Title: The Leopard Woman
Author: White, Stewart Edward, 1873-1946
Language: English
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THE LEOPARD WOMAN

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

Illustrated by W. H. D. Koerner

1916



TABLE OF CONTENTS


CHAPTER

     I. The March
    II. The Camp
   III. The Rhinoceros
    IV. The Stranger
     V. The Encounter
    VI. The Leopard Woman
   VII. The Water Hole
  VIII. The Thirst
    IX. On the Plateau
     X. The _Suliani_
    XI. The Ivory Stockade
   XII. The Pilocarpin
  XIII. The Tropic Moon
   XIV. Over the Ranges
    XV. The Sharpening of the Spear
   XVI. The Murder
  XVII. The Darkness
 XVIII. The Leopard Woman Changes Her Spots
   XIX. The Trial
    XX. Kingozi's Ultimatum
   XXI. The Messengers
  XXII. The Second Messengers
 XXIII. The Council of War
  XXIV. M'tela's Country
   XXV. M'tela
  XXVI. Waiting
 XXVII. The Magic Bone
XXVIII. Simba's Adventure
  XXIX. Winkleman's Safari Arrives
   XXX. Winkleman Appears
  XXXI. Light Again
 XXXII. The Colours
XXXIII. Curtain



ILLUSTRATIONS

"'Go, I say!' cried the Leopard Woman. 'And hold up your head. If this
is suspected of you, you will surely die'" ... _Frontispiece_

"'If you _will_ ride in a hammock, you ought to teach your men to
shoot,' was Kingozi's greeting"

"After the flat crack of the rifle a hollow _plunk_ indicated that the
bullet had told"

"Their eyes were large with curiosity as to this man and woman of a new
species ... Kingozi touched his lips to the _tembo_"

"'Cazi Moto, take this stick and make on the ground marks exactly like
those on the _barua_. Make them deep, so that I may feel them with my
hands'"

"The search party found Winkleman, very dirty, quite hungry, profoundly
chagrined"

"At the top of the hill the guide stopped and pointed. Kingozi gathered
that through the distant cleft he indicated the strangers must come"

"So intent was the Leopard Woman on the examination and on Kingozi that
she seemed utterly unconscious of the men standing over opposite ... A
more startlingly exotic figure for the wilds of Central Africa could
not be imagined"



THE LEOPARD WOMAN



CHAPTER I


THE MARCH

It was the close of the day. Over the baked veldt of Equatorial Africa
a safari marched. The men, in single file, were reduced to the
unimportance of moving black dots by the tremendous sweep of the dry
country stretching away to a horizon infinitely remote, beyond which
lay single mountains, like ships becalmed hull-down at sea. The
immensities filled the world--the simple immensities of sky and land.
Only by an effort, a wrench of the mind, would a bystander on the
advantage, say, of one of the little rocky, outcropping hills have been
able to narrow his vision to details.

And yet details were interesting. The vast shallow cup to the horizon
became a plain sparsely grown with flat-topped thorn trees. It was not
a forest, yet neither was it open country. The eye penetrated the thin
screen of tree trunks to the distance of half a mile or more, but was
brought to a stop at last. Underfoot was hard-baked earth, covered by
irregular patches of shale that tinkled when stepped on. Well-defined
paths, innumerable, trodden deep and hard, cut into the iron soil. They
nearly all ran in a northwesterly direction. The few traversing paths
took a long slant. These paths, so exactly like those crossing a
village green, had in all probability never been trodden by human foot.
They had been made by the game animals, the swarming multitudinous game
of Central Africa.

The safari was using one of the game trails. It was a compact little
safari, comprising not over thirty men all told. The single white man
walked fifty yards or so ahead of the main body. He was evidently
tired, for his shoulders drooped, and his shuffling, slow-swinging gait
would anywhere have been recognized by children of the wilderness as
that which gets the greatest result from the least effort. Dressed in
the brown cork helmet, the brown flannel shirt with spine-pad, the
khaki trousers, and the light boots of the African traveller little was
to be made of either his face or figure. The former was fully bearded,
the latter powerful across the shoulders. His belt was heavy with
little leather pockets; a pair of prismatic field-glasses, suspended
from a strap around his neck, swung across his chest; in the crook of
his left arm he carried a light rifle.

