THE AMBUSH
Interminably they waited, listening for the sound of galloping horses.
Curtis' extreme tension passed away, and the situation suddenly assumed
an unreal aspect in his thoughts. His knees began to feel bruised on
the hard floor. He was strongly tempted to rise up and ease them.
"Pshaw!" he said to Lindbohm, "I don't believe they're coming, after
all. I guess I'll go out and take a look."
"Keep still!" replied the Swede. "Don't you stir on your life, and
don't you speak a word aloud," and a moment after he added more
pleasantly:
"They may send scouts on foot."
Panayota had fallen asleep. They could hear her deep but troubled
breathing, as her frame continued to vibrate with the sorrow that for
the moment she had mercifully forgotten.
"Michali was burned alive," said Curtis, in a low tone, after another
stretch of waiting, during which his knees had become the most
important portions of his entire anatomy.
"I tried to save him, but Kostakes--"
Lindbohm seized him impatiently by the arm and whispered:
"Tst, be quiet, can't you? Do you want to spoil the whole thing? No,
we rescued Michali."
Curtis worked himself to his feet, and sat upon his heels. The
nightingales were singing in full chorus, and he wondered how anybody
could hear anything in that infernal racket. The water in the fountain
of Petros Nikolaides hissed and gurgled, and crashed like the waters of
Lodore.
Curtis' new attitude became more painful than a spiked chair, and he
slid back on his knees again. He sat down for awhile, but the desire
to peep over the window sill was irresistible. Finally, just as his
knees had become boils, the Swede touched him upon the shoulder, and he
forgot them. The screeching of the nightingales, the hurtling of the
fountain, were swallowed up in the dull and distant pounding of horses'
hoofs.
"They're yust coming right into it," said Lindbohm, in his natural
tone. "Kostakes, he's too mad to be careful. Have you got a bayonet?"
"No, I forgot to take it. He was wearing it for a sword."
"Here, take this Gras and give me the Mauser. You'll yust get all
tangled up with that. The Gras is simpler, and the bayonet, in the
hands of a man who doesn't know how to use it, is a terrible weapon.
Give me your ammunition. Thanks. Here's my cartridge belt."
Lindbohm was gay, with the gaiety of a child. He was about to play his
favorite game, to indulge the innocent impulse of boys and of untutored
men. The clatter came nearer, grew louder.
"Do you know the orders?" he asked.
"No."
"Each man is to pick out his mark and aim, but nobody is to shoot until
I do. I shall take Kostakes."
"I, too, to make sure of him. He needs killing."
"All right--now, ready!"
The galloping changed into the chug! chug! chug! of men sitting upon
trotting horses. The moon had risen and had filled the trees and about
half of the square with its silver snow. The battered features of
Petros Nikolaides, the benefactor, were those of a frozen corpse. The
horses could now be heard plainly staggering through the narrow, stony
street. Now was the time when Lindbohm was cool. No detail escaped
him.
"Your gun is already cocked," he whispered. "Aim just above the
saddle--shoot when I say 'three.'"
"I'll hit him," replied Curtis. "I'm an old squirrel hunter, I am."
Kostakes trotted into the square, and, jerking his horse nearly to its
haunches, whirled about to face his Lieutenant and the Bashi Bazouks
who debouched from the mouth of the street in twos and threes--a wild,
motley, terrible throng. Curtis aimed first at the Captain's breast
and then at his head. The intended victim was evidently in a vile
temper, for he kept twitching viciously at the bridle rein, causing his
tired animal to rear and throw its head in the air. The American was
one moment aiming at the horse's neck and then at the marble corpse of
Petros Nikolaides.
"Will Lindbohm never shoot?" he asked himself every time that the
Turk's form swung squarely in line with his gun. The Bashi Bazouks
continued to pour into the square, sitting very straight, resting their
short guns over their shoulders or on the necks of their horses.
"Hup!" cried Kostakes, flourishing his sword in the moonlight, and
giving an order in Turkish. The men began to fall into line, eight
abreast.
"One!" whispered Lindbohm. Curtis glued his cheek to the rifle barrel,
and aimed full at the breast of Kostakes, who was now sitting quietly
upon his horse.
"I've got you, I've got you," he said in thought.
