A dozen feet up the hillside, Ross had already taken cover, pulled out his rifle, and begun firing across the ravine, his face calm and his hands steady. Ian was just a few feet away from Juliet, behind the same pile of boulders. As she whipped her rifle from its saddle holster, he said dryly, "Thank God they're bad shots, whoever they are."
Juliet suspected that it was probably the stiff wind blowing through the ravine that had saved them, for it was strong enough to affect the trajectory of a ball at this range. Even so, their assailants had not been entirely ineffectual, for one of them had hit Murad.
The young Persian screamed before tumbling from his horse and rolling several feet down the slope. Now he lay motionless, his left sleeve drenched with blood, in a position too exposed to permit his companions to go to his aid.
Swearing, Juliet peered cautiously between two boulders and scanned the opposite hillside. Heat shimmered from the barren, sun-blasted sides of the gorge, distorting the air and making it hard to judge distances.
One of their assailants fired again, the puff of dark smoke revealing his position before the sharp crack of the gun echoed through the ravine. Ross and Juliet both returned fire, then had to drop swiftly when their bullets attracted more in reply.
The acrid scent of black powder stinging her nostrils, Juliet thought back to the initial volley and decided that there were probably between three and five attackers. She reloaded and looked for other targets, but none were visible. "One is by that twisted pine. Have you spotted the others, Ross?"
"Two behind that pile of dark scree and one lower, to the left." He punctuated his words with a shot, then ducked again. "I think Shahid Mahmud and his merry men have caught up with us."
Ross was right, for only someone who hated them and had the instincts of a bulldog would come so far, undeterred even by marauding Turkomans. Seeing a sliver of white rise above the dark scree, she fired and reloaded, then fired again, angling the shot in the hope that a ricochet might damage someone behind the stone ridge.
In the lull that followed, she pulled out her pistol and gave it to Ian, along with ammunition from her saddlebags. "A pity we haven't another rifle, but this might be helpful if someone tries to sneak up on us."
"A rifle would be wasted on me, for losing an eye has probably wrecked my aim." He checked the loading, then cocked the hammer. "But given that this is perfect sneaking country, I'll feel better with a pistol in my hand."
He was right about the terrain, for the ravine was such a jumble of broken rock that a careful person could move almost anywhere without being exposed to fire for more than an instant. Ruefully Juliet said, "For the moment, it's a stalemate."
"If we don't change the odds, Murad might bleed to death," Ross said, his voice hard. He fired again, reloading without haste. "And I don't want to leave the initiative in their hands. I'm going to work my way up to that ledge, which should give me a good range of fire over the whole ravine."
Juliet scanned the hillside behind, which rose in a series of rough steps. "I'll make sure they're too busy to shoot at you."
Ross gave her a faint, sweet smile, as if they were in their bedroom in Bokhara rather than fighting for their lives in a sunstruck mountain ravine. "Your skills are so much more useful than the more typical music and embroidery."
She almost laughed. "Just remember to keep your head and other valuable parts of your anatomy down."
She watched for a moment as he started up the slope, rifle in hand. His green-and-gray-striped chapan and white turban were so imprinted with yellow dust that he blended into the rugged terrain, and he knew how to move swiftly and silently, taking advantage of every scrap of concealment. Hardly the usual skills of an English marquess. In this, at least, they were well-matched.
Juliet turned and gave full attention to the opposite side of the gorge, grateful that her breechloader could be reloaded and fired so swiftly. Their enemies would not realize that only one person was shooting at them.
But as she pumped off rounds at every sign of movement, she prayed that Ross was successful, for she didn't like their situation one damned bit.
* * *
Shahid Mahmud's cursing became a steady stream of obscenities, for his perfect ambush spot was flawed by wind and a rocky terrain that offered the enemy too many places to hide. By misjudging the wind's force, the Bokharans had lost their initial advantage of surprise; now that both parties had gone to ground, they might spend the rest of the day blasting away at each other without damaging anything but their ammunition supplies.
Damn the wind, damn his men for not being better shots! Most of all, damn himself for hitting the guide rather than the ferengi.