"Sometimes you surprise me. Do you know that?" said Gareth, and he
drew a cheroot from his breast pocket and tossed it up to where Jake
stood. "Thanks for" looking after what is mine, "he said. "I
appreciate that." Jake bit the tip off the cigar, and gave him a
quizzical look as he flicked a match across the rough steel of the
turret and held the flame in his cupped hands to burn off the
sulphur.
"They are all mavericks until somebody puts a brand on them.
That's the law of the range, old buddy," he answered, and lit the
cigar.
Vicky Camberwell had selected five full-grown men from the Ras's camp
attendants, rewarded each one with a silver Maria Theresa dollar,
and worn each of them down to the fine edge of exhaustion. One after
the other, they had taken hold of Miss Wobbly's crank handle and turned
it like a squad of demented organ-grinders while Vicky shouted
encouragement and threats at them from the driver's hatch, her eyes
blazing and cheeks fiery with frustration.
After an hour of this she was convinced that sabotage had been employed
to keep her safely out of the way, and she began to check out Miss
Wobbly's internal organs. She was one of those unusual women who liked
to know how things-worked, and throughout her life had plagued a long
series Of mechanics, boyfriends and instructors with her questions. It
was not enough for her to switch on a machine and steer it. She had
made herself an excellent driver and pilot, and in the process she had
acquired a fair idea of the workings of the internal combustion
engine.
"All right, Mr. Barton let's find out what you've done," she muttered
grimly. "Let's start on the fuel system." She rolled up her sleeves
and tied a scarf firmly around her hair. Her five hefty helpers
watched with awe as she approached the engine compartment and lifted
the cowling, and then they crowded forward to get a good view and offer
their advice. She had to beat them back and shoo them away before she
could begin work, but then she was completely absorbed in her task, and
in half an hour had checked an tested the fuel system,
making sure that gasoline was travelling freely from the tank along the
lines to carburettor and cylinders, and that the pump was functioning
smoothly.
"Right, now let's check out the electrics, she muttered to herself, and
turned irritably as an insistent hand tugged at her belt,
breaking her concentration.
"Yes, what is it?" Her expression changed, lighting up happily as she
saw who it was.
"Sara!" She embraced the girl. "How on earth did you get here?"
"I escaped, Miss Camberwell. It was so boring in the hospital. I had
my father's men bring a horse for me and I climbed out of the window
and rode down the gorge."
"What about your friend the young doctor?"
Vicky demanded, still holding the girl and surprised by the strength of
her affection for her.
"Oh, him!" Sara's voice held a world of scorn and contempt. "He was
the most boring thing in the hospital.
Doctor! Ha! He knows nothing about how a body works I had to try and
teach him, and that was no fun."
"And your leg?" she asked.
"How is your leg?"
"It is nothing almost well." Sara tried to dismiss the injury but
Vicky saw that she was drawn and haggard. The long,
rough ride down the gorge must have taxed her, and as Vicky led her
tenderly to a seat in the shade of the acacias, she favoured the
injured leg heavily.
"I heard there is going to be a battle. That's really why I came.
I heard the Italians are advancing-" She looked round her brightly,
seeming to thrust her pain and weariness aside. "Where are Jake and
Gareth? Where is Gregorius? We must not miss the battle, Miss
Camberwell "That's what I am working on." Vicky's smile faded. "They
have left us behind."
"What!" Sara's bright look became bellicose and then outraged as Vicky
explained how they had been edged out.
"Men! You cannot trust them, "fumed Sara. "If they aren't trying to
tip you on your back, then it's something worse.
We aren't going to let them do it, are we?"
"No," Vicky agreed.
"We are most certainly not." With Sara beside her, it was impossible
to continue her work on the armoured car, for the girl made up for a
total ignorance of the mechanism by an unbounded curiosity and when
Vicky should have been inspecting the magneto, she found instead that
she was looking closely at the back of Sara's head which had been
interposed.
After she had forcibly elbowed her aside for the sixth time, she asked
with exasperation, "Do you know how to fire a Vickers machine gun?"
"I
am a mountain girl," boasted Sara. "I was born with a gun in one hand
and a horse between my legs."
"Or what have you?" murmured Vicky, and the girl grinned impishly.
"But have you ever fired a Vickers?"
"No," admitted Sara reluctantly, and then brightened.
"But it won't take me long to find out how it works."
"There!"
Vicky indicated the thick water-jacketed barrel that protruded from the
turret. "Go ahead." When Sara scrambled awkwardly on to the
sponson,
still favouring the leg, Vicky could return to her inspection. It was
