Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .TXT) 📗

"Not content with firing off a thousand rounds of Vickers ammunition,

he kicked Gregorius out of the driver's seat and gave us a

demonstration that would have looked good at Indianapolis!"

"Oh my

God!" groaned Gareth.

"How do you do?" shouted the Ras cheerfully, . acknowledging the

applause.

"Why didn't you stop him? "demanded Gareth.

"Stop him! Jesus, have you ever tried to stop a charging rhinoceros! I

chased him halfway to the coast before I caught him-"

"What's the damage?"

"He's stripped the gearbox, and burned out the clutch he may have

thrown a con rod but I haven't gotten up enough courage to look yet."

Jake climbed wearily from the driver's hatch,

raising his dust goggles. Red dust had sifted into the thick mop of

his curls and clung in the stubble of his beard, and the protected skin

around his eyes was pale and naked-looking, giving him an innocent

wide-eyed expression. He began beating the dust out of his trousers

and shirt, still berating the happily grinning Ras.

"The old bastard is as happy as a pig in a mud wallow.

Look at his face. Reconnaissance in force! It was more like a bloody

circus." At that moment, Jake noticed Vicky for the first time,

and the scowl disappeared miraculously, to be replaced by an expression

of such transparent delight that she felt her guilt return swiftly and

deeply, so that it gave her a cold sick feeling in the pit of her

stomach.

"Vicky!" Jake called. "God, I was worried about you!" Vicky was able

to purge a little of the feeling of guilt by busying herself at the

cooking fire, in a fine show of domesticity, and she served the men

with griddle cakes and grilled steaks. the last of the potatoes they

had brought with them and a pan full of the pigeon-sized eggs laid by

the scrawny native fowls. The camp table was set out under the

acacias, in the dappled early-morning sunlight, and as Vicky worked at

the fire, Jake reported the results of the reconnaissance.

" once the Ras had tired of firing the Vickers, shooting up every tree

and rock we passed, and we were just about out of ammunition, we were

able to circle out northwards, keeping the speed down to avoid dust,

and we found a good piece of ground from which to observe the road from

Massawa to the Wells. There was a bit of traffic,

transports mostly with motorized escort, but we couldn't stay too long

as the Ras, God bless his friendly little soul, wanted to continue his

target practice on them. We had a job stopping him. So I pulled back

and we came in towards the Wells from the west again. "Jake paused to

sip at the mug of coffee, and Gareth turned to Vicky as she squatted,

rosy-faced, over the cooking fire. my dear?" he said. It was "How's

breakfast coming along, not the words nor the endearment, but rather

the proprietorial tone, that made Jake glance sharply at Vicky. The

tone Gareth had used was that which a man uses to his own woman. For a

second, Vicky held Jake's glance, and then she turned busily back to

her cooking, and Jake dropped his eyes thoughtfully at the steaming mug

in his hands.

"How close did you get?" Gareth asked easily. He had noticed the

silent exchange between Vicky and Jake and he was relaxed and

contented, lolling back in the camp chair and rolling a cheroot between

his fingers.

"I left the cars in the broken ground, and went in on foot.

Didn't want to take the Ras too close. I was able to watch the

Eyetie position for a couple of hours. They have dug in well, and I

saw gun positions with a good field of fire placed along the ridge.

They are in a hell of a defensive position and it would be crazy to

attack them there. We will have to wait for them to come to us." Vicky

brought the food to them, and as she leaned across Gareth he touched

her bare upper arm in a casual caress.

She drew back quickly and went to fetch the pan of eggs.

Jake had noticed the gesture, yet his voice was even and unruffled as

he went on, "I wanted to circle out and to figure the chances of

attacking their positions from the rear, but that was when the old Ras

got bored and gave us a demonstration of hell-driving. My God, I'm

hungry." Jake filled his mouth with food, and then asked in a muffled

voice, "How did you get on, Gary?"

"There is good defensive ground in the gorge. I have the construction

gangs digging positions in the slopes. We should be able to give a

good account, if the Eyeties try to force their way through."

"Well, we have got scouts watching them.

Gregorius picked a hundred of his best men for the job. We will know

as soon as they begin to move from the Wells, but I would like to know

how much time we have before they move.

Every day will give us more time to prepare, to decide on our tactics,

and train the Harari teach them how to fight with modern weapons.-"

Vicky came back to the camp table and sat down.

"You haven't got time," she said. "No time at all."

"What does that mean? "Jake looked up.

"The Italians crossed the Mareb yesterday at noon. They crossed in

force, and they have begun bombing the towns and the roads. It's war

now. It's begun." Jake whistled softly.

"Hey ho! Here we go!" he said, and then turned to Gareth. "You'd

best be the one who tells the Ras. You are the only one who can

control him."

"I'm touched by your faith," murmured Gareth mildly.

"I have a pretty good idea what the Ras's reaction will be.

He'll want to rush straight out there and start throwing punches.

He's likely to get his whole tribe wiped out. You've got to calm him

down."

"How do you suggest I do that? give him a shot of morphine or hit him

over the head?"

"Get him into a gin-rummy game," suggested Jake maliciously. He

scooped the last of the egg into his mouth and stood up from the table

still chewing. "Good chow, Vicky but I reckon I'd better have a look

at the damage the Ras did to Tenastelin. See if we can get her running

again for the Eyeties to shoot at." For two hours,

Jake worked alone on Tenastelin, rigging the block and tackle from one

of the main branches of the big acacia tree and loosening the bolts to

lift out the entire gearbox. Twenty yards away, Vicky sat at the table

in front of her tent, and hammered out her next despatch on the little

portable typewriter. Both of them were very much aware of each other

as they worked, but their behaviour was elaborately unconcerned and

they each made a show of concentrating all their attention on their

separate tasks.

At last, Jake strained on the tackle and the dismembered gearbox lifted

jerkily off its seating and swayed, dripping grease from the acacia

branch. Jake stood back and wiped his hands on a lump of cotton waste

soaked in gasoline.

"Coffee break," he said, and went to the fire. He poured two mugs full

of black coffee and took them to where Vicky sat.

"How are you doing?" he asked, glancing at the page in her typewriter.

"Pulitzer stuff, is it?" Vicky laughed, as she accepted the mug of

coffee. "Prizes never go to the best man."

"Or to those who really want them," agreed Jake, sitting down opposite