Fifty-Fifty O'Brien (8 page)

“Didn't you see it?” demanded the corporal of the guard to Kaslov.

“No. One burst of fire, my eardrums close. I can hear nothing. I got hit with something on the head, but … but I see no blood.” Kaslov felt gingerly of his skull.

Bereaux stood up, angrily, the perfect non-com. “Why you filthy louse! You ugly hog! You made me carry you for miles because you said you couldn't walk.”

A chuckle ran about the circle and was then instantly still. It had suddenly occurred to them that they numbered eighteen and that they were completely without command. The lieutenant was gone. Sergeant Schnapp had gone along with two of the squads, three and one.

A platoon at first, they were now but half a platoon. True, they had three corporals. The corporal of the guard realized what they faced. He turned to Bereaux.

“You're senior,” said the corporal of the guard.

Bereaux, rocking on his feet with weariness, blinked about him. “Eighteen men? But by Heaven, the Berbers want this post! They'll—” He checked himself but the rest understood.

Hardesty nodded slowly, shifted his kepi, looking down from his post at the gun.

“Someone will have to reconnoiter,” stated Bereaux. “We can't afford to be surprised. Neither can we afford to fill all the posts all the time.”

“I'll go,” said Hardesty, rather surprised at the loudness of his voice. He realized then that he was under a strain.

Bereaux stared up, swarthy face very tired in the moonlight. “Ah, the detective. Well, go then.”

Hardesty surrendered his post to another Legionnaire and climbed down to the compound. He procured his rifle and a canteen of water.

“Where,” said Hardesty, “did the Berbers ambush the squads?”

Bereaux shook his head. “Not out there. Just scout the front and get back.”

Kaslov's brute face turned away. “If he can,” muttered Kaslov.

Hardesty went through the gate. He could hear the murmur behind him. He could hear Tou-Tou's wail, “We'll be slaughtered!”

Hardesty's hobnails rasped and scraped on the stones in the pass. The moon cast his shadow behind him, conjured up other shadows to the fore. But Hardesty did not try to go either quietly or cautiously.

He could trace the tracks in the sand. Seventeen men leave ample evidence of their passage, even by moonlight. At the end of a half-hour he found himself trotting across a smooth plain which ended in a ravine—a black gash across the silver of the world.

He was thinking furiously. So the Berbers wanted this post, did they? Just how bad did they need it? So they could run their guns down this pass, Schnapp had said. Perhaps Schnapp was right. That had been foolish of Schnapp—going out that way. He had no business deserting his command.

Fifteen minutes later Hardesty was beside the ravine. There was ample cover here—boulders, holes, niches along the cliff walls.

Down below huddled a group of shadows, almost in formation. Hardesty stopped, adjusting his kepi again. He tramped down the slope of the hill and stopped again.

Schnapp's head had been blown away. He had been following the squads. The next row of men were hacked through the shoulders. The next had gotten it in the chest. And the front rank had been smashed through the small of their backs.

Hardesty grunted. They were all dead in their tracks—killed almost instantly. Hadn't they covered themselves any better than that? Oh, yes, with Kaslov and an auto-rifle.

Hardesty sighted back up the slope. He knew the exact angle of fire because of the bullets in the targets. It was a rather gruesome calculation, but Hardesty knew that the gun which had mowed them down had been high and to the rear.

He backtracked swiftly. Suddenly he saw the scattered empties which had spewed out of the breach. They were all in one square yard. The gunner had not moved. The guns were gone, of course. Leave that to the Berbers.

Picking up a couple of the brass shells, Hardesty headed for home. There was nothing he could do here—not now. Perhaps they'd send out a burial party. Perhaps they would bring the men into the fort. That was not his worry.

Shadows were jumpy ahead of him. He knew what a fine target he made out here in the moonlight. If the Berbers were about, they'd make short work of him.

Hardesty slogged back to the pass. Three miles were not much, even for him. He slowed down when he came to the incline. Far ahead he could see the corner of the fort, guarding this one and only pass across these barren peaks.

A hundred yards from the corner, Hardesty stopped. In the next few steps he would come into sight of the gate. Better test the gunner up there. No telling what might happen.

Hardesty took a boulder the size of his head and heaved it. It crashed into the trail and rolled. Instantly a machine gun chattered. Slugs yowled and spanged away from the rock walls.

Mopping his brow, Hardesty sat down. That had been very close—entirely too close. When the gun stopped, he stood up, cupping his hands and yelled, “Hey! It's Hardesty! Hold that fire!”

An answer drifted back to him, very thin and far, “Come ahead!”

Taking the shadowy side of the wall, Hardesty went toward the gate. He expected to be plugged any instant, either by the machine gun up there or possible Berbers. He held his breath and paused every few steps. But no sound came out of the fort, nor from the pass.

He reached the gate and rapped upon it. In a second it swung back, disclosing the face of Tou-Tou. “Oh,” he said, “you got back, I see. Any Berbers?”

Hardesty shouldered past the man and then stopped. The two squads were drawn up in heavy marching order in the center of the parade ground.

Amazed, Hardesty ambled toward them. Bereaux turned and watched him come.

“But,” said Hardesty, “you're not thinking of deserting this post, are you?”

Bitterness was in Bereaux's voice. “I'm not thinking about it, but these fools will have it no other way. They see themselves torn to pieces by Berber knives.”

Tou-Tou took his place in the ranks, grinning. Up on the embrasure, Kaslov stared down.

“Did he shoot at me?” demanded Hardesty, pointing to the Russian.

Kaslov swung down, leaving his post. “Yes, I shot at you. I get orders to hold the pass, I shot thinking I saw Berbers.” He was scowling.

“Get back up there!” snapped Bereaux.

“I'm not covering a retreat,” growled Kaslov. “I don't get left behind again.”

