In less than an hour Harry drew level with the Arab. The progress of
the Black Dog was necessarily slow. In the first place, he still
suffered from his wound; in the second place, the path he followed was
in places so narrow as to be dangerous, and he was obliged to proceed
with the utmost caution. Harry, on the other hand, had been able to run
as fast as his legs could carry him by the side of the stream that
rushed down from the mountains.
The boy paused for breath and looked about him. Though he and the
sheikh were making for the same point, in regard to which they were
level with one another, there was more than a mile between them. In
other words, that was the distance that separated the precipice from the
stream in mid-valley. Harry looked up and saw Fernando far in rear. He
had already gained the path at the top of the abyss, and was following
with all dispatch upon the heels of the fugitive.
The Black Dog stopped. His small white figure seemed to be crouching.
Harry, with the aid of his field-glasses, tried to make out what the man
was doing.
At that moment there came a quick, hissing sound within a fraction of an
inch of the boy’s ear, and a bullet buried itself deep in the ground not
fifteen yards away.
Without a doubt, the sheikh now realized to the full the danger in which
he stood. He saw that he was rapidly being cut off from all means of
escape. There was nothing that could save him but his surety of aim,
and at that distance it was no easy matter to hit a mark several hundred
feet below him.
When a rifle is fired downward from a great height, what is known as the
"trajectory", or flight, of the bullet is affected, and in consequence
the line of sight is not wholly accurate. This may have been sufficient
to account for the failure of the Arab’s shot; but in any case, to put a
bullet within an inch of the target at so great a range proved him a
marksman of the greatest skill.
When he saw that he had missed he hurried on his way, hoping against
hope to reach the spur in advance of Harry Urquhart.
The boy was determined that the fugitive should not escape. He cared
little or nothing for the life of Bayram, but at all costs he meant, if
possible, to recover the Sunstone. He was never able to forget that,
all this time, von Hardenberg was shut up alive in the silent vault, in
the very heart of the mountain.
Running as if his life depended on his efforts, he dashed down the
valley. Three times the Black Dog fired, and each time the bullet flew
within a hand’s-breadth of its mark.
On gaining the spur, Harry clambered to the southern side, where he was
out of sight of the fugitive, who was now too far away to fire. Slinging
his rifle across his shoulder, hand over hand the boy climbed up the
rocks, and at last gained the pathway which formed a little ledge, or
terrace, upon the face of the great abyss.
He walked forward stealthily. On his right hand a rock arose,
inaccessible and smooth as a plate of steel, whilst on the left it
dropped sheer into the shadowy depths of the valley from which he had
come. Far below him, the stream that he had followed looked like a
little silver thread glittering in the sunlight.
He knew that he must find some kind of cover. If he came face to face
with Black Dog on that narrow path he would have little chance of
living. A rifle in the sheikh’s hands, at a point-blank range, was more
an implement of execution than a weapon of defence; and, besides, the
Black Dog was known to be a man of prodigious strength.
As the boy went upon his way he looked forward eagerly, hoping to find
some rock or boulder behind which he could hide and await the approach
of the Arab. But the path was bare, not only of vegetation, but of
stones and fragments of rock. It was as if some mighty hurricane had
swept the mountain-side, brushing all obstacles from the narrow ledge,
sweeping the place as clean as the pavement of a street.
Presently the path turned a sharp angle. The cliff stood folded back in
the shape of the letter W. From the corner, Harry was able to see, not
only the other extremity of the W, but also the smaller salient which
formed the centre of the letter. It was then that the complete success
of their enterprise was made apparent.
At the corner of the southern extremity was Harry, and at the northern
stood the guide, his rifle in his hand. Between them the face of the
precipice was folded back in two re-entrant angles. Everywhere the
abyss was smooth and perpendicular, both above and below the pathway. It
was possible to climb neither up nor down. Escape was beyond all
question. And midway between Harry Urquhart and the half-caste guide,
standing upright at the central angle, was Sheikh Bayram, the Black Dog
of the Cameroons, like a great bird of prey perched above its eyrie.
Whatever the issue of this business was to be, it was certain that for
the present the fugitive was caught.
Neither was it possible for him to conceal himself. If he turned back,
he was exposed to fire from the guide; if he went forward, he was
covered by the rifle of Harry.
He stood motionless for some seconds, as if deliberating in his mind
what was best to do. Then, with a slow and measured step, he walked
towards the boy.
Harry waited till the man had come within twenty yards of him; then he
raised his rifle to his shoulder and directed the sights full upon the
Arab’s heart. To his amazement, the Black Dog stood stock-still.
Harry was about to press the trigger when, for two reasons, he desisted.
Firstly, the thing smacked of a cold-blooded murder, since the sheikh
had made no show of resistance; secondly, if he fired and killed the
man, his lifeless body would pitch headlong into the abyss. In that case
they might not be able to recover it, and thus the Sunstone would be
lost.
Suddenly the sheikh raised his rifle above his head, and cried aloud to
the boy in English.
"Fire," said he, "and kill me! I am at your mercy; my life is in your
hands. See here, this rifle—it has served me well for twenty years. It
is known from Lagos to Port Stanley, even as far south as the Kasai.
Behold, there goes my best and truest friend."
At that he cast the weapon to the depths below.
"You surrender?" cried Harry, coming forward.
"I can do nothing else," replied the sheikh. "As you ran in the valley
I fired my last cartridge. Still, I am not yours so long as I am
alive."
With these last words, he turned sharply and looked behind him, as if he
had heard something. There, sure enough, was Fernando, crawling on
hands and knees, his head and shoulders just appearing around the
central angle.