shape. The front half of it swung away in a long untidy line abreast
in pursuit of the horsemen. These were all larger, heavier vehicles,
with high, canvas-covered cupolas, and their progress was ponderous and
so slow that they could not gain perceptibly on the galloping horses.
However, the smaller faster vehicle was gaining rapidly and Jake stood
higher to give himself a better view as he refocused the binoculars. He
recognized instantly the big open Rolls-Royce tourer that he had last
seen at the Wells of Chaldi. Its polished metalwork glittered in the
sunlight, its low rakish lines enhancing the impression of speed and
power, as the dust boiled out from behind its spinning rear wheels with
their huge flashing central bosses.
Even as he watched, the Rolls braked and skidded broadside, coming to a
halt in a furiously billowing cloud of dust. A figure tumbled from the
rear seat.
Jake watched the man brace himself over the sporting rifle and the
spurt of gunsmoke from the muzzle as he fired seven shots in quick
succession, the rifle kicking up abruptly at the recoil and the thud
thud of the discharge reaching Jake only seconds later.
The horsemen were drawing swiftly away from the Rolls, but neither the
changing range nor the dust and mirage affected the marksman. At each
shot a horse went down, sliding against the earth, legs kicking to the
sky or plunging and rolling, as it struggled to regain its legs,
falling back at last and lying still.
Then the rifleman leaped aboard the Rolls again, and the pursuit was
continued, gaining swiftly on the survivors, the heavy phalanx of
trucks and troop transports lumbering on behind it the whole mass of
horses, men and machines rolling steadily deeper into the
killing-ground that Gareth Swales had so carefully surveyed and laid
out for them.
"The bastard!" whispered Jake, as he watched the Rolls skid to a
standstill once more. The Italian was taking no chances of approaching
the horsemen closely. He was standing well off, out of effective range
of their ancient weapons, and he was picking them off one at a time, in
the leisurely fashion of a shot gunner at a grouse shoot in fact, the
whole bloody episode was being played out in the spirit of the hunt.
Even at the range of almost a thousand yards, Jake seemed able to sense
the blood passion of the Italian marksman, the man's burning urge to
kill merely for the sake of inflicting death, for the deep gut thrill
of it.
If they intervened now, cutting into the flank of the widespread and
disordered column, they might save the lives of many of the frantically
fleeing horsemen. But the Italian column was not yet fully enmeshed in
the trap that had been laid. Swiftly, Jake traversed the glasses
across the dust-swirling and heat-distorted plain and for the first
time he noticed that a dozen trucks of the Italian rear guard had not
joined the mad, tear arse helter-skelter stampede after the
Ethiopian horsemen. This small group had halted, seemingly under some
strict control, and now they had been left two miles behind the
roaring, dusty avalanche of heavy vehicles. Jake could spare no more
attention to this group, for now the slaughter was being continued, the
wildly flying horsemen being cut down by the crack rifleman from the
Rolls.
The temptation to intervene now overwhelmed Jake. He knew it was not
the correct tactical moment, but he thought, "The hell with it, I'm not
a general, and those poor bastards out there need help." He shoved his
right foot down hard on the throttle and the engine bellowed, but
before he could pull forward and run at the bank, he was forestalled
by
Gareth Swales. He had been watching Jake, and the play of emotion over
his face was plain to read. At the moment he revved the engine, Gareth
swung the front end of the Hump across his bows, blocking him
effectively.
"I say, old chap, don't be an idiot," Gareth called across the narrow
space. "Calm the savage breast, you'll spoil the whole show."
"Those poor, Jake shouted back angrily.
"They've got to take their chances. "Gareth cut him short.
"I told you once before your sentimental old-fashioned ideas would get
us both into trouble." At this stage the argument was drowned by the
Ras. He was standing tall in the turret above Gareth. He had armed
himself with the broad, two-handed war sword, and now the excitement
became too much for him to bear longer in silence. He let out a series
of shrill ululating war cries, and swung the sword in a great hissing
circle around his head both the silver blade and his brilliant set of
teeth catching the sun and flashing like semaphores.
He punctuated his shrill war cries with wild kicks at his driver,
urging him in heated Amharic to have at the enemy, and Gareth ducked
and twisted out of the way of his flying feet.
"A bunch of maniacs!" protested Gareth as he dodged.
"I've got myself mixed up with a bunch of maniacs!"
"Major
Swales!" shouted Gregorius, unable to stay out of the argument a
moment longer. "My grandfather orders you to advance!"
