Hell's Legionnaire by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

reaching the rear of the mosque. Men came swarming up the hillside,
weapons gleaming beneath the white moon.
    Bracing the Chauchat
against a pillar, I let them have it. The line wavered. Those in the rear were
knocked back by those who fell in front.
    No cover was available
on that hillside. After the first rush was checked, even while the leaders
exhorted their men to go on, I started at the left side and fired in an arc to
the right. Pausing midway I fed more bullets into the smoking breech. The arc
went on through.
    In less than a minute
the hillside was carpeted with white—nothing stirred.
    Before I could get my
breath I saw that I had not deterred the remaining forces in the least. They
were forming at the bottom once again, ready for a second charge.
    Although the Chauchat
was hot enough to melt, I hammered three short bursts into the group across the
forum just to show them that they were far from out of range.
    I reached back
confidently to where I had dropped the bandoliers. I reached further back,
fumbling with the collapsed canvas. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was all
out of ammunition.
    I sprinted for the
front of the mosque, risking an attack on the rear in my absence. The machine
gun had gone silent as had the other auto-rifles.
    Ivan was sprawled
across his weapon, hands still on the trip. A pool of blood was widening on the
white stone.
    I whirled about and
stared down the platform. Gian was doubled up, moaning, hitching himself toward
me.
    Gian’s face was
twisted in agony. He pressed pain-stiffened hands against his belly. Through
the reddened fingers I saw that his belt had been shot away.
    From within the mosque
I heard Montrey’s voice laughing shrilly. Then I heard Kraus’ bellow of rage.
Gian was close to me now, his eyes pleading. I knew what he wanted.
    I unstrapped Ivan’s
rifle, jacked a bullet into the chamber and sent it sliding toward Gian. I
turned my back and went into the mosque. The crack of the Lebel outside was
dull, muffled.
    Montrey’s laugh was
there again and I ran toward it. I saw an oil lamp, fed by mutton fat, hanging
from the wall. Below it, bending over a chest, stood Montrey and Kraus. Some
bright-colored stones were still rolling on the floor. Montrey had jerked a
necklace away from Kraus.
    They straightened up
and I knew they had not heard me enter. Kraus reached back for his rifle, his
face scarlet with anger. Montrey’s revolver was there first. The revolver
barked.
    Kraus jerked himself
erect, rising on his toes. Montrey fired again and Kraus fell face forward to
the stone.
    My own rifle was off
my back. The revolver went spinning away from Montrey’s suddenly red hand as I
shot from the waist.
    His face was blank
with surprise. He recovered instantly.
    â€œCurse you!”
    â€œShut up. The rest are
dead,” I snapped. “We’ve got to get out of here and get out fast. I’m all out
of bullets for this auto-rifle and there aren’t ten shots left in that machine
gun. We can’t hold out, understand? It’s going to take the two of us to get out
of here!”
    With that I went over
to the man I killed in the mosque. I stripped him of his white robe and found
it filthy with grease. Bringing it back, I laid it out flat before the chest.
    Montrey, unarmed and
realizing what I had said was true, dipped his hands into the chest and began
to scoop out handfuls of stuff which glittered and shimmered in the light of
the swinging oil lamp. Several bright bars lay in the chest but I shook my
head.
    â€œNo gold, get me? It’s
too heavy. And to blazes with that amber you’ve got!”
    Grudgingly, Montrey
let the amber slide back and scooped out another double handful of gems.
Wrapping the ends of the robe around the glittering heap, I emptied my pack of
everything that I did not think I could use. But that did not include the many
pounds of gunpowder and dynamite that I had hauled all these torturous