“Let’s go, Hakim. At ’em, Abe!”
They ran over the hilltop and down into the smoke-filled valley.
Liz saw the figure looming up through the thick, reddish-gray smoke and felt her heart lurch wildly. Oh, God, it’s Nick, she cheered within herself. And then— Oh, God! It’s not! The awful shock of seeing that hideous, leering, evil face, after all the other terrible experiences, was almost too much to bear. She came close to fainting as the figure reached for her with a knife and said cheerfully: “Compose yourself. You must realize that I cannot possibly be half as evil as I look!” The awful face split into a wonderfully radiant, reassuring smile, and one firm arm held Liz while the other lashed swiftly at her bonds. “The Cavalry has come, and I am one of it!”
Several yards away the powder-bomb smoke cleared slightly and Nick appeared silently and suddenly in front of Rufus, Wilhelmina in his hand. Rufus stepped backward with a gasp. Then he stared.
“It’s Carter!” he screamed. “Kill him, kill him, kill him!”
Another voice, unknown to Nick, boomed through the drifting smoke.
“No, you kill him, Rufus — man who cannot die!”
Duel in the Smoke
Nick heard the low whistle that meant Hakim had freed Liz and was ready with his carbine in case things got out of hand too early. And he heard the double chirping signal that told him Abe and Stonewall had filtered down to cover the encampment with their submachine guns. A tall, barrel-chested figure in tattered American battledress stepped out of the smoke clouds holding up an assegai. He thrust it into Rufus’ unwilling hands.
“You have lied again, Rufus Makombe,” he boomed. “You make us kill and tell us that the gods protect us, that we cannot die. And still we die. Now let us see you kill, and live!”
Rufus backed away. “You fool! What use is this spear to me against his gun? Men! My warriors...!”
“Kill for yourself, or be killed, Rufus,” the big voice said coldly.
Nick raised Wilhelmina pointedly.
“Who gives the orders, Rufus?” he asked softly. “You or your subordinates? I did not come to kill you but to take you back with me. To your brother — the Chief of all Nyanga. Order your men to fall back.”
“No!” said the big, cold voice. “He will not be taken back, white man. Fight him yourself, as man to man, or the rest of us will tear you both apart, gun or no gun. You, Rufus, and the woman.”
“That would be a mistake,” said Nick, just as coldly. “I am not alone. Abe!” He raised his voice. “Fire above their heads!”
A warning burst of fire chattered through the smoke.
The man in battledress looked calculatingly at Nick. “That makes no difference,” he said softly. “It only means that many more of us will die. Fight him!”
Nick thought swiftly. The big man was wrong; yet he was right. That he would be able to get himself and friends safely out of that valley and far away, Nick had no doubt. But too many brainwashed, misguided men would die. And out of it all new hatred would be born.
“Then give me a spear,” Nick said, and slid the Luger out of sight.
Rufus swung back his arm and threw.
Nick saw his movement as it started and ducked with time to spare. He reached behind him and pulled the still-quivering assegai out of the valley floor. “In that case,” he said, “give him a spear.”
Wordlessly, the big man handed Rufus another assegai.
Rufus took it in both hands and charged. Nick crouched low and waited for him. At the last possible second he sidestepped and thrust the tip of his own spear deep into Rufus’ unguarded thigh.
“Aaaarghh!” Rufus bellowed out his rage and agony and whirled on Nick like a dervish, jabbing with a lightning thrust even as he turned. The spear point ripped Nick’s sleeve and bit a painful gouge into his upper arm. Nick cursed softly and leapt aside, feinting a jab at the stomach and then flipping the point of the spear upward to catch Rufus lightly in the chest as he lunged and pulled back just in time to avoid a fatal slash.
Rufus danced lightly backward, a grotesque figure in his flapping toga. Blood was seeping through the cloth that covered his thigh and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl that turned his handsome face into an ugly mask. The toga put him at something of a disadvantage, but he seemed to be gaining confidence and speed. Nick’s assegai flashed. Rufus parried expertly, came in quickly with a light stabbing motion that pricked at Nick’s left side, and danced away. Nick heard an “Aaahh!” of approval coming from somewhere in the smoke. He knew that his own performance was nothing to “Aaahh” about; the two bullet creases of last night had so stiffened both his leg and shoulder that his footwork and his thrust were far short of their usual skill. He decided on a change of tactic.
Rufus bent low, held his assegai like a lance, and charged.
Nick dropped before him like a stone. Almost instantly, he came to life again, jerking his body upward beneath Rufus’ flying, stumbling legs, and felt his enemy leapfrogging clumsily over him. He made a leaping turn with his spear held in front of him across his body, his hands spread wide apart along the shaft, and watched Rufus hit the dirt.
“Up, Rufus!” he called invitingly. “Stand up and come and get me.”
Rufus sucked in the dusty air and grabbed his fallen spear. He was breathing heavily when he came at Nick, and his movement was no longer swift and sure. Nick pivoted and swung his weapon like a stave — the Japanese stave called the bo, which does nothing so crude as lunge or club but twirls like a drum majorette’s baton. It twirled now, describing an invisible, perfect circle that was marred only by contact with Rufus’ spear. There was a sharp clack of wood against wood. Rufus came to a blundering, startled stop, his hands empty and his eyes searching wildly for his lost spear. Nick heard it clatter to earth yards away. Deliberately, he threw his own spear to the ground. Rufus growled like a wounded animal and darted for it with his hand outstretched. Nick leapt and grabbed Rufus’ hands in his own sinewy clutch, jerked him close so that the dark sweating face almost touched his, and ground a series of twisting jabs into the breast plate and heart. Rufus groaned and grunted and struggled feebly. Nick gave it to him with a right fist-hammer to the heart that held back nothing. Something cracked sickeningly. Rufus’ face and body twisted with the awful agony. His eyes glazed; and he dropped.
Nick drew a couple of slow, deep breaths and pulled out Wilhelmina. He heard a low groan rising from the valley. He looked about him for the first time in many minutes and saw that most of the thick smoke had lifted. Abe and Stonewall had stationed themselves at strategic positions near the huts but still high enough up the slope to command the whole encampment. Hakim, now without his bush shirt, was stationed only feet away from Nick’s left shoulder, his carbine raised in readiness and aiming steadily at the big man in the ragged battle-dress.
The big man stepped forward uncertainly.
“Is he dead?” he asked, and his voice was a cracked half-whisper.
“What difference does it make?” Nick answered quietly. “He’s finished. See for yourself if he’s dead — if you think it matters. And the rest of you can fight and die for nothing, if you want to. Or you can stop working for your enemies and start thinking for yourselves. You’ll be under arrest within the next few minutes whatever you decide. So take your choice. Die for the yellow men; live to make something of your country.” He stopped suddenly, full of things he wanted to say but not knowing how to say them. Anyway, it was a pretty ridiculous thing for a counterspy called Killmaster to do — lecture about the dangers of foreign intervention and the joys of national pride. “It’s up to you,” he finished abruptly, and turned on his heel.