“What do you intend to do?”
“I’m not too sure. We’ll have to play it as it comes. We’ll probably make for your farm and hole up somewhere near the bay where we landed. It’s dark at seven-thirty. That should help a lot.”
“Two years ago my father tried to grow tobacco,” she said. “He dug a curing room out of the ground under the stables. The entrance is a trapdoor in the end stall and it’s usually covered with straw.”
“I suppose they’d find it soon enough if they made a thorough search of the place,” he said. “But thanks for the idea.” He got to his feet. “And now I think you should be moving.”
They went down the hillside together to the little hollow in which the shepherd’s hut stood. George Samos sat against a boulder keeping watch, a shotgun across his knees, a large black dog curled beside him for warmth.
He raised a hand hi greeting and Lomax and Katina moved to the edge of the hollow and looked down into the valley.
Strange, but he was desperately conscious that there were things he wanted to say, but they wouldn’t come to mind and then this strange, secret girl turned and smiled as if she was aware of the turmoil in his mind
“You will be successful tomorrow, Hugh Lomax”
Their hands touched and then she turned and started down the hillside. For a little while he watched and then she dropped into the shadows of the ravine and was lost to him.
The hut was low roofed and built of great blocks of stone. Boyd squatted on a blanket beside the fire and fitted together a long-barrelled Winchester sporting rifle.
..He glanced up as Lomax ducked through the entrance. “Has the kid gone?” Lomax nodded and Boyd continued, “They certainly breed them with guts in these islands.”
He screwed the telescopic sight into position, raised the rifle to his shoulder and the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“When we move out tomorrow afternoon you can leave that behind for a start,” Lomax told him. “It only gets in the way at close quarters.”
Boyd ran a hand lovingly over the stock. “Maybe you’re right, but it’s a lovely weapon all the same.”
He loaded it carefully, laid it on the blanket beside him and then unbuttoned his tunic pocket and took out a slim, leather-bound volume.
As he opened it, leaning to the fire for light, Lomax said curiously, “What have you got there?”
“Van Horn’s book of war poems.” Boyd sighed. “I never was much of a one for this sort of thing, but I’ve got to give it to him. He certainly hits the mark.”
“There’s hope for you yet, then,” Lomax said with a grin as Yanni poured coffee into battered tin mugs and handed them round.
Later, wrapped in a blanket, he lay in the corner and stared at the dying embers of the fire, wondering what he was doing here on top of a mountain on a tiny island in the Aegean.
But there was no answer, or none that would satisfy, and he turned his face to the wall and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Fire on the Mountain
Lying there In the hollow between the rocks, the sun warm on his back, Lomax had been aware of the truck’s approach for several minutes in spite of the bleating of the sheep as they moved reluctantly across the hillside.
He got to his feet and leaned across a boulder beside Boyd as the truck appeared around the shoulder of the mountain in the valley below. A few moments later it disappeared from view again behind a great outcrop of rock.
He moved out of the hollow and waved to George and Yanni who immediately started to drive their flock down the slope, pelting those at the rear vigorously with stones.
Lomax and Boyd went down the hill on the run, heels digging into the crumbling earth, and dropped into the ditch. Sheep milled around them, crying piteously, and George and Yanni wielded their long staffs, driving the bewildered animals up the steep bank until they blocked the narrow road.