every side, their; robes flapping out behind them, their guns spouting fire and death, their horses driven half crazy by their high-pitched screams.
Bill's finger came down on the gun trips of the two .50-caliber guns in the nose of the Lancer as that first mad wave reached the crest of the hillock. His guns cut a path through the charging tribesmen before they began their charge. As they tore down the side of hillock, out of range, he snatched the Thompson gun from the deck and swung it in an arc.
Behind him, Sandy ran the .30-caliber gun over its track with the swift precision of a trained gunner. Horses and men fell in screaming heaps as his bullets tore into them.
The desert night became a place of horror as the deadly fire of the two machine guns cut down the charging zealots. Yet, on they came, shooting from the saddle, screaming their chant of hate and war.
When they were within twenty yards of the Lancer the thin line wavered. Horses and men piled up in struggling, howling masses. The unwounded men behind them could not advance. For an instant they hung there, returning the machine-gun fire with poorly placed shots from their rifles.
Then they broke and went streaming back over the hillocks, with half their number dead or dying. “
“Take it easy, kid,” Bill said. “They'll be back. You'd better get some more ammunition ill your gun while you can.”
The horrible screams of the wounded horses and men nearly drowned out his words. An occasional shot
“Gosh, Bill,” Sandy said. “I wish they'd go away now. Look at that horse over there. It's a beauty. I could get it if I dared get out.”
“You stay where you are, you half-wit,” Bill growled. “You don't need a horse; you nee a nurse.”
Bill's hands were trembling and his whole body ached from loss of sleep and nervous excitement as he checked over the ammunition he had left for the submachine gun. He found that he had just enough to stand off another charge such as the last one.
“How about your ammunition, kid?” he asked Sandy.
“Not an awful lot left, Bill. One belt.” Bill shook his head angrily, then peered through the infra-red telescope again. The Arabs had stopped firing now, and he could see no movement beyond the hillock. He debated with himself for five minutes about the course he ought to pursue.”
Listen, kid,” he finally asked, “can you ride that horse?”
“Ride him!” Sandy answered. “Look at him, Bill. He's still standing there like a statue over the body of his master. You know I can ride him. I learned how to ride horses right after I learned to walk. I~”
“ All right,” Bill said sharply. “I'm going to give you a chance to ride him, Kestrel or Shorty will never find us here before that gang of bandits out there finds a way to slit our throats. It can't be more than twenty miles to Ma'an. If you can get into the saddle and get through that first line of Arabs you ought to make Ma'an within a couple of hours. An hour after you leave I'll turn on the landing lights of the Lancer to help you find me from the air. Don't let Kestrel send a lot of planes out here to crack up when they try to land.
“Just tell Shorty the situation and come with him. He'll get in some way. You can bring enough fuel with you to get the Lancer out of here. Take an automatic and the rifle with you, and be ready to shoot when you ride over that rim of sand. Then ride!”
“What about you, Bill?” “I'll be all right, if you get through safely. I have enough ammunition to hold them off .for a couple of hours.”
“Suppose they charge in the way they did before from all sides?”
“I'll handle that,” Bill said. He knew he didn't have a chance if they started working their way toward him under the cover of darkness. If they charged mounted, he could stand them off for a time. But if they crept in on him, they could get close enough to use their deadly yataghans.
He believed Sandy could get through if he once got astride the superb white horse that was only fifty feet away. Those fifty feet would tell the story. The kid would either get through safely or be killed in the saddle-which was better than being tortured.
Bill closed his lips tightly and peered through the telescope again. “All right, kid,” he said. “Good luck! Shoot your way through if you have to. Don't let them take you alive.”
He found Sandy's hand with his own in the dark.
“I hate to leave you here, Bill,” Sandy said anxiously.
“Don't worry about me, kid.” Bill laughed. “None of those desert lice have my name on their bullets.” ''I'II be seein' you, Bill.” “Right, kid. Go like the devil when you get aboard.”
He saw Sandy drop over the side of the Lancer, saw his dim form, bent half double, flash across that fifty feet of sand. He expected to hear a fusillade of rifle shots and see him pitch forward on his face at any moment. Those few seconds brought cold perspiration out on Bill's body and left him wear and trembling. He saw the white horse go up on its hind legs with its front ones pawing the air. He saw Sandy bent over its neck. For all instant they were silhouetted against the sky, a perfect target for enemy bullets.
Then the horse and Sandy became a part of the desert night. He saw them again for an instant as Sandy topped the first hillock, saw them plunge out of sight on the other side.
Shouts and rifle shots floated back to his ears. Then a bedlam of clamor, Arab oaths, and he heard an automatic spit many times—and knew that Sandy was still in his saddle.
As the shots and cries died in the distance, Bill knew that Sandy had got away without being hit.
He leaped for the telescope and then clamped his fingers down on the trigger cables of his two .50-caliber guns as twenty or thirty men came charging over the crest of sand ahead, on foot. His bullets cut two paths through their ranks before they plunged down the side and were out of range. He dived into the rear cockpit of the Lancer and swung the .30-caliber gun to bear on the screaming tribesmen as they came on and on.
His blood ran cold as turbaned heads appeared above the rim of the Lancer. The two automatics in his hands were hot as he fired them point-blank into the desperate, mad faces. Something seared his arm as a dagger slashed through his overall.
WHEN young Sandy went over the side of the Lancer he was not worried about Arab bullets. He was worried about one thing only. That was whether he could get into the saddle of that white horse and stay there. He would rather have been shot than to be thrown from the horse's back under Bill's eyes.
He approached the horse with the easy, cautious movements of a true horseman. He spoke soft words to him, words that had no meaning other than to quiet the nerves of the trembling horse. He ran an eye over the snow-white shoulders and hind quarters of the superb creature and thrilled as the horse nuzzled its muzzle into his hand.
Then his foot was in the left stirrup and he swung himself into the saddle. For an instant the horse came up on its hind legs, pawing the air.
Sandy leaned over its neck, calling soft words into its ear. Its forelegs I came down; Sandy pressed his knees into its ribs and kicked gently on its flanks.
Sandy learned then why old Arab, I poets sang songs to their horses. The horse took him over that first hillock with breathless speed. He saw five or ten unmounted Arabs only a few feet away from him. He cut the first one down with his automatic as he raised his rifle to his shoulder. Then he emptied his clip, swung the horse to the right, leaned low over its withers and cried in its ear.
The horse settled down to the task before him with long, swift strides that took Sandy out of sight behind the first hillock before the Arabs could mount their horses. Bullets sang by his ears and kicked up the sand around him. But none of them touched him.
The Arabs who followed him never came close enough to get an effective shot at him after that. His horse took him over the desert sand with the speed or a greyhound and the endurance of a camel.
“Good gosh,” Sandy said to himself, “I'm going to take this horse home with me if it costs every cent I can beg and borrow;”
He was worried by the pursuing Arabs, and he was worried about Bill's safety. But he wasn't enough worried to keep him from thinking about a name for the horse and the horse's performance.
Sandy didn't try to stop the racing beast as the guard at the gates of the air field threw a challenge at him. He couldn't have stopped him if he I had tried.
But he managed to bring him to a halt before the officers' quarters, where he believed he would find Kestrel and Shorty. He brought him up on his haunches, cleared the saddle in one bound, and raced through the doors.