"Two!" he tightened his finger on the trigger, when "bang!" went the
gun of an impatient Greek on the other side of the square, and one of
the Bashi Bazouks pitched from his saddle. Lindbohm sprang to his
feet, with a roar of rage that was cut in two by the terrific clatter
of the rifles that were now spitting fire from more than a dozen doors
and windows. One sound had wailed out between the first shot and the
volley, as vivid as a lightning flash between thunder claps,--Panayota,
fatigued beyond human endurance, had fallen asleep as soon as she found
herself again in the hands of her friends, and the sound of the gun,
breaking in upon her overwrought nerves, had drawn from her a long
piercing shriek.
There was now a maelstrom of horses in the square, and a pandemonium of
yelling men. Curtis could not distinguish Kostakes. He had, in fact,
forgotten all about him. He stood in the door laughing and swearing
and shooting into the whirling, plunging, snorting, yelling, scrambling
mêlée. But the maelstrom period was brief, for there were three
streets that gave into the square, and the outside horses broke for
safety. They were hurled like mud from a wagon wheel into these exits,
and went clattering away, with or without their riders, until at last
only one maddened beast was left, dragging over the ground a Turk whose
foot was caught in the stirrup. The terror of the animal was something
pitiful to see. He ran blindly into a house. He plunged into the
fountain, slipped, fell and scrambled to his feet again. His master's
clothing caught on a sharp rock, and he left the saddle behind, with
the dead Turk still attached. Then he found the opening of a street,
and disappeared with a mad clatter of hoofs. The Greeks darted from
the houses and scurried after the Turks, loading and firing as they
ran. Curtis shot into a last tangle of horses, wedged together at the
mouth of a lane. They slipped loose and plunged through, scraping off
one of the Bashi Bazouks, who bounded to his feet uninjured, and,
whipping out a long, curved sword, came toward Curtis. He was a big
man, bare-headed and hairy as an ape. Curtis threw the Gras to his
shoulder and pulled the trigger. He had forgotten to reload it. The
Turk laughed. Curtis lowered the gun, and, presenting the bayonet,
tiptoed about his foe in a semi-circle. The Turk revolved as on a
pivot, squat, alert, weapon deftly advanced. Suddenly, to Curtis'
surprise, his enemy turned and ran. The American bounded after, and
then, for the first time during the fray, he remembered that he had a
sore foot, and that that foot was bare. Panayota came to him. She
carried a rifle that she had picked up in the square.
"Bravo! Panayota!" said Curtis. "Two to one frightened him away. But
why didn't you shoot?"
"I wanted to get close and make sure," replied the girl, "and then,
when he ran, you were in the way."
Slipping a fresh shell into his Gras, Curtis picked his way through the
stones toward a distant spot where he heard continued firing. Panayota
attempted to follow, but he stopped her with a wave of the hand.
"I'll be right back," he shouted, "as soon as I get another shot.
You're safe here."
He left her standing in the deserted square, among the dead Turks. The
moon shone full upon her there, leaning toward him, holding her gun by
the extreme muzzle, the butt trailing behind on the ground. Her hair
blew into her eyes, and she tossed a great brush of it over her
shoulder. A wounded horse rose to its haunches near her and threw its
fore feet dangerously about. Then it pitched over on its side with a
groan.
Curtis had gone some distance up the narrow street, when he heard again
the clatter of horses' hoofs. He stepped behind a tree that grew close
against a wall and waited. A Greek ran by and darted under a house.
He was followed by the Bashi Bazouk, who had run from Panayota's rifle.
He was trotting by the side of a mounted comrade, holding to the
stirrup-strap. One, two, three, four, five, horsemen followed. The
firing continued in the outskirts of the town.
"My God! Panayota!" It flashed over Curtis in a moment. The Greeks
had scattered too much and the Turks, getting together in small
parties, were returning to the attack. While he was still in the
crooked lane, making frantic haste toward Panayota, he heard a shot in
the square. His heart stood still for one moment with terror, which
instantly gave way to fury. A woman's scream, mingled with brutal
laughter, told him that the girl had again been made a prisoner. When
he at last reached the square, the six Bashi Bazouks had gone, taking
her with them.