Bill Barnes stood without speaking for a period of several minutes. He was thinking about the slaughter that had occurred in Es Siq a few nights before. He was wondering if the man was to be trusted. At least, they would have to gamble to find out. He counted on the fact that there had been genuine distress and sorrow in the man's eyes when he had pointed to the picture of his dead master .
“ All right, kid,” Bill said to Sandy. “That's your job—get me a horse to ride. We'll meet him in Es Siq at dusk.”
“What,” Sandy asked; “do you suppose he is going to show us?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Bill answered.
THE DARK, narrow gorge of the Wadi Musa was as silent as a tomb when Bill and Sandy rode into it at dusk that night. The only light that came to them on the dangerous path was a streak of silver moonlight far overhead.
“This,” Bill said, “'would be a swell place for an ambush.”
“ “It's spooky, Bill,” Sandy answered. “It is filled with the ghosts of dead men.”
They both felt their hearts crawl up into their mouths as a white figure on a white horse loomed up in the darkness ahead, BiIl's automatic leaped into his hand as he called out softly, “Who is there?”
“Jezzar,” came back to them as softly. “Follow.”
He swung his horse around and led them deeper and deeper into the black chasm.
“Have gun ready,” he said once, dropping back beside them.
The soft sighing of the night wind, heavy with the scent of oleanders, the creaking of their saddles and the scrunch of their horses' feet on the pebbles of the trail, were the only sounds to break the heavy silence.
As they came out of the mouth of Es Siq, a clearing spread out before them and their first glimpse of El Khazna, in the moonlight, was as unreal as the figment of a dream.
The nine figures carved into the front of the upper story of the temple to an unknown god took on fantastic shapes in the shadows— shapes that seemed menacing and fearful in the absolute silence of the night.
Sandy's breath whistled in his throat as he realized that the slithering shadows that crept along the face were not shadows. They were lizards, iguanas and snakes.
Jezzar, riding on ahead of them, called upon Allah to uphold his horse as it stumbled, then broke into a soft song. To the south a mountain rose out of the valley floor to the great high place of sacrifice.
The dim outline of the Roman amphitheater took shape as they passed out of the Outer Siq, and beyond the ruins of the Palace of the Maiden, grotesque in the moonlight.
To the west rose the dim shape of Jebel ed Der, the Mountain of the Monastery. To the north the top of Jebel Harun, where lights flickered around the tomb of Aaron, the Moslem shrine holding the sacred Dushara.
As Jezzar dropped back beside them once more, he touched his lips with his fingers and' ran them across his throat; they knew only too well what he was trying to convey to them. He pointed to the mosque where lights burned, and waved his hand from left to right to signify that there were thousands of men on the mountains around Petra.
Farther on they entered the gorge of Es Siyagh and crept along the base of El Habis, the unfinished tombs of the ancient Edomites. Dark splotches on its sides were sepulchers, and on the top, gleaming dark in the moonlight, were the ruins: of a castle.
Beyond El Habis loomed Umm el Biyara, dark and silent and menacing. As Jezzar brought his horse to a halt and pointed a finger toward the ancient stronghold, Sandy's horse came up on its haunches, then plunged toward the great wall of stone that was the base of Umm el Biyara.
“Whoa, you fool!” Sandy shouted as he tried to swing his mount around. But for the moment the horse had the bit between his teeth and showed no inclination to turn around. Then, as the bit cut into its tender mouth it came up on its haunches again and whirled.
As its front feet touched the ground, Sandy described an arc over its head. He struck the ground feet first, and managed to hang on to the reins.
That somersault over the horse's head was all that kept Sandy from being annihilated by that first blast of rifle fire from along the base of Umm el Biyara. The bullets tore over his head and came to a stop in the body of Jezzar, just behind him. One strangling cry came from the lips of Douglas' old servant. Then he rocked backward and rolled off his horse like a bag of meal being dropped from a wagon.
Sharp stabs of orange flame appeared from a dozen places along the base of the ancient stronghold as Bill came charging in on his horse and grabbed at Sandy's reins.