Immediately at his heels followed a native. This man's face was in
conformation that of the typical negro; but there the resemblance
ceased. Behind the features glowed a proud, fierce spirit that
transformed them. His head was high but his eyes roved from right to
left restlessly, never still save when they paused for a flickering
instant to examine some gazelle, some distant herd of zebra or
wildebeeste standing in the vista of the flat-topped trees. His
nostrils slowly expanded and contracted with his breathing, as do those
of a spirited horse. In contrast to the gait of the white man he
stepped vigorously and proudly as though the long day had not touched
his strength. He wore a battered old felt hat, a tattered flannel
shirt, a ragged pair of shorts, and the blue puttees issued by the
British to their native troops. The straps of two canteens crossed on
his breast; a full cartridge belt encircled his waist; he carried
lightly and easily one of those twelve-pound double cordite rifles that
constitute the only African life insurance.

Fifty yards in the rear marched the carriers. They were a straight,
strong lot, dressed according to their fancy or opportunity in the
cast-off garments of the coast; comical in the ensemble, perhaps, but
worthy of respect in that all day each had carried a seventy-pound load
under a tropical sun, and that they were coming in strong.

And finally, bringing up the rear, marched a small, lively, wizened
little fellow, dressed as nearly as possible like the white man, and
carrying as the badge of his office a bulging cotton umbrella and the
_kiboko_--the slender, limber, stinging rhinoceros-hide whip.

It was the end of a long march. This could be guessed by the hour, by
the wearied slouch of the white man, above all by the conduct of the
safari. The men were walking one on the heels of the other. Their
burdens, carried on their heads, held them erect. They stepped out
freely. But against the wooden chop boxes, the bags of cornmeal
_potio_, the bundles of canvas that made up some of the loads, the long
safari sticks went _tap, tap, tap_, in rhythm. This tapping was a
steady undertone to the volume of noise that arose from thirty throats.
Every man was singing or shouting at the full strength of his lungs. A
little file of Wakamba sung in unison one of the weird wavering minor
chants peculiar to savage peoples everywhere; some Kavirondos simply
howled in staccato barks like beasts. Between the extremes were many
variations; but every man contributed to the uproar, and tapped his
load rhythmically with his long stick. By this the experienced
traveller would have known that the men were very tired, tired to the
point of exhaustion; for the more wearied the Central African native,
or the steeper the hill he, laden, must surmount, the louder he sings
or yells.

"_Maji hapana m'bale, bwana_," observed the gun bearer to the white
man. "Water is not far, master."

The white man merely nodded. These two had been together many years,
and explanations were not necessary between them. He, as well as Simba,
had noticed the gradual convergence of the game trails, the presence of
small grass birds that flushed under their feet, the sing-sing buck
behind the aloes, the increasing numbers of game animals that stared or
fled at the sight and sound of the safari.

Nothing more was said. The way led to the top of one of those low
transverse swells that conceal the middle distance without actually
breaking the surface of the veldt. In the corresponding depression
beyond now could be discerned a wandering slender line of green.

"_Maji huko!_" murmured Simba. "There is the water."

Suddenly he stooped low, uttering a peculiar hissing sound. The white
man, too, dropped to the ground, throwing his rifle forward.

"_Nyama, bwana!_" he whispered fiercely, "_karibu sana!_"

He pointed cautiously over the white man's shoulder. The safari, at the
sight of the two dropping to a crouch, had stopped as though petrified,
and stood waiting in silence.

"We have no meat," Simba reminded his master in Swahili.

The white man eased himself back to a sitting posture, resting his
elbows on his knees, as all sensible good rifle shots do when they have
the chance. Simba, his eyes glowing fiercely, staring with almost
hypnotic intensity over his master's shoulder, quivered like an eager
dog.

"Hah!" he grunted as the loud spat of the bullet followed the rifle's
crack. "_Na kamata_--he has it!" he added as the wildebeeste plunged
into full view.

