He stumbled into boulders, slid down the sides of hidden washes; but the star kept him on his trail.

The moon was gone and the sun would be there presently. He hoped he was far enough from the Tuareg encampment to be invisible.

The sun swam up over the mountainous rim of the world, sending shafts of cool light across the plain. It was fresh and invigorating and Grant quickened his pace.

Before long the desert gathered up the heat and threw it back. Heat waves danced along the crests. A mirage came up and disappeared before it was clearly distinguished.

His wound was stinging. He knew he'd have to have medical aid before long. Otherwise infection would overtake him.

He sat down to rest against a large rock, taking advantage of its shadow. He'd wait a while and then go on. He had not realized how tired he was. His eyes were haggard.

Maybe it would have been wiser to have taken to the hills. He looked at the brown jumbles of stone on his left. Instantly he sat up straight.

“My lord, it can't be!”

But it was. A horseman had moved into deeper cover a mile to his left. Grant turned and looked to his right flank. A white robe swirled and disappeared behind a rock.

The Tuaregs were following him!

Then they had let him escape on purpose. But why?

He got up and started north again. Covertly he studied the movements of the raiders on either flank. They were flitting from rock to rock, keeping pace with him, taking advantage of the cover afforded by the hills.

When he got to the platoon— Grant stopped dead and stared into the north. So that was it. The Tuaregs had known he would go to the platoon. And they wanted to know the exact position. If they knew, they would have little trouble ambushing the patrol which kept their ammunition waiting across the mountains.

A tight smile came briefly to his lips. So that was the game, was it? He was a decoy, like a hunter's wooden duck. He was a potential charge of dynamite. But he couldn't stay out here on the desert to be slaughtered. His only salvation lay in reaching that platoon. And if he went there, the platoon's purpose would be defeated and many would die.

His lagging feet took him north again, still toward the patrol. He was unwilling to throw aside this chance at life. The
bataillon pénal
might await him with its living death, but that was better than Tuareg knives.

Besides, what did he care about France, about the Legion, about drill sergeants?

He stopped again, realizing that he did care. His eyes stared longingly at the only refuge. He could not go on toward the aviation
drome
. The Tuaregs would get him long before he got there.

He had only his revolver for protection and that would avail him little against long-range rifles.

He had no right to jeopardize the lives of the platoon. If he was any kind of a soldier, it would show now.

Abruptly he sat down, drew out his canteen and took a drink. “No,” he said in a low voice. “Rabble, perhaps, but they've got more right to live than I have.”

He turned and looked to his left. “All right, Blue Veil, come on out here and knock me off. I'm no use to you now.” He took another drink on it.

He felt strangely different. Although he did not realize it, he had been questioning his own nerve for months. He had shown to himself, that most critical observer, that he was a man after all.

Maybe when he felt the knives he'd regret it. But then it would be too late. Yes, the patrol had a right to live.

For minutes he did not move. He did not even look north until a flicker and sparkle caught his eye.

He scowled. A flashing dot appeared and reappeared in the mountains ahead of him. Talking sunlight!
Heliograph
! He felt in that moment like a man who has lost a race. Nevertheless he took out his revolver and noted the message in the sand, writing with the muzzle.

When the dots disappeared, he read his message: “Come right to this dot.”

“They've done it,” whispered Grant. “They've given themselves away and now all hell can't help them.”

He stood up. No use to hold off now. The Tuaregs had seen that beam and the Tuaregs would know what it meant. A swirl of cloth confirmed his observation.

He strode swiftly forward and then broke into a run. He'd have to get there before the Tuaregs did; and he'd have to go some to do it. He might as well save his own neck.

Those fools—that had been a blunder on their part. They had seen him and had sent that message, little knowing what kind of a trap they were springing on themselves.

He came to the base of the mountains. Two men were visible up on a high rock. He would not have seen them at all had it not been for the gold braid of one—the lieutenant, most likely.

Grant scrambled over a pile of stones and started up the slope. He glanced behind him; but he could see nothing of the raiders. The Tuaregs had followed the skirts of the hills, of course. No telling where they were.

Grant stopped and cupped his hands before his face. “Get out of sight! Tuaregs!”

“
Quoi?
”
shouted the officer.

“Tuaregs!” cried Grant. He pointed wildly to both sides and the rear.

But his warning was too late. He saw a horseman and the flash of a rifle at the same instant.

As the report echoed hollowly through the ravines, the lieutenant stood up very straight, his hands gripping his throat. He toppled off the rock and crashed into a shale slide. His body stopped an instant after the second shot.

The other man up there strove to jump down, but he was too late. His body jerked and he fell back against his heliograph tripod, knocking it down.

Grant had a hasty glimpse of sergeant's stripes on the dead man's arm. Then Grant sprinted up a small canyon, deeper into the mountains.

Shots cracked behind him. He heard a sharp detonation over his head. Glancing up he saw a
kepi
and the muzzle of a rifle.

He climbed swiftly, forgetting his back, forgetting everything but the bullets yowling about his flying heels. Strong hands pulled him over the edge of the barricade. He dropped into the rudely constructed compound and stood up, breathing hard.

Some forty Legionnaires were about him. Some of them were already at the wall, firing down into the desert below.

A corporal approached Grant. “Sergeant, I am Corporal Duval. Did you see either the lieutenant or our sergeant out there?”

“Yes,” said Grant. “They're both dead.”

Duval's weathered face did not change. “Then, Sergeant, as you are the senior officer present, it is up to you to take command.”

Grant backed up a pace. His eyes went down to the chevrons on his sleeve. “Command?” he said.

“Yes. What are your orders, sir?”