Donaldson followed, muttering bitterly under his breath, his face twisted more as though in distaste than in fighting anger.
Cliff, too, finally saw light and dashed after the others, leaving only Isobel and the Peters brothers. They heard the muffled coughing of a silenced gun, twice, thrice and then half a dozen times, blurting together in automatic fire.
Homer Crawford shuffled through the sand on an awkward run, rounding the tent, weapon in hand.
There was a native on the ground making final spasmatic muscular movements in his death throes, and not more than three feet from him, coolly, David Moroka sat, bracing his elbows on his knees and aiming, two-handed, as his gun emptied itself.
Crawford brought his own gun up, seeking the target, and clipping at the same time, "We want him alive—"
It was too late. Two hundred feet beyond, a running tribesman, long arm dagger still in hand, stumbled, ran another three or four feet with hesitant steps, and then collapsed.
Moroka said, "Too late, Crawford. He would have got away." The South African started to his feet, brushing sand from his khaki bush shorts.
The others were beginning to come up and from the Tuareg encampment a rush of Guémama's men started in their direction.
Crawford said unhappily, looking down at the dead native at their feet, "I hate to see unnecessary killing."
Moroka looked at him questioningly. "Unnecessary? Another split second and his knife would have been in your gizzard. What do you want to give him, another chance?"