The hunter manipulated the bolt to throw in a new cartridge, but did
not shift his position. In less remote countries the sportsman,
unlimited in ammunition but restricted in chances, would probably have
pumped in four or five shots until the quarry was down. The traveller
and Simba watched closely, with expert eyes, to determine whether a
precious second cartridge should be expended.

"Where?" asked the white man briefly.

"Low in the shoulder," replied Simba.

The wildebeeste plunged wildly here and there, kicking, bucking,
menacing the unseen danger with his horns. For several seconds longer
the two watched, then rose leisurely to their feet. Simba motioned to
the waiting safari, who, correctly interpreting the situation, broke
into a trot. Both Simba and his master knew that had the animal not
received a mortal wound it would before this have whirled to look back.
The fact that it still ran proved its extremity. Sure enough, within
the hundred yards it suddenly plunged forward on its nose, rolled over,
and lay still.

The fierce countenance of the gun bearer lit up in triumph. He shifted
the heavy rifle and reached out to touch the lighter weapon resting
again in the crook of his master's arm.

"_Nyama Yangu! Nyama Yangu!_" he murmured. That was Simba's name for
the light rifle that did most of the shooting. The words meant simply
"my meat." Simba had a name for everything from the sheath knife of his
office to the white man himself. Indeed Culbertson in the Central
countries was Culbertson to none. Should you inquire for news of him by
that name news you could not obtain; but of Bwana Kingozi you might
learn from many tribes and peoples.

But now the safari, topping the hill, swept down with a rapid fire of
safari sticks against the loads and a chorus whose single word was
"_n'yama!_"

Simba was already at the carcass, _Kisu M'kubwa_, his thin-bladed
knife, in his hand. The men eased their loads to the ground, and stood
about with eagerly gleaming eyes, as would well-trained dogs in like
circumstances. Simba briefly indicated the three nearest to act as his
assistants. The wildebeeste was rapidly skinned and as rapidly
dismembered, the meat laid aside. Only once did the white man speak or
manifest the slightest interest.

"_Sarrara indani yangu_--the tenderloin is mine."

The wizened little headman with the umbrella and the _kiboko_, who
answered to the name of Cazi Moto, stepped forward and took charge of
the indicated delicacy. Soon all was ready for a resumption of the
march. Nothing was left of the wildebeeste save the head and the
veriest offal. The stomach and intestines, even, had been emptied of
their contents and packed away in the hide.

Already the carrion birds had gathered in incredible numbers. The sky
was full of them circling; an encompassing ring of them sat a scant
fifty yards distant, their wings held half out from their bodies, as
though they felt overheated. And in the low bushes could be discerned
the lurking, furtive, shadowy jackals.

The men were laughing, their weariness forgotten. Maulo, the camp
humourist, declaimed loudly at the top of his lungs, mocking the
marabouts, the buzzards, the vultures great and small, the kites and
the eagles.

"Go to the lion," he cried, "he kills much, and leaves. Little meat
will you get here. We keep what we get!"

And the men broke into meaningless but hearty laughter, as though at
brilliant wit.

But Bwana Kingozi's low voice cut across the merriment.

"_Bandika!_" he commanded.

And immediately Cazi Moto and Simba took up the cry.

"_Bandika! bandika! bandika!_" they vociferated over and over. Cazi
Moto moved here and there, lively as a cricket, his eyes alert for any
indication of slackness, his _kiboko_ held threateningly.

But there was no need for the latter. The men willingly enough swung
aloft their loads, now augmented by the meat, and the little caravan
moved on.

Scarcely had Cazi Moto, bringing up the rear, quitted the scene when
the carrion birds swooped. They fell from the open sky like plummets,
their wings half folded. When within ten feet of the ground they
checked their fall with pinion and tail, and the sound of them was like
the roar of a cataract. Those seated on the ground moved forward in a
series of ungainly hops, trying for more haste by futile urgings of
their wings. Where the wildebeeste had fallen was a writhing, flopping,
struggling brown mass. In an incredibly brief number of seconds it was
all over. The birds withdrew. Some sat disgruntled and humpbacked in
the low trees; some merely hopped away a few yards to indulge in gloomy
thoughts. A few of the more ambitious rose heavily and laboriously with
strenuous beating of pinions, finally to soar grandly away into the
infinities of the African sky. Of the wildebeeste remained only a
trampled bloody space and bones picked clean. The jackals crept forward
at last. So brief a time did all this occupy that Maulo, looking back,
saw them.

