The Black Sultan by L. Ron Hubbard

Author:L. Ron Hubbard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Action & Adventure
Publisher: Galaxy Press
Published: 2012-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ready for

the Slaughter

GRAND vizier of a kingdom! What a pitiful thought that was! El Zidan, bottled up in a pass, about to be hammered front and rear and obliterated. El Zidan’s men, few and undergunned, about to run out of ammunition.

And I was galloping down the trail to meet Hasan and give myself up. I remember the way my torn silk sleeves whipped back, the way the djellaba cracked, the way the Arabian thundered onward, untiring.

Grand vizier of a kingdom! But then men will dream and plan and forget that there is, after all, some kind of proportion in life.

Sheila Gordon rode at my stirrup, her gold hair flowing back, the white collar of her Berber shirt whipping against her white cheeks, her blue eyes alight, reflecting my own determination.

Behind us, mounted on a fresh horse, came McKenna in his wool OD shirt and his greasy pants. He knew I was crazy, but he rode with me in the hope that he could thereby pull his own neck out of the fire.

El Zidan had his orders and if everything clicked off there was some scant hope. I wasn’t remembering that even if I escaped Hasan, there were still the French.

Far ahead of us I caught sight of sun on a lance. I drew in and stopped McKenna.

“This,” I said, “is where the farce begins. Give me your revolver.”

He handed the ugly thing over and I flipped out the cylinder, pouring the glinting shells into the dirt. I gave it back to him.

Then I unwound my scarlet turban cloth and handed it to Sheila.

“Wrap my djellaba tight about me and then bind my arms with this cloth.”

“But you’ll be helpless!” she cried.

I pulled the two jeweled automatics from their holsters and gripped them, folding my arms across my chest.

“Not quite,” I said. “I can shoot through a djellaba with surprising accuracy, and though you won’t be able to see the guns, they’ll be there. Tie away.”

She wrapped the red turban cloth about my biceps and tied it. To all effect I was unarmed and helplessly bound.

“Remember,” I said to McKenna, “these guns are ready to let go and if you happen to make the wrong move, you get it first, even before I shoot the Black Sultan.”

His shaggy brows drew in close and he stared down at his empty gun. “But what’d you do this for?”

“You’re the victor,” I said. “You captured us and you’re bringing us back to the Black Sultan to reinstate yourself. You tell him that much, but don’t mention that El Zidan is at the other end of this pass—and don’t contradict anything I say. If you’re thinking of anything as brash as that, you’d better begin your prayers, if you know any.”

“I’m a good churchman,” he protested.

“Then ride on.”

With the girl and myself in the lead, we rode at a walk toward the oncoming columns.

Hasan’s soldiers rode double file, pennons fluttering, bright lances flashing, a martial study in black and white. They filled the pass back out of sight, and at their head came Hasan astride a nervous black horse.

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