SILK AND SECRETS Read Online Free PDF Page B

will assure us of paradise.”
    “But there are many of us,” another objected. “Can we all go to paradise for killing only one infidel spy?”
    Before a full-scale theological debate could develop, Ross interjected, “I am not a spy. I am traveling to Bokhara to learn news of my brother. I have a letter from the Sheik Islam, commending all of the faithful to aid me on an errand of mercy.”
    “The Sheik Islam is nothing to us,” Dil Assa sneered. “We care only for the blessing of our khalifa.”
    Having known that the Sheik Islam was a long shot, Ross was ready with a direct appeal to cupidity. “I am a lord among the ferengis. If you help me, you will be richly rewarded.”
    “You are a British dog, and like a dog you shall die.” As Dil Assa unslung his old matchlock rifle and pointed it at Ross, his companions burst into a babble of comments that was too quick for Ross to follow. Several appeared to favor preserving his life for possible gain, while others were vying for the privilege of killing the infidel. Ignoring the opinions of his fellows, Dil Assa cocked the hammer of his rifle and aimed the weapon at Ross, his eyes black and deadly.
    The hole in the end of the barrel loomed as large and lethal as the mouth of a cannon, and momentarily Ross was immobilized by the sight. After escaping random death in a dozen other lands, finally his luck had run out. There was no time for fear; instead, all he could think was that Jean Cameron’s blithe optimism had been misplaced once more.
    Preferring to go down fighting rather than being shot like a pig in a pen, Ross made a futile dive toward Dil Assa. Once more the world exploded into the messy chaos of violence. The gun went off at deafeningly close range and simultaneously a whole volley of shots sounded, the ragged echoes booming back and forth between the stony hills. As the Turkoman horses began whinnying and rearing in a wild melee, Ross was struck in the shoulder. The impact spun him about, then knocked him down. As he fell, he was uncertain whether he had been shot or merely clipped by the flailing hoof of one of the horses.
    One of the Turkomans called out a warning and pointed at a nearby hill, where a group of a dozen horsemen were thundering down toward the track, firing rifles as they came. Ross managed to get to his feet again and darted over to his injured horse to retrieve his rifle and ammunition. After that, he intended to get on the packhorse and move as fast and far as possible, before he became trapped in the middle of a skirmish between the two bands of locals.
    Seeing the ferengi run, Dil Assa bellowed and reversed the discharged rifle so that he held the barrel in his hands. Then he rode straight at Ross, swinging the gun like a club. Once more Ross dodged, barely escaping a skull-cracking blow.
    Then suddenly the Turkomans were in retreat, fleeing before the newcomers. As the horses galloped by Ross, one sideswiped him and knocked him to the ground again.
    This time he did not quite black out, though his vision darkened around the edges. Dizzily he decided that he had not had quite such a bad day since the memorable occasion when he had met Mikahl in the Hindu Kush. He felt numb all over from the punishment he had taken, and was unable to decide whether he was mortally wounded or merely bruised and breathless.
    From where he lay he had a clear view of what was happening, and he saw the group of newcomers split, half going off in pursuit of the Turkomans, the others riding directly toward Ross. By their clothing, they were Persians, and with luck they would be less bloodthirsty than the Turkomans.
    Then, as the riders drew closer, Ross blinked in surprise, not believing the evidence of his eyes. What the bloody hell was a Tuareg warrior doing in Central Asia, three thousand miles from the Sahara?
    Tall, fierce, and proud, the Tuareg were legendary nomads of the deep desert; they were also the only Muslim tribe whose men veiled their faces