Danger at Dahlkari by Jennifer Wilde Read Free Book Online Page A

Heaven only knew how contaminated it might be, what tropical diseases we might be courting, but we simply couldn’t go on without any water. The thirst was like torture now, and I was beginning to feel weak and dizzy. I knew Sally must feel the same way, but both of us knew we had to keep moving.
    An hour passed, another, and it must have been around four o’clock in the afternoon when Sally gave a little cry and grabbed my arm. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with alarm, and I wondered what in the world could be the matter with her. Then she pointed, and I saw the horseman on the horizon. He stopped, much too far away for us to make out any details. Silhouetted against the sunlight, he was a sinister figure, a figure of great menace. After a moment he turned the horse around and began to gallop over the desert toward us. As he drew nearer I saw that he was a native with the face of a brigand. We both knew what he was and why he had come.

Three
    For a moment both of us were too terrified to do anything but stare in horror as the rider approached on the magnificent stallion that kicked up clouds of dust, and then Sally dropped the bag of fruit and dropped the parasol and took the pistol out, holding it in front of her with both hands as he swooped down upon us. I felt faint, and my heart was pounding, but I didn’t scream, nor did Sally. Neither of us had the strength. The rider jerked on the reins and the horse reared up on its hind legs a few yards from us, front hooves waving in the air, silky black coat gleaming in the sunlight, and then it grew still. The rider sat there in the saddle, staring at us with dark eyes, his face inscrutable.
    â€œHold it, you brigand!” Sally cried. “Don’t get off that horse! If you do, I—I’ll blow your head off!”
    His face remained inscrutable, Sally’s words having no effect whatsoever. He wore sturdy brown knee boots, tight white breeches and a loose, flowing tan and white burnoose, hood thrown back, long sleeves full at the wrist. The garment was shabby and dusty, the sort of thing an Arab might have worn, and, indeed, he looked much more like an Arab than an Indian. He had deeply tanned skin, strong, harsh features and unruly raven locks, several of them spilling across his forehead. His lips were full, curling sardonically at one corner, and his nose was hawklike, but it was his eyes that dominated, dark, glowing eyes, brown-black, the eyes of a hunter observing his prey. His lids were heavy, half-concealing those incredibly hypnotic eyes, his dark brows highly arched, flaring out at the corners. His was a cruel, ruthless face, the face of a killer.
    â€œStay right where you are!” Sally ordered.
    There was a tremor in her voice, and she held the gun rigidly out in front of her as though afraid it might go off at any moment. The man merely stared at us, not the least bit perturbed by the pistol or the frightened young woman who pointed it at him. The sleek, magnificent horse pawed the ground restlessly. The rider touched the side of its neck with a strong brown hand, murmuring something unintelligible, and the horse grew still. The man sat casually in the saddle, as though born to it. There was a certain rugged grandeur about him, a curious magnetism I couldn’t help but notice, even under the circumstances. He was no humble native peasant, that much was certain.
    â€œBack off!” Sally cried, waving the pistol.
    â€œBe—be careful with that thing,” I cautioned her. My voice sounded hoarse, barely audible. “You’ve never fired it. It might go off. I don’t believe he understands English, Sally.”
    â€œHe understands this pistol well enough. Back off, you fiend!”
    â€œHe doesn’t—he doesn’t look like any of the others. None of them wore a robe like that. He might not be a Thug after all. He might just be a—someone who happened to come along.”
    â€œThug or no, look