“Mount, kid!” he shouted. “They got Jezzar. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
“Hold him, Bill,” Sandy panted. He circled to the left {)f the plunging horse and got one foot in a stirrup. As Bill let go of the reins and emptied his automatic toward the stabs of orange flame, Sandy managed to swing into the saddle.
“Come on!” Bill shouted. “We've got to get out of here the best way we can. I memorized the map Kestrel gave me. We'll follow through the ruins of Petra along the ancient wall to the Outer Siq. I can see white forms coming out of the darkness over there. They'll get us in a few minutes. Are you all right?”
“I'm all right, Bill,” Sandy puffed, “if I can make this fool horse behave. He wants to go toward that gunfire.”
Bill swung his horse over beside Sandy and grabbed at his reins.
“I thought you could ride any horse in Arabia,” Bill grunted as he rode through the ruins, leading Sandy's horse.
“He went nuts, Bill,” Sandy said. “I can manage him now. I'll follow right behind you. We'll make better time.”
“We'll have to,” Bill growled. “If they can signal ahead they'll cut us off in Es Siq and we won't have a chance. We've got to keep ahead of them.”
The sharply turning trail that wound between the sandstone walls of Es Siq was the thing that kept them from being slaughtered by the hard-riding Arabs behind them. Their escape became a running fight that lasted throughout that long mile from the ruins of the city to Bab es Siq.
There they reloaded their automatics, took a prone position behind the crumbling gates and fired at random as they heard their pursuers drawing close. In another thirty seconds they were again in their saddles and racing across the desert sand toward the airport at Ma'an.
“Did you have any idea where Jezzar was taking us?” Sandy asked as they swung out of their saddles before the officers' quarters on the airport.
“None,” Bill said shortly. “He was about to tell us something when they opened up with their rifle fire. The natives probably have guards all through the city to protect the Dushara. They shoot first and ask questions afterward.”
“You know, Bill, “ Sandy said cryptically. “I have a hunch. I—-”
“Get yourself some sleep,” Bill said gruffly. “That's what you need most. I'II have to make a report to Kestrel.”
“But listen, Bill!” Sandy said. “I think—-”
“Good night,” Bill said, and started toward his quarters.
XI-SANDY'S HUNCH
IT WAS shortly after dawn the next morning when Sandy stole over to the stables and asked a native groom to saddle his horse.
A few minutes later he was in the saddle and leaning over the neck of his mount, whispering in its ears the way he had seen Western riders do in the movies.
“We'll show 'em, old pal,” Sandy said in the horse's ear. “We'll teach 'em to pay some attention to our hunches.”
The white horse turned its head and eyed Sandy with anything but a friendly look, and Sandy remembered what Shorty had told him. He had forgotten to wear a head cloth and mantle. And he could see that his horse didn't like it.
''I'II remember before we come out again,” Sandy told him as they made their way over that boulder-strewn waste of sand between Ma'an and Bab es Siq.
The sun was playing a symphony on the red walls of Es Siq as Sandy guided the dainty-stepping steed through the winding pass. As Es Siq ended abruptly into a cross gorge that was
the Outer Siq, the face of El Khazna gleamed like white marble ahead.
As they stole past the old Roman theater, Sandy checked the ammunition in his automatics and in his extra clips. His heart was pounding now, and he could feel his face burning with excitement.
Taking a westerly course along what was once the main avenue, he passed the remains of triple triumphal arch from the Roman period. Along the sides of the city were the ruins of hundreds of temples cut into the sides of the stupendous cliffs; its courts, libation basins, and altars where the ancients worshiped all carved from rocks of ocher and all shades of red.
Sandy gazed with silent awe at the crumbling tombs, temples and palaces built oil the towering limestone hills above the city. Then his breath quickened as he sighted the ruins of the Crusader castle atop El Habis, and behind it the great flat rock that was Umm el Biyara.
He guided his horse to the place where he believed Jezzar had been murdered the night before. But there was no sign of his body or his horse.
It was there that Sandy let the reins fall loosely on the Arab horse's neck. The horse raised its head and peered toward the great mountain of stone, then whinnied softly and moved toward it without guidance.