"Ho, little dogs!" he cried with one of his great empty laughs; "your
stomachs will go hollow but you can fill your noses!"

They tramped on steadily toward the low narrow line of green trees, and
the sun sank toward the hills.



CHAPTER II


THE CAMP

The game trails converged at a point where the steep, eroded bank had
been broken down into an approach to a pool. The dust was deep here,
and arose in a cloud as a little band of zebra scrambled away. The
borders of this pool were a fascinating palimpsest: the tracks of many
sorts of beast had been impressed there in the mud. Both Kingozi and
Simba examined them with an approach to interest, though to an observer
the examination would have seemed but the most casual of glances. They
saw the indications of zebra, wildebeeste, hartebeeste, gazelles of
various sorts, the deep, round, well-like prints of the rhinoceros, and
all the other usual inhabitants of the veldt. But over these their eyes
passed lightly. Only three things could here interest these seasoned
African travellers. Simba espied one of them, and pointed it out, just
at the edge of the narrow border of softer mud.

"There is the lion," said he. "A big one. He was here this morning. But
no buffalo, _bwana_; and no elephant."

The water in the pool was muddy and foul. Thousands of animals drank
from it daily; and after drinking had stood or wallowed in it. The
flavour would be rich of the barnyard, which even a strong infusion of
tea could not disguise. _Kingozi_ had often been forced to worse; but
here he hoped for better.

The safari had dumped down the loads at the top of the bank, and were
resting in utter relaxation. The march was over, and they waited.

Bwana Kingozi threw off the carefully calculated listless slouch that
had conserved his strength for an unknown goal. His work was not yet
done.

"Simba," he directed, "go that way, down the river[1] and look for
another pool--of good water. Take the big rifle."

[Footnote 1: Every watercourse with any water at all, even in
occasional pools, is _m'to_--a river--in Africa.]

"And I to go in the other direction?" asked Cazi Moto.

Bwana Kingozi considered, glancing at the setting sun, and again up the
dry stream-bed where, as far as the eye could reach, were no more
indications of water.

"No," he decided. "It is late. Soon the lions will be hunting. I will
go."

The men sprawled in abandon. After an interval a shrill whistle sounded
from the direction in which Bwana Kingozi had disappeared. The men
stretched and began to rise to their feet slowly. The short rest had
stiffened them and brought home the weariness to their bones. They
grumbled and muttered, and only the omnipresence of Cazi Moto and the
threat of his restless whip roused them to activity. Down the stream
they limped sullenly.

Kingozi stood waiting near the edge of the bank. The thicket here was
very dense.

"Water there," he briefly indicated. "The big tent here; the opening in
that direction. Cook fire over there. Loads here."

The men who had been standing, the burdens still on their heads, moved
forward. The tent porter--who, by the way, was the strongest and most
reliable of the men, so that always, even on a straggling march, the
tent would arrive first--threw it down at the place selected and at
once began to undo the cords. The bearers of the kitchen, who were also
reliable travellers, set about the cook camp.

A big Monumwezi unstrapped a canvas chair, unfolded it, and placed it
near his master. The other loads were arranged here, in a certain
long-ordained order; the meat piled there. Several men then went to the
assistance of Mali-ya-bwana, the tent bearer; and the others
methodically took up various tasks. Some began with their _pangas_ to
hew a way to the water through the dense thicket that had kept it
sweet; others sought firewood; still others began to pitch the tiny
drill tents--each to accommodate six men--in a wide circle of which the
pile of loads was the centre. As the men fell into the ordered and
habitual routine their sullenness and weariness vanished.

