Page:Weird Tales volume 32 number 05.djvu/37

547 kept up a rapid and deadly fire from their wiry mounts. Several others had gained the shelter of the surrounding palm trees, and these, aided by the ace marksmen from the sand-hills, but added to the havoc.

From all sides of the little fort came the answering fire of its defenders, shots that lessened the number of the attackers and sent them toppling backward from their saddles.

Firing madly, I emptied my rifle, only to reload and empty it again. Time after time I could see I had hit one of the horsemen or a crouching figure behind the palm trees, but even from the first I knew our cause was hopeless. Twenty men cannot hold off half a thousand.

Shooting from an embrasure a short distance to the left of me came the rapid fire of a high-powered rifle. It was The Midnight Lady, calm and fearless—an Arab falling almost as often as her finger touched the trigger.

All around me the tall dark men were emptying their rifles with an accuracy that told of years of practise. Whatever might have been said of the little company, their marksmanship and courage were certainly not lacking as they fought on to the inevitable end.

But it could not last for long against those terrible odds. Even while the sands were dotted with white-robed bodies, and half of the encircling horses ran riderless in the wake of the others, it was apparent that the end was but a matter of minutes. Less and less became the firing figures in the embrasures, more and more frequent the whine of bullets around me.

The man on the right of me suddenly shrieked, spun around and fell, his rifle clattering to my feet.

It seemed like hours, yet it could not have been more than ten minutes from the time the first shot was fired, when a hundred running figures charged across the intervening space between the sand-hills and the fort. The dwindling fire of the garrison was turned upon them, but there was no stopping the white-robed warriors.

Up to the very walls they came, and directly under our fire. Then with hundreds of their comrades shooting at us from all sides, the attacking party threw themselves against the aged, half-rotten gate, with axes, swords, and faggots of burning wood.

This seemed the general signal for the others. Suddenly the encircling horsemen pulled to a stop, then wheeling their mounts, set spurs to the wiry beasts and charged directly up to the fort—there to stand upright in their saddles and pull themselves upon the roof, while the remaining Arabs left the palm trees and poured down the surrounding sand-hills to join in the assault.

Was this the end?

All around me were the dead and dying. There could have been no more than six of the garrison on their feet, and yet by some miracle I was still untouched. Cramming another clip of cartridges into my hot rifle, I stole a glimpse around me. The Midnight Lady was unharmed and firing madly, but only she and two others, together with myself, now manned the walls!

The shouting and pounding grew louder as the gate groaned and gave inward.

"The walls!" cried Sabbatier from where he lay in a pool of his own blood. "Mon Dieu, they are coming over the walls! They are coming over the walls! Don't let them take you alive—they torture!"

From every embrasure were rising fierce faces and white-clad bodies, some