“That's the old pal,” Sandy whispered. But he didn't touch the reins. He let the horse have its head and almost held his breath as the horse advanced.
Picking its way carefully and surely, the horse cut around a rough ledge of overhanging rock, went down the side of a ravine and up the other side. At the top it entered what looked like a stone doorway, barely high enough to admit the horse and Sandy on its back.
In a moment the horse came out on a narrow pathway, wide enough to pass along, clinging to the inside. As they came out into the air again Sandy's red face suddenly became white. He saw that they were already fifty or sixty feet above the jagged rocks at the base of the stone mountain. There was not room for the horse to turn around on the rock-cut couloir. If its feet slipped they would both be plunged to their death on the rocks below.
If they went on, Sandy believed, the horse would take him to the secret stronghold of the men who had attacked them in the air and on the ground two days before.
For an instant Sandy hesitated. He checked his horse until he came to a halt. Then he clenched his teeth, took one of his automatics out of its holster and said aloud, “ All right, baby. Let's go!”
BILL BARNES tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes as he slapped his bare feet down on the floor of his room. He stared at Shorty Hassfurther and saw that he was dressed for flying.
“Say that again,” he said to Shorty. “One of the grooms at the stables told me Sandy had his Arabian steed, as he calls him, saddled at dawn. He left here alone, headed for Petra.”
“The nit-wit!” Bill growled as he reached for his clothes. “He tried to tell me last night when he got back about a hunch. I wouldn't listen. He's going to play it alone.”
“What is he going to do?” Shorty asked.
“I wish I knew,” Bill snapped. “Listen, Shorty. Get the Lancer and your Stormer warmed up. We'll have to go out and look for him if he hasn't had his throat cut already.”
“There's hell popping this morning,” Shorty said. “I just talked to Kestrel. Rioting in several cities in Trans-Jordan and Palestine. It's only a question of time, he says.”
“Yeah,” Bill growled, “and that fool kid has to go out and stick his head right into the noose. I think I know what he had in mind. We'll fly over Petra first. Come on, let's go!”
“I'll have the Lancer ready when you're dressed,” Shorty said as he jumped for the door.
“Check the ammunition counters!” Bill shouted after him.
Twenty minutes later they were above the jagged, dazzlingly colorful twin ranges between which the city of Petra lies. They sped down the length of Es Siq at an altitude of only a few hundred feet. Above the Wadi es Siyagh they darted through wisps of clouds until they were near the peak of Jebel Harun. They circled the white dome of the tomb of Aaroff and felt rifle bullets drumming into their wings.
As they swung back over the valley of Petra, Bill flipped his radio switch, “Get down a couple of hundred feet,” he said to Shorty. “We'll see him now if we're ever going to see him.”
He kicked the rudders of the Lancer and stuck the nose down as the flat top of Umm el Biyara took shape to his right. He flew only a hundred feet above it while he studied every detail.
Suddenly his hand tightened on the control column and his face became a shade whiter. Below him he saw a lone figure riding on a white horse. He knew it was Sandy. He shouted into his microphone to Shorty and pointed as a swarm of brown-faced men dressed in the gaudy mantle of the desert Bedouin appeared from nowhere above Sandy.
For one horrible moment Bill saw Sandy's horse rear up and swing its front feet toward the edge of the narrow little path it had been climbing. Then one of the mantle-clad Arabs had it by the bridle. He saw Sandy try to bring his automatic into play while he tried to gain control of the horse. Then he saw the barrel of a rifle crack down on Sandy's head and saw him topple from the saddle.
Bill brought the Lancer around and stuck the nose down toward that little knot of men as they carried the unconscious Sandy toward the mouth of a cave. But he didn't dare clamp down on his gun trips. He cursed between clenched teeth as he zoomed upward and saw the Arabs disappear. He tried to find the path Sandy's horse had been climbing, but it had disappeared. Without some moving object on which the eye could focus the path could not be seen.