Kingozi dropped into the canvas chair, fumbled for a pipe, filled and
lighted it. With a sigh of relief he laid aside his cork helmet. The
day had not only been a hard one, but an anxious one, for this country
was new to every member of the little expedition, native guides had
been impossible to procure, and the chances of water had been those of
an arid region.

The removal of the helmet for the first tune revealed the man's
features. A fine brow, upstanding thick and wavy hair, and the clearest
of gray eyes suddenly took twenty years from the age at first made
probable by the heavy beard. With the helmet pulled low this was late
middle age; now bareheaded it was only bearded youth. Nevertheless at
the corners of the eyes were certain wrinkles, and in the eyes
themselves a direct competent steadiness that was something apart from
the usual acquisition of youth, something the result of experience not
given to most.

He smoked quietly, his eye wandering from one point to another of the
new-born camp's activities. One after another the men came to report
the completion of their tasks.

"_Pita ya maji tayiari_," said Sanguiki coming from the new-made water
trail.

"_I zuru_," approved Kingozi.

"_Hema tayiari_," reported Simba, reaching his hand for the light rifle.

Kingozi glanced toward the tent and nodded. A licking little fire
flickered in the cook camp. The tiny porter's tents had completed their
circle, and in front of each new smoke was beginning to rise. Cazi Moto
glided up and handed him the _kiboko_, the rhinoceros-hide whip, the
symbol of authority. Everything was in order.

The white man rose a little stiffly and walked over to the pile of
meat. For a moment he examined it contemplatively, aroused himself with
an apparent effort, and began to separate it into four piles. He did
not handle the meat himself, but silently indicated each portion with
his _kiboko_, and Simba or Cazi Moto swiftly laid it aside.

"This for the gun-bearer camp," commanded Kingozi, touching with his
foot the heavy "backstraps" and the liver--the next choicest bits after
tenderloin. He raised his voice.

"Kavirondo!" he called.

Several tall, well-formed black savages of this tribe arose from one of
the little fires and approached. The white man indicated one of the
piles of meat.

"Wakamba!" he summoned; then "Monumwezi"; and finally "Baganda!"

Thus the four tribes represented in his caravan were supplied. The men
returned to their fires, and began the preparation of their evening
meal.

Kingozi turned to his own tent with a sigh of relief. Within it a cot
had been erected, blankets spread. An officer's tin box stood open at
one end. On the floor was a portable canvas bath. While the white man
was divesting himself of his accoutrements, Cazi Moto entered bearing a
galvanized pail full of hot water which he poured into the tub. He
disappeared only to return with a pail of cold water to temper the
first.

"Bath is ready, _bwana_," said he, and retired, carefully tying the
tent flaps behind him.

Fifteen minutes later Kingozi emerged. He wore now a suit of pajamas
tucked into canvas "mosquito boots," with very thin soles. He looked
scrubbed and clean, the sheen of water still glistening on his thick
wavy hair.

The canvas camp chair had been placed before two chop boxes piled one
atop the other to form a crude table on which were laid eating
utensils. As soon as Cazi Moto saw that his master was ready, he
brought the meal. It consisted simply of a platter of curry composed of
rice and the fresh meat that had been so recently killed that it had
not time to get tough. This was supplemented by bread and tea in a tall
enamelware vessel known as a _balauri_. From the simplicity of this
meal one experienced would have deduced--even had he not done so from a
dozen other equally significant nothings--that this was no sporting
excursion, but an expedition grimly in earnest about something.

The sun had set, and almost immediately the darkness descended, as
though the light had been turned off at a switch. The earth shrunk to a
pool of blackness, and the heavens expanded to a glory of tropical
stars. All visible nature contracted to the light thrown by the
flickering fires before the tiny white tents. The tatterdemalion crew
had, after the curious habit of Africans, cast aside its garments, and
sat forth in a bronze and savage nakedness. All day long under the
blistering sun your safari man will wear all that he hath, even unto
the heavy overcoat discarded by the latest arrival from England's
winter; but when the chill of evening descends, then he strips happily.
The men were fed now, and were content. A busy chatter, the crooning of
songs, laughter, an occasional shout testified to this. A general
relaxation took the camp.

