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

which to meet the first Italian thrust, and each contingent of the

wild

Ethiopian cavalry had been carefully drilled and properly cautioned as

to the sequence of ambush and the necessity of maintaining strict

discipline.

The chosen field was situated between the horns of the mountains,

in the mouth of the funnel formed by the debouchment of the Sardi

Gorge. It was obvious that this was the only approach route open to

the Italians, and it was nearly twelve miles wide.

The attackers must be led in close to the southern horn of the funnel,

where the Vickers machine guns had been sited on the rocky slopes, and

where a minor water course had chiselled its way down to the plain. The

water course was dry now, and it meandered out into the plain for five

miles before vanishing, but it was deep and wide enough to conceal the

large contingents of Harari and Galla horsemen.

This mass of cavalry had been waiting all day, squatting beside their

mounts in the sugar-white sand of the river bed.

The two separate factions had been diplomatically separated. The

Harari were placed at the head of the trap, nearest the rocky slope of

the mountain with the Vickers gunners hidden on their flank in strong

posts amongst the rocks.

The Galla, under the scar-faced Gerazmach in the blue sham ma were

grouped farther out on the open plain at a point where the dry water

course turned sharply and angled out towards the grassland.

Here in the bend, the banks were still steep enough to conceal fifteen

hundred mounted men. These, with almost three thousand of the

Ras's own cavalry, formed a formidable offensive army especially if

thrown in unexpectedly against and unbalanced enemy. The mood of the

Ethiopians, ever sanguinary, was aggravated by the many hours of

enforced inactivity, crouching without cover from the blinding sun on a

white sand bed which reflected its rays like a mirror. The horses were

already distressed by the heat and lack of water while the men were

murderous.

Gareth Swales had contrived a net, using the natural wide curve of the

water course, into which he hoped to lure the Italian column. Two

miles farther out in the plain, beyond where he now stood on the turret

of the Hump, a fold of ground concealed the small band of mounted men

who were to provide the bait. They had been waiting there since the

scouts had first reported the Italian movement early that morning.

Like everybody else they must by this time be restless, bored and

thoroughly uncomfortable. Gareth wondered that this huge amorphous

body of undisciplined, independent, spirited hills men had so long

maintained cohesion. He would not have been surprised if by this stage

half of them had lost interest and had set off homewards.

The only person who was occupied and seemed happy enough was Jake

Barton, and Gareth lowered his binoculars and regarded what he could

see of him with irritation. The front upper half of that gentleman was

completely hidden within the engine compartment of Priscilla the Pig,

and only his legs and backside protruded. The muffled strains of

"Tiger Rag" whistled endlessly added to Gareth's irritation.

"How are you coming along there?" he called, merely to stop the music,

and Jake's tousled head emerged, one cheek smeared with black oil.

think I've found it," he said cheerfully. "A lump of muck in the

carb," and he wiped his hands on the lump of cotton waste that

Gregorius handed him. "What are the Eyeties up to?"

"I think we've got a small problem, old son," Gareth murmured softly,

turning once more to resume his vigil, and his expression for once was

serious and concerned. "I must admit that I banked on the old Latin

dash and swagger to bring them charging down here without a backward

glance."

Jake came across from his car and clambered up beside J Gareth. The

two armoured cars were parked at the extreme end of the curved water

course, just before it lost its identity and vanished into the

limitless sea of grass and rolling sandy hills. Here the banks of the

river were only just enough to cover the hulls of the two cars, but

they left the turrets partially exposed. A light cover of cut Thorn

branches made them inconspicuous, while allowing them to act as

observation posts for the crews.

Gareth handed Jake his binoculars. "I think we've got ourselves a

really wily one here. This Italian commander isn't rushing. He's

coming on nice and slow, taking his time," Gareth shook his head

worriedly, "I don', like it at all."

"He's stopped again," Jake said,

watching the distant dust cloud that marked the position of the

advancing column.

The dust cloud shrivelled, and subsided.

"Oh my God!" groaned Gareth, and snatched the binoculars. "The

bastard is up to something, I'm sure of it. This is the seventh time

the column has halted and for no apparent reason at all. The scouts

can't work it out and nor can I. I've got a nasty hollow feeling that

we are up against some sort of military genius, a modern Napoleon, and

it's making me nervous as hell." Jake smiled and advised

philosophically, "What you really need is a soothing game of gin. The

Ras is waiting for you." As if on cue, the Ras looked up brightly and

expectantly from the ammunition box set in the small strip of shade

under the hull. He had laid out a pattern of playing cards on the lid

which he had been studying. His bodyguard were grouped behind him.

They also looked up expectantly.

"They've got me surrounded," groaned Gareth. "I'm not sure which one

is the most dangerous that old bastard down there, or that one out

there." He raised the binoculars again and swept the long horizon

below the mountains. There was no longer any sign of dust.

"What the hell is he up to?" In fact this seventh halt called by

Count Aldo Belli was to be the briefest of the day, and yet one of the

most unavoidable.

It was in fact an occasion of the utmost urgency, and while the

Count's portable commode was hastily unloaded from the truck carrying

his personal gear, he twisted and wriggled impatiently on the back seat

of the Rolls while Gino, the batman, tried to comfort him.

"It is the water from those wells, Excellency," he nodded sagely.

Once the commode had been set up, with a good view of the distant

mountains before it, a small canvas tent was raised around it to hide

the seat from the curious gaze of five hundred infantry men.

The job was completed, only just in time, and a respectful and

expectant hush fell over the entire column as the Count climbed

carefully down from the Rolls and then dashed like an Olympic athlete

for the small lonely canvas structure and disappeared. The silence and

expectation lasted for almost fifteen minutes and was shattered at last

by the Count's shouts from within the tent.

"Bring the doctor!" Five hundred men waited with all the genuine

suspense of a movie audience, speculation and rumour running wildly

down the column until it reached Major Castelani. Even he, convinced

as he was that he had seen it all, could not believe the cause of this

fresh delay, and he went forward to investigate.

He arrived at the tent to find the Count and his medical advisers

crowded around the commode and avidly discussing its contents. The