The Snake, The Crocodile, And The Dog Part 34

"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 flashing 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 shirt 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 shirt 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 shirt 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."

"I resent the implied criticism. Sit down, you stubborn man, before you fall down, and take your dirty sleeve away from your face in order that I may a.s.sess the damage."

It was not as bad as I had feared, but it was bad enough. The cut ran from cheekbone to jaw, and it was still bleeding freely. My handkerchief was obviously inadequate for the task at hand. I unb.u.t.toned my jacket.

"What the devil are you doing?" Emerson asked, alarm overcoming his momentary faintness as I cast the garment aside and began unfastening my blouse.

"Preparing bandages, obviously," I replied, removing the blouse. Emerson hastily closed his eyes, but I think he was looking through his lashes.

It was a deuced awkward wound to bandage. He looked rather like a half-finished mummy when I was done, but the flow of blood had almost stopped.

"At least you will balance now," I said, reaching for my jacket. "This will match the scar on your other cheek "

Emerson squinted at me through half-closed lids. "It will have to be st.i.tched up at once," I went on "And thoroughly disinfected."

Emerson sat bolt upright and glowered at me. He tried to say something, but the bandages I had wound around his jaws made articulation difficult. I understood the word, however.

"I fear I have no choice, Emerson. It is necessary to shave the scalp before treating a head wound, you know, the same is true of a wound on the face. But cheer up, I will only have to cut half of it off."

CHAPTER 10.

"The worse a man is, the more profound bis slumber, for if he had a conscience, be would not be a villain."

In the midday stillness the sound of the shots had echoed far, and, as I later learned, our friends had already noted our absence and begun searching for us. When we emerged from the entrance to the wadi I saw Abdullah approaching, at a speed I would never have believed he was capable of attaining. When he saw us he stopped and stared, and then crouched on the ground, covering his head with his arms. He remained in that position, motionless as a statue, until we came up to him.

"I have failed," said a sepulchral voice from under the folds of fabric. "I will go back to Aziyeh and sit in the sun with the other senile old men."

"Get up, you melodramatic old fool," growled Emerson. "How have you failed? I did not hire you as a nursemaid."

This is Emerson's idea of affectionate rea.s.surance. He went on without waiting for a reply. The others were in sight now, led by Cyrus, so I allowed him to proceed without me. Slowly Abdullah rose to his full height. He does relish drama, as do most Egyptians, but I saw that his dignified face was drawn with shock and remorse. "Sitt Hakim," he began.

"Enough of that, my friend. Allah himself could not stop Emerson when he is determined to do something stupid. He owes you his life. I know that, and so does he, it is just that he has a rather unconventional way of expressing the grat.i.tude and affection he feels for you."

Abdullah's face brightened. Finding the sonorous and dignified vocabulary of cla.s.sical Arabic inadequate for my feelings, I added in English, "We will just have to watch him more closely, that is all. Curse the man, there are times when he is more trouble than Ramses!"

Fortunately Emerson was feeling rather feeble, so it only required ten minutes of concentrated shouting to persuade him to return to the dahabeeyah- though not until after he had lectured Rene and Charles about how to proceed with the excavation and insisted Abdullah stay with them to supervise. He would not lean on Cyrus or on me, but when Bertha approached him- any emotion she might have felt effectively concealed by her veil- he accepted the arm she offered.

In silent efficiency she a.s.sisted me in my medical endeavours until I began st.i.tching the wound. Fortified by brandy and bullheadedness, Emerson uttered not a sound during this process, which I did not enjoy a great deal either. When I finished I saw the girl crouched in a corner with her back to me.

"Strange how squeamish some people are about needles," I said musingly, cutting lengths of sticking plaster.

"Yes, isn't it," said Cyrus, turning around. "Why don't you let me finish that, Amelia? It can't have been a pleasant experience for you- "

"Ha," said Emerson, still supine.

"It will only take a moment," I replied. "You see how impossible it would have been to apply sticking plaster over all those whiskers, though."

Emerson immediately declared his intention of returning to work. After some rather noisy discussion he finally agreed to rest for the remainder of the day on condition we left him strictly alone. I closed his door, as he had requested, and then at last I allowed a sigh to escape my lips.