Hardesty squared off, facing the Russian. “Did you fire any rounds today from your Chauchat rifles?”

Taken a little by surprise, the Russian shook his head. “No.”

“You're lying,” snapped Hardesty.

Kaslov advanced, arms swinging at his sides. “Are you big enough to say that I lie?”

Bereaux drew out a pistol he had found in the lieutenant's quarters. “Back, Kaslov. What's the matter, Hardesty?”

“There was a mound of empties up there where the two squads got it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the shells. “See that bright streak along the side? These were shot out of an auto-rifle, French. A legion gun killed those men!”

The ranks shifted. Men drifted forward.

Kaslov stared at the empty. “You … you think I did that, eh? You think I shot my own men, eh? You lie!” He lifted his hands and started to grab Hardesty.

Hardesty deliberately turned to Bereaux. “When you picked him up, had the Chauchat been fired?”

“Yes,” replied Bereaux. “I remember seeing the empties now that I think of it. I naturally thought the murderer was trying to help out the squads.”

Hardesty turned to Kaslov. The Russian was staring about him at the menacing faces of the other Legionnaires.

Hardesty smiled, but not humorously. He was having his day, now. They were paying some attention to him at last. They would monkey with murder, would they?

“Tou-Tou,” said Hardesty, “empty a cartridge case right here on the parade ground.”

Tou-Tou glanced about him and then brought the ammunition. The shells spilled out in a heap, brilliant in the moonlight.

“What are you going to do?” snarled Kaslov.

Hardesty picked up a handful of the shells. “Lay down, Kaslov. Flat on your face.”

Kaslov growled, “To hell with you.”

Hardesty reached out, grasped the Russian's wrist and suddenly Kaslov was flat on his face.

“
Jujitsu
,” said Hardesty, complacently. “Now, you Legionnaires, crowd up close here a minute. If Kaslov doesn't lay still, pin him down with your bayonets.”

Scooping up cartridges, Hardesty started flipping them across the Russian, exactly as though the shells were streaming out of the smoking breech of a Chauchat.

Mystified, anger and punishment held in check only by curiosity, the Legionnaires looked on. They saw Kaslov's mammoth shoulders become surrounded by the brass cases.

Hardesty stood up, watchfully. He grabbed Kaslov's collar and jerked Kaslov to his feet. The Russian, realizing that a move for vengeance or freedom would do him no good whatever, planted his big feet sullenly on the ground and watched.

Hardesty pointed down. The Legionnaires frowned. All they saw was that the shells had left a clear space where the Russian had lain. In fact, they could see the tremendous shape of his shoulders and arms.

“That's the pattern of the empties out there,” stated Hardesty. “If any of you want, you can go out and look for yourself. In other words, Kaslov was lying down when the Chauchat gun was fired!”

And before any of them could grasp that fact, Hardesty whirled on the corporal. “Bereaux! You're the man!

“You killed the lieutenant, Bereaux! You sent me for the sergeant when you should have sent me for the lieutenant. Although no one could recognize that corpse outside the gate, you knew the lieutenant was dead!

“You slaughtered that party! You slugged Kaslov and then brought him back to hang for you in case anybody suspected the trick! You've sold out to the Berbers! They're paying you to leave this post deserted!”

For an instant, Bereaux was stunned by the flow of words. Then he lost all semblance of his military self. He leaped forward, shouting, “You lying fool, I'll tear you apart!”

Bereaux, unused to a revolver, lifted the gun high, ready to deal a blow. Before he could bring it down he remembered the other Legionnaires and whirled obliquely. Taken by surprise, the others had not moved.

Bereaux, once more in complete control of himself, backed away to a safe distance, gun very steady. He smiled rather gruesomely. “Yes, I sold you out. What of it? Who are you, anyway? Rabble, nothing but rabble. I was once an officer!”

He was backing slowly toward the gate, revolver swinging in a steady arc. A small corporal's whistle dangled from his lanyard. He took it in his left hand. “The Berbers are waiting for you outside. The moon is at its zenith, the appointed time has come.

“I was to have led you into their fire, but failing that, I have another plan. I go outside, seek protection and when I blow this whistle, you'll be wiped out, to a man, by the attack. You are too few to stand against the tribes—too few to stand between me and my plans.”

His flare for the dramatic was manifest in his bow. He swung back the gate and stepped into the black patch of shadow outside it, leaving the portals wide open.

Hardesty glanced swiftly about him. Something glinted from another corporal's neck. Another whistle! Their lives hung on split-second threads.

With energy he had not known he had possessed, Hardesty leaped for the second whistle, placing it between his lips. Its shrill blast echoed far through the pass.

Hardesty found himself running. He heard the chattering roar of a machine gun outside. He heard the triumphant yell of a hundred men. He heard the snapping yowl of bullets.

“Man the walls!” cried Hardesty.

Throwing himself upon the gate he swung it shut. The machine gun had stopped. Sandals were sprinting up the incline. Bodies threw themselves against the opposite side of the panel.

Hardesty struggled to hold the gate. It gave slowly in. Another instant and he would be trampled under sprinting feet. Another instant and the fort would be taken. Another instant and the seventeen within the walls would be slaughtered to a man.

Straining, every tendon in his small compact body as taut as a banjo string, beads of sweat standing out against his red forehead, he strove to hold.

Above him the legion machine gun cut loose. But that would do no good if the gate were not held. Another inch inward. Another and another. Seconds were ages. His whole body ached. Curses rang loudly on the other side.

Abruptly the pressure slackened, or at least it seemed to. And then Hardesty was aware of a raging bulk beside him. The mighty-bodied Kaslov. Boards creaked in the doors. Shots splintered through. Kaslov swore in a loud bellow, holding the gate with his shoulders.