Isobel, on her feet by now, both hands to her mouth, was staring at
the goatskin tent covering, against which, a moment earlier, Crawford
had been gently leaning his back as he talked.
There was a vicious slash in the leather and even as she pointed, the
razor-sharp arm dagger's blade disappeared. There was the sound of
running feet outside the tent.
Homer Crawford had assimilated the situation before the rest. He, too,
was darting for the tent entrance, only feet behind Moroka.
Donaldson followed, muttering bitterly under his breath, his face
twisted more as though in distaste than in fighting anger.
Cliff, too, finally saw light and dashed after the others, leaving
only Isobel and the Peters brothers. They heard the muffled coughing
of a silenced gun, twice, thrice and then half a dozen times, blurting
together in automatic fire.
Homer Crawford shuffled through the sand on an awkward run, rounding
the tent, weapon in hand.
There was a native on the ground making final spasmatic muscular
movements in his death throes, and not more than three feet from him,
coolly, David Moroka sat, bracing his elbows on his knees and aiming,
two-handed, as his gun emptied itself.
Crawford brought his own gun up, seeking the target, and clipping at
the same time, "We want him alive--"
It was too late. Two hundred feet beyond, a running tribesman, long
arm dagger still in hand, stumbled, ran another three or four feet
with hesitant steps, and then collapsed.
Moroka said, "Too late, Crawford. He would have got away." The South
African started to his feet, brushing sand from his khaki bush
shorts.
The others were beginning to come up and from the Tuareg encampment a
rush of Guemama's men started in their direction.
Crawford said unhappily, looking down at the dead native at their
feet, "I hate to see unnecessary killing."
Moroka looked at him questioningly. "Unnecessary? Another split second
and his knife would have been in your gizzard. What do you want to
give him, another chance?"
Crawford said uncomfortably, "Thanks, Dave, anyway. That was quick
thinking."
"Thank God," Donaldson said, coming up, his wrinkled face scowling
unhappily, first at the dead man at their feet, and then at the one
almost a hundred yards away. "Are these local men? Where were your
bodyguards?"
Cliff Jackson skidded to a halt, after rounding the tent. He'd heard
only the last words. "What bodyguards?" he said.
Moroka looked at Crawford accusingly. "El Hassan," he said. "Leader of
all North Africa. And you haven't even got around to bodyguards? Do
you fellows think you're playing children's games? Gentlemen, I assure
you, the chips are down."