Lazarre waited until they were at one hundred paces. Then his big Luger spoke sending the leading Arab of the group storming from the west, screaming out of his saddle.
Moments after Lazarre’s first revolver shot, the Lebels spoke around him. Every shot counted but there were just not enough shots.
The Doelaks were a tidal wave that this tiny circle of men could simply not stop.
With the very first charge, they left the little camp in the dust.
“Baionnettes!” shouted Lazarre while shooting three Arabs off their horses in quick succession.
The next moment it was bayonet against scimitar. A bloody struggle of armed men, bellowing horses, jostling camels and babbling hawkers trying to club their opponents out of the saddle with their rifle butts.
It was a horrible and short-lived slaugh
