of their startled mounts, At once the lancers pulled back and made room for the yelling, sabre-wielding line behind them, then drew their own sabres to join the battle. And here, too, the Cherkessians were at a disadvantage, since their smaller horses were unable to slip out of the way quickly enough and their scimitars, shorter by nature of the greater curve, could be used only for defense.
Amar made his decision the instant the first rank of Cossacks fired. Shouting to the men nearest him, he ordered them to swim their horses to the opposite bank and form a covering force. Then jumping back on his horse, he plunged into the fray, yelling to his shattered, lanced, sabred, disorganized men to seek escape. Leading fifteen of the bravest of his fighters, he charged directly at the Cossacks, the unexpectedness and ferocity of his attack pulling them up short for a few moments, precious moments for his hard-beset followers to draw themselves together. He saw two Cossacks, the dark-haired giant with a blond one by his side, cutting their way into the ragged line his men were desperately trying to form. Five of his fifteen brave ones had fallen, but shouting to the remainder, he wheeled towards the two deadly swordsmen, thrusting and slashing to reach them and prevent the splitting of his line.
Suddenly, all was hopeless, and Amar recognized it instantly. To attempt to hold a line or to fight back step by step or even hope for a gallant few to sacrifice their lives to permit the others to escape was no longer possible. All that remained was flight, ignoble, hasty, terrified retreat and Amar was too wise and experienced a leader not to accept it at once.
“Retreat!” he shouted, turning his own mount deeper into the river and swimming it towards the opposite bank. In small groups, his men disengaged from battle and fled after him, hotly pursued by the howling Cossacks who cut them down one by one.
A dozen of the men ordered to the far shore were in position when Amar’s horse climbed out of the water.
“Skirmish line!” snapped Amar. “Cover the ones most likely to reach us.”
Drawing out his revolver, Amar directed the fire, knocking from their saddles half a dozen Cossacks before they became aware of the danger facing them. At once, the attacking Cossacks stopped and whipped the rifles from off their shoulders, quickly reloading and returning the fire. But, praised be Allah, the respite gained a few more precious seconds, and soon over eighty of his original band of two hundred had reached the opposite bank. The Cossacks came after them, firing as their horses swam, not at all inclined to let them depart in peace. Amar waited not one moment longer than necessary before ordering his men to flee over open meadows towards the shelter of a forest a few miles away.
Behind them, the Cossacks Grigory and Paul in the lead, clawed their way to the bank and set off after their foe. In seconds, Paul was far in advance of the heavier Grigory, and little by little he closed on the retreating Cherkessians. Soon he caught up to the rearmost, and, raising himself high in his stirrups, swung his sabre. The keen blade struck the fleeing Moslem at the base of his neck, almost severing his head. Without slowing down to watch him hit the ground, Paul pushed on and was soon up to a second man. Here was a more alert fighter, and his blade passed an inch from Paul’s face as he leaned back in his saddle and lashed out with a desperate back-hand swing. Paul drove the heels of his boots into the sides of his horse, gaining a step, then lashed out with a back-hand stroke of his own. The Cherkessian ducked to one side, but his shoulder was struck by the blade and he tumbled off his mount. Paul looked behind to see Grigory whirling his sabre in a great arc, splitting the grounded man almost in two.
Amar dropped back. He had seen two of his followers cut down by the swift-riding blond Cossack and it was obvious that others would fall under his sabre if he was not stopped. Deliberately he let his horse lag until he was at the rear, then when he heard the beat of hooves immediately behind himself, he glanced down and to the left for the flash of the animal’s leg. There it was! Instantly, Amar bent far over his horse’s mane. He felt the wind of a sabre as it passed over him, then suddenly he straightened, checked his horse for the barest second and thrust to the left with his scimitar.
There was no avoiding the blow and Paul made no attempt to do so. Instead, he sucked in his stomach and turned slightly to his right, taking the blade in his side rather than his abdomen. It went in and out like a flash, and Paul felt a stab of sharp pain and a wave of dizziness.
By reflex, he tightened his knee grip and neck-reined his horse viciously to the right, directly behind Amar’s mount. It saved his life, for Amar had swung with a swift chop. The blade missed him by a hair,
Amar waited no longer. He had halted the blond terror, so he bent low on his horse and thwacked its flank with the flat of his sword. In seconds he was yards away, shepherding the slower riders of his flock. Just as he reached the trees, he heard the thunder of hooves behind him again, He looked back and a gleam of wonder and respect came to his eyes. There was the blond one, his face white and taut, the reins of his horse gripped between his teeth, his cruel Cossack whip, the nagaika, in his left hand beating his wild-eyed mount, his sabre in his right, poised to strike.
Amar recognized the blood lust in his pursuer and knew that just as surely as a cheetah will sprint almost blindly for the victim he had chosen so would the blond Cossack, blood pouring from his side, aim for him and no one else. At once he reined to the right and galloped away from him, then diagonally deeper into the forest.
Here he was at home, his smaller, more agile horse slipping between the trees without slackening speed, with him bending and swaying to avoid striking branches and helping to lift his horse over fallen stumps.
Then, amazingly, he heard the pounding of hooves close behind him and looked back. The blond one had let the nagaika drop to his side, had grasped the reins with his left hand again and was only two lengths away. He marveled at the magnificent horsemanship of the man who must be crazy to continue the pursuit with a wound in his side. Then he himself felt the urge to do battle again so he took a tighter grip on his scimitar and straightened in his saddle.
Through the trees he saw a large clearing, and the instant he was in the open area he whirled his horse smoothly about and faced the bleeding Cossack. Paul slashed out as he thundered by, feeling his blow easily deflected by the slim, dark-faced man, as tall as he but at least twenty pounds lighter than his more solid one hundred and seventy.
Paul knew he was in trouble when the Cherkessian’s horse leaped after him and ran hot on his tail. At once, he reined hard to the right, then immediately to the left. Amar stayed directly behind him. Around and around the clearing they raced, Paul weaving and bobbing, twisting his horse from side to side, only his superb balance keeping him inches away from the murderous Moslem blade. He had to work fast, he knew, for the blood pumping out of his side was weakening him and it would be a matter of minutes before his reactions slowed and signed his death warrant.
Desperately, he threw all into a single gamble. With an abrupt, mighty pull on the reins, he lifted his horse and whirled it about---and rammed it directly into that of the Moslem! The smaller horse went down like it had been shot, flinging its rider against a tree. Paul’s mount fell to its knees, but he was already off its back and streaking over to the stunned Cherkessian.
Amar shook his head to clear it, and, realizing his sword had been lost in the fall, he groped for a dagger at his waist. Suddenly, he felt the cold point of a sabre at his throat. He froze. His eyes cleared and he saw the blond one standing over him, his fingers white on the hilt, and then he felt the slight pressure of the hand as it prepared to drive the blade right into him.
He sighed and leaned back ever so slightly. “If one must go before Allah,” he whispered softly, “one is content that it was done by the sword of a mighty fighter.” He closed his eyes.
Then, amazingly, he felt the blade draw away from his throat and his eyes snapped opened. The blond Cossack was walking towards his horse.
Amar