Bill knew now that he had been right about Sandy's hunch. Sandy had taken his horse back to the spot where it had balked the night before, when it had tried to go toward the base of Umm le Biyara. The horse had led Sandy to the secret entrance to the top of Umm el Biyara.
But where, Bill asked himself, were the people who were inhabiting the ancient stronghold? How could they hide themselves so completely from sight?
He became aware of Shorty's excited voice in his ear. He said, “I didn't get what you said, Shorty. I'm trying to figure how we can get in there to get Sandy out.”
“That is where those stolen ships are being concealed,” Shorty said. “They must have a hangar under the surface with a camouflaged top that makes it look like the regular terrain. It's the only place for them to be. They could land those little fighters on the top.”
“You're right, fella!” Bill yelled. “Douglas must have learned about it or suspected it, and they killed him to keep their secret until they are ready to strike.”
“Kestrel says they're ready now, Bill,” Shorty said quickly.
But Bill wasn't listening to him. He was talking to the radio man on the field at Ma'an.
“I've given the word to Kestrel,” Bill said in a moment. “He'll send bombers to help us bomb them out. But we've got to get Sandy out of there before they begin to blow it apart. I'm going to sit the Lancer down on top of the place if I can make it. I think I can. What do you say, fella? Are you coming in after me? It's not an order. Use your own judgment.”
“I'll be on your tail, Bill,” Shorty answered. “Perhaps you'd better drop a couple of bombs yourself to soften 'em up.”
“Let's go!” Bill roared.
He kicked the Lancer around and stuck the nose down as he unfolded his retractable landing gear. He set his flaps well down and cut his engines, but he was still doing a hundred miles an hour as he skimmed the surface of the great flat rock with his landing wheels. At the far end, when it seemed that nothing in the world could keep him from plunging over the side, he kicked his rudders and swung the big ship around.
Shorty fish-tailed in a few feet behind him and brought the slower-Ianding Snorter to an abrupt halt.
“Sit tight for a moment until we see what happens,” Bill said into his microphone.
They didn't have long to wait. The whole top of the stone plateau suddenly swarmed with men. They popped up along one edge and came storming up like a regiment of Sikhs going over the top, their robes
streaming out behind them, their faces contorted with hate.
“Swing your ship around and let 'em have it!” Bill shouted into the microphone. At the same time he fastened his fingers down on his own 50-caliber guns. His two fixed guns stuttered out their song of death, to be joined a moment later by the louder roar of his cannon.
But his guns were set too high. His bullets ripped harmlessly over the heads of the charging mob of madmen.
“Bill!” Shorty's voice called in his earphones. “They're bringing up one-inch rapid-firers and machine guns. They'll tear us to pieces!”
“0.K., guy,” Bill said, and now his voice was calm and steady. “Give your ship the gun. Take a run the length of the top and then give her all she's got when you strike the edge. It's our only chance. We'll have to bomb them out.”
How Bill and Shorty ever got through that frightful hail of lead no one will ever know. The charging tribesmen broke before the scream of their propellers and the roar of their engines as Bill and Shorty headed their ships into their midst. But when they broke they I dropped to their knees and emptied their rifles into the fleeing ships. From the edge of the plateau came the death rattle of a dozen machine guns and the louder bark of one-inch rifles.
The speed of their ships was the only thing that kept Bill and Shorty from being annihilated before they reached the edge of the plateau. They could feel bullets drumming into the skin of their ships and could feel them trembling like mortally stricken animals under the impact.
But they made the edge, with a prayer on their lips that when they went over the edge their motors would be functioning.
For one awful second the two ships sagged, then the noses settled, the tails lifted, and they began to climb.
“Are you 0.K., fella?” Bill asked, Shorty.
“O.K., Bill,” Shorty answered, “but my ship is a sieve.”
“Get some altitude,” Bill instructed.
“What about Sandy?” Shorty asked.
“We'll get him,” Bill said grimly. “If they hurt that kid I'll—-” He stopped. His bronzed face was white and strained as he gazed over the side of the Lancer. As his eyes fastened on the top of Umm el Biyara he gasped.
The Blood-Red Road to Petra Page 7