Even at the range of almost a thousand yards, Jake seemed able to sense the blood passion of the Italian marksman, the man's burning urge to kill merely for the sake of inflicting death, for the deep gut thrill of it.
If they intervened now, cutting into the flank of the widespread and disordered column, they might save the lives of many of the frantically fleeing horsemen. But the Italian column was not yet fully enmeshed in the trap that had been laid. Swiftly, Jake traversed the glasses across the dust-swirling and heat-distorted plain and for the first time he noticed that a dozen trucks of the Italian rear guard had not joined the mad, tear arse helter-skelter stampede after the Ethiopian horsemen. This small group had halted, seemingly under some strict control, and now they had been left two miles behind the roaring, dusty avalanche of heavy vehicles. Jake could spare no more attention to this group, for now the slaughter was being continued, the wildly flying horsemen being cut down by the crack rifleman from the Rolls.
The temptation to intervene now overwhelmed Jake. He knew it was not the correct tactical moment, but he thought, "The hell with it, I'm not a general, and those poor bastards out there need help." He shoved his right foot down hard on the throttle and the engine bellowed, but before he could pull forward and run at the bank, he was forestalled by Gareth Swales. He had been watching Jake, and the play of emotion over his face was plain to read. At the moment he revved the engine, Gareth swung the front end of the Hump across his bows, blocking him effectively.
"I say, old chap, don't be an idiot," Gareth called across the narrow space. "Calm the savage breast, you'll spoil the whole show."
"Those poor, Jake shouted back angrily.
"They've got to take their chances. "Gareth cut him short.
"I told you once before your sentimental old-fashioned ideas would get us both into trouble." At this stage the argument was drowned by the Ras. He was standing tall in the turret above Gareth. He had armed himself with the broad, two-handed war sword, and now the excitement became too much for him to bear longer in silence. He let out a series of shrill ululating war cries, and swung the sword in a great hissing circle around his head both the silver blade and his brilliant set of teeth catching the sun and flashing like semaphores.
He punctuated his shrill war cries with wild kicks at his driver, urging him in heated Amharic to have at the enemy, and Gareth ducked and twisted out of the way of his flying feet.
"A bunch of maniacs!" protested Gareth as he dodged.
"I've got myself mixed up with a bunch of maniacs!"
"Major Swales!" shouted Gregorius, unable to stay out of the argument a moment longer. "My grandfather orders you to advance!"
"You tell your grandfather to-" but Gareth's reply was cut short as a foot caught him in the ribs.
"Advance!" shouted Gregorius.
"Come on, for chrissake," yelled Jake.
"Yaahooo!" hooted the Ras, and swung around in the turret to wave on his men at arms. They needed no further invitation. In a loose mob, they spurred their ponies past the stymied cars and, brandishing their rifles above their heads, robes streaming in the wind like battle ensigns, they lunged up the steep bank into the open and galloped furiously on to the flank of the scattered Italian column.
"Oh my God," sighed Gareth. "Every man a bloody general-" "Look!"
shouted Jake, pointing back down the course of the dry river-bed, and they all fell abruptly silent at the spectacle.
It seemed as though the very earth had opened, disgorgeing rank upon rank of wildly galloping horsemen. \Where a moment before the sweep of land below the mountains had been empty and silent, now it swarmed with men and horses, hundreds upon hundreds of them, dashing headlong upon the lumbering Italian column.
The dust hung over it all, rolling forward like the fog off a winter sea, shrouding the sun, so that horses and machines were dark infernal shapes below the sombre clouds, and the ruddy sun glinted dully on the steel of rifle and sword.
"That does it," Gareth agreed bitterly, and reversed his car to clear Jake's front, before swinging away, engine roaring and the wheels spinning for purchase in the steep loose earth of the river-bank.
Jake turned wide of the other car and took the bank at an angle to lessen the gradient, and the two cumbersome machines burst out into the plain, wheel to wheel.
Before them was the open flank of massed soft-skinned vehicles, as tempting a target as they had ever been offered in their long and warlike careers. The two iron ladies swept forward together, and it seemed to Jake that there was a new tone to the deep engine note as though they sensed that once again they were fulfilling the true reason for their existence. Jake glanced quickly at the Hump as she sailed along beside him. Her angular steelwork, with its flat abrupt surfaces from which rose the tall turret, still gave her the ugly old-maidish silhouette, but there was a new majesty in the way she plunged forward her bright Ethiopian colours fluttered gaily as a cavalry pennant and the high thin, rimmed wheels spurned the sandy earth like the hooves of a thoroughbred. Beneath him, Priscilla drove forward as gamely, and Jake felt a warm flood of affection for his two old ladies.
"Have at them, girls!" he shouted aloud, and Gareth Swales, head protruding from the driver's hatch of the Hump, turned towards him.
There was a freshly lit cheroot clamped in the corner of his mouth, seeming to have sprouted there miraculously of its own accord, and Gareth grinned around it.
"Nob Xegitind carbomndum!" Jake caught the words faintly above the roar of wind and motor, then turned his full attention back to controlling the racing machine, and bringing her as swiftly as possible into the gaping breach in the Italian line.
Abruptly the pattern of movement ahead of him changed. The exultantly pursuing Italian warriors had realized belatedly that the roles had been neatly switched.
The Count picked up the horseman in the sight, and led off just a touch, a hair's breadth, for the Marmlicher was a high-velocity rifle and the range was not more than a hundred metres.
He saw the hit clearly, the man lurched in the saddle and sprawled forward over the horse's neck, but he did not fall. The rifle dropped from his hands and cartwheeled across the earth, but the man clung desperately to the horse's mane while quick crimson spread across the shoulder of his dirty white robe.
The Count fired again, aiming for the junction of the horse's neck and shoulder, and saw the jarring impact spin the animal off its feet, so that it fell heavily upon its wounded rider, crushing the air from his lungs in a short high wail.
The Count laughed, wild with excitement. "How many, Gino? How many is that?"
"Eight, my Colonel."
"Keep counting. Keep counting," he urged, as he swung the rifle, seeking the next target, peering eagerly over the open vee sight. Then suddenly he froze, the rifle barrel wavering and sinking to point at his glossy toe caps His lower jaw unhinged and slowly sank, as if in sympathy with the rifle barrel. His recent affliction, forgotten in the excitement of the chase, returned suddenly with a force that turned his bowels to water and his legs to rubber.
"Merciful Mary!" he whispered.
The entire horizon was moving, an Unbroken line from one edge of his vision to the other. It took him many seconds to assimilate what he was seeing, to realize that instead of fifteen horsemen, there were suddenly thousands upon thousands, and that rather than running before him they were now moving towards him at a velocity which he would not have believed possible. As he stared, he saw rank upon rank of the enemy seemingly rising from the very earth ahead of him, and rushing towards him through a curtain of fine pale dust. He saw the lowering sun glint red as blood upon the naked blades, and the drumming of galloping hooves sounded like the thunder of a giant waterfall. Yet faintly through the thunder, he heard the blood-freezing war shrieks of the horsemen.