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the base. The Tuaregs are massing, waiting for ammunition. The ammunition is holding them up. Ammunition will spring their attack against outposts. Do not go to the platoon. Do you understand?”
    All heads bobbed dully. All heads except one: Grant’s. Grant was glaring at Muller with a steady ferocity born of hate, pain and thirst.
    Grant smiled bitterly. Muller was making a grandstand play—all for the Legion! Muller had something up his sleeve. Muller would get through all right and the rest would be dead on the plain.
    Grant was not entirely sane. His usually intelligent face was a mask. His blue eyes were as hot as a gas flame. Slowly he hitched himself forward.
    Muller turned his back, rounded the point of land out of sight. None of the others paid Grant any attention whatever. Their eyes were riveted to the plain. They knew what would await them out there. But the sergeant had said go and they would go.
    Grant got to his knees. He jacked a bullet into his gun and followed Muller. Unsteadily, when he was protected by the rocks, he stood up. Muller was selecting his post, scanning the ground about him carefully. When he heard Grant’s slow footsteps, he spun about.
    Something in Grant’s expression warned Muller, but the sergeant snapped: “Get back there, you yellow fool. Get ready to run for your worthless life.”
    â€œI’m not running,” replied Grant, very distinctly. “You’re making a grandstand play, that’s all. You’re glory-grabbing. You’re thinking about medals.” His voice was monotonous, ugly. Insanity swam in his eyes.
    Muller whipped his revolver out of his belt. “Get back!”
    Grant sidestepped swiftly. His gun came up for a smashing stroke. The steel-shod butt crashed into Muller’s blue jowl.
    Muller went down, heavily. Dust spurted as he hit. Grant lowered his rifle and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Suddenly he realized what he had done. He had struck a non-com and the bataillon pénal would be his lot from now on.
    The thought jerked him back into reality. Like a man awaking to find a nightmare real, he looked about him and then back at the sergeant.
    No need to blow out his own brains, now. The Tuaregs would attend to that. Grant knew that Muller’s strategy had been sound. They’d have to cross the plain. Someone would have to fight a rear action.
    He staggered to a rock and sat down. He couldn’t return to the Legion—not now. All the bitterness swelled up inside him. A recklessness came with it. In spite of pain and thirst, he laughed. He’d have to shoot the works. And there’d be plenty of sparks when he went out.
    The Chinese, Sam Ying, wondering what had happened, peered around the corner. His eyes went big when he saw Muller in the dust.
    Grant’s voice had a ring and snap it had lacked for months. “Ying! Pick up the sergeant, get the men and run for it. I’m covering your retreat.”
    The others of the squad came forth, crawling like crabs. Yells were sounding up the ravine. The Tuaregs were not far away. None of the men asked any questions. Casting off the sergeant’s pack, they picked him up.
    Grant hefted the machine gun. He felt a certain exhilaration—if he lived he’d be sick later, but he doubted that he’d live that long.
    The rest of the squad started for the open at a run. Grant watched them go, noted that none of them looked back. Suddenly he wondered if they were worth saving.
    Hoofs thundered near at hand. Tuaregs yelled loudly as they sighted their quarry. Grant expected a sleet of bullets to cut the squad to pieces.
    But no bullets came—only hoofs and yells.

Chapter Three
    A Tuareg, astride a charging black horse, burst into sight. A two-handed sword was held aloft, shattering the rays of the departing sun. The man was veiled, only his eyes showing. The white robe swirled about him.
    Behind him came others. Hoofs and yells and the clatter