Hell's Legionnaire by L. Ron Hubbard Read Free Book Online

the guns about and pressed the trips. They leaped,
quivering in his hands. Right to left, left to right. Six, seven hundred slugs
a minute from each gun. The breech gnawed through the belt, spitting out empty,
tinkling brass cases.
    The Berbers stopped for an instant and then came on
again. A bullet smashed its way through the flesh of Harvey’s arm. The guns
grew melting hot. The rush stopped once more. The men glanced fearfully about
and found they stood in isolated groups. The red-tinged sand, fired by the
dying sun, was clotted with unmoving bundles of white, strewn about like empty
sacks.
    With a concerted scream of terror, the tribesmen
sprinted for the shelter of the canyon end. Harvey gave them three short
bursts.
    He did not know that he was badly hit. He was only
thinking about the engine. Racing around to the front, he yanked through on the
prop. Diving through the interwing section, he threw on both magnetos. Back at
the prop again he found strength enough to pull it through. At any instant they
might return.
    The Moraine-Ditrich was faithful. It roared into
chattering life, sucking flame into its water-cooled cylinders.
    Stumbling, Harvey placed his hands on the cockpit rim.
Looking down he saw Caid Kirzigh’s head, blood-spattered and mangled against
his dusty boots.
    A tired frown flicked across the capitaine ’s graying face.
Looking down the ravine, he saw that the men had not had time to form another
attack. He gripped the bright sword and, with a grunt of distaste, lopped off
Kirzigh’s head!
    When the gory thing rolled free from the body, Harvey swallowed hard, a little sick. But it had been necessary. It was not until then
that he noticed the guard striving to get at his fallen rifle.
    Unmindful of his own weakness, Harvey threw both guard
and head into the rear cockpit. The Berber slumped down, eyes glazed with
terror.
    The
Caudron wallowed through the sand, picking up speed. Seeing it go, the Berbers
turned and ran after it, shouting and waving their guns, pausing to fire. They stopped
when they came to the headless body of their caid.
    T he motorcycle lurched to a stop before the door of the office on
the great square of Fez. Two were riding in the side car and a Legionnaire was
astride the saddle.
    Capitaine Jack Harvey,
shaky from exhaustion, lifted the dead weight of the Berber from him and stood
up. He approached the square light which fell from Duprey’s entrance, yellow on
black stone.
    Major Duprey whirled at the sound of boots, stopping
midway in his restless stride down the concrete floor. Harvey was without tunic
and his sleeve was rolled up to his shoulder, displaying bandages. He carried a
red-smeared burnoose in his hand.
    â€œYou’re late,” said Duprey, glowering.
    Harvey placed the bundle on
Duprey’s desk. “I was detained,” he said slowly, “and Rubio is dead.”
    â€œRubio? And who the devil is Rubio? What’s this thing
you’ve got here, man?”
    â€œA souvenir,” replied Harvey. His eyes were watchful,
studying Duprey’s face.
    Duprey muttered something and then saw the Berber who
was being held outside. “Who’s that?”
    â€œA man I captured. I believe it would be better, Major,
to turn him in to the hospital. He’s wounded.”
    â€œWounded, you say? What do I care about a wounded
Berber? He’ll know all about the plans these barbarians have been concocting to
launch against France. Gian!”
    Gian, sleek as a staff officer should be, came out from
an adjoining room, the picture of a perfect soldier.
    â€œGian,” said Duprey. “Take that Berber out there and put
him through the . . .”
    â€œYou mean . . . ?” said Gian.
    â€œInformation, understand? And it’s no matter to us if
you kill him. But get the information. Get it, do you hear?”
    Gian saluted and went out. The Berber was led away.
Duprey turned back to his desk and the