Free Hell's Legionnaire by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

overlooked countless
square miles of upended country.
    Montrey sat on a
boulder beside me.
    â€œI suppose you know
just exactly where you are, don’t you. Right to a dot.”
    â€œPretty near,” I
replied, disregarding his surly tone.
    â€œWouldn’t care to
point out the valley, would you?”
    â€œNo. I don’t think I
would.”
    â€œAfraid you’d get it
in the neck?”
    â€œI know I would,
Montrey. Just as sure as I can see that valley from this point.”
    The statement brought
the others to their feet. They crowded around me, their faces lit up, their
eyes burning with greed.
    â€œShow us!” cried Gian.
    â€œYou’ll be there when
the moon comes up late tonight,” I assured him.
    Posting two sentries,
I rolled over against a boulder and went to sleep, facing the murette where Montrey and Maurice were standing the first watch.
    I don’t know how long
I slept, but I woke up on my feet. The machine gun was going full blast, with
Montrey behind the butt. Maurice was sprawled over the edge of the parapet,
blood gushing from a spot between his eyes.
    In an instant I was
beside him, a Chauchat in my hands. Down the slope three men were scurrying
away, their white robes ballooning away from them. Montrey got two with one
burst.
    I shot the other.
    â€œHow did they get so
close to you?” I demanded, staring at Maurice.
    Montrey shrugged and
smiled crookedly.
    â€œThey got close to you
once, didn’t they?”
    Pulling Maurice back
into the compound, I inspected the wound. Looking up, I said, “Close is right,
Montrey. There are powder marks around this hole.”
    Before he could jump away
I wrenched his revolver out of his belt and sniffed at the barrel.
    It had certainly been
fired within ten minutes.
    All the others were
up. Kraus glowered at Montrey. Gian licked his lips. Ivan stood with widespread
feet, glaring.
    â€œListen,” I said. “Watch
Montrey. He just shot Maurice under the cover of that attack and he may try to
get the rest of you.”
    Ivan, slower witted
than the rest, growled, “Well, what is wrong with that? Maurice was playing in
with you, mon corporal . It was—”
    â€œShut up, pig!” snapped
Montrey.
    I studied their faces
for the space of a minute. I saw then that they were not glaring at Montrey.
Their eyes were on me. I already could feel the sharp points of their needle
bayonets going through my flesh.
    I did not sleep any
more that day.

CHAPTER SIX
    Fight in the Mosque
    I N the white moonlight we
approached the walls of the city—or what had once been a city. Tier after tier
of stones had been standing there for hundreds of years. I am not enough of an
archaeologist to give you the exact description and type and period, but even
to my unpracticed eyes, this seemed the work of Romans.
    Approaching a wall
which had dwarfed us, the others turned to me. Montrey smiled, his dark eyes
were blazing.
    â€œYou think we cannot
find our way out of here?” he said.
    â€œI don’t know,
Montrey,” I replied. “It would be rather difficult without a compass. Of
course, it’s nothing to me if you want to get lost in these mountains. Nothing
at all.”
    Then Montrey pointed
to something which I had not seen before. It was a stone-paved road leading out
to the northwest. A Roman road, built nine feet into the ground, imperishable.
It would show the way.
    They would not need me
anymore.
    Simultaneously with
that discovery, Gian made another.
    â€œThe Berbers!” he
cried. “They didn’t follow us down here!”
    All eyes swept to the
southeast toward the empty mountains. It was true.
    They had not followed.
But it was not a cause for relief. There must be something in this city which
they feared.
    I stepped away from
the others. By moonlight it was impossible to see very far with any
distinctness, even though the moon was as bright as an arc lamp.
    Looking back at