The white man finished his meal and lighted his pipe. Even yet his
day's work was not quite done, and he was unwilling to yield himself to
rest until all tasks were cleared away.

"Cazi Moto!" he called.

Instantly, it seemed, the headman stood at his elbow.

"To-morrow," said Kingozi deliberately, and paused in decision so long
that Cazi Moto ventured a "Yes, _bwana_."

"To-morrow we rest here. It will be your _cazi_ (duty) to find news of
the next water, or to find the water. See if there are people in this
country. Take one man with you. Let the men rest and eat."

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Are there sick?"

"Two men."

"Let them come."

Cazi Moto raised his voice.

"_N'gonjwa!_" he summoned them.

Kingozi looked at them in silence for a moment.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked of the first, a hulking,
stupid-looking Kavirondo with the muscles of a Hercules.

The man replied, addressing Cazi Moto, as is etiquette; and although
Kingozi understood perfectly, he awaited his headman's repetition of
the speech as though the Kavirondo had spoken a strange language.

"Fever, eh?" commented Kingozi aloud to himself, for the first time
speaking his own tongue. "We'll soon see. Cazi Moto," he instructed in
Swahili, "the medicine."

He thrust a clinical thermometer beneath the Kavirondo's tongue,
glancing at a wrist watch as he did so.

"Cazi Moto," he said calmly after three minutes, "this man is a liar.
He is not sick; he merely wants to get out of carrying a load."

The Kavirondo, his eyes rolling, shot forth a torrent of language.

"He says," Cazi Moto summarized all this, "that he was very sick, but
that this medicine"--indicating the thermometer--"cured him."

"He lies again," said Kingozi. "This is not medicine, but magic that
tells me when a man has uttered lies. This man must beware or he will
get _kiboko_."

The Kavirondo scuttled away, and Kingozi gave his attention to the
second patient. This man had an infected leg that required some minor
surgery. When the job was over and Kingozi had washed his hands, he
relighted his pipe and sat back in his chair with a sigh of content.
The immediate foreground sank below his consciousness. He stared across
the flickering fires at the velvet blackness; listened across the
intimate, idle noise of the camp to the voice of the veldt.

For with the fall of darkness and the larger silence of darkness, the
veldt awoke. Animals that had dozed through the hot hours and grazed
through the cooler hours in somnolent content now quivered alert. There
were runnings here and there, the stamp of hoofs, sharp snortings as
taut nerves stretched. Zebras uttered the absurd small-dog barks
peculiar to them; ostriches boomed; jackals yapped; unknown birds
uttered hasty wild calls. Numerous hyenas, near and far away, moaned
like lost souls. Kingozi listened as to the voice of an old
acquaintance telling familiar things; the men chattered on, their whole
attention within the globe of light from their fires.

But suddenly the noise stopped as though it had been cut by a knife.
Total silence fell on the little encampment. The men, their various
actions suspended, listened intently. From far away, apparently, a low,
vibrating rumble stole out of the night's immensity. It rose and seemed
to draw near, growing hollow and great, until the very ground seemed to
tremble as though a heavy train were passing, or the lower notes of a
great organ had been played in a little church. And then it died down,
and receded to the great distance again, and was ended by three low,
grunting coughs.

The veldt was silent. The zebra barkings were still; the night birds
had hushed; the hyenas and jackals and all the other night creatures
down--it almost seemed--to the very insects had ceased their calls and
cries and chirpings. One might imagine every living creature rigid,
alert, listening, as were these men about the little fires.

The tension relaxed. The men dropped more fuel on the fires, coaxing
the flame brighter. A whispering comment rose from group to group.

"_Simba! simba! simba!_" they hissed one to the other.

A lion had roared!



CHAPTER III


THE RHINOCEROS

In the first gray dusk Simba and Cazi Moto slipped away on the errands
appointed for them--to find people and to find water, if possible. The
cook camp, too, was afoot, dark figures passing and repassing before a
fire. But the rest of the men slept heavily, seizing the unwonted
chance.

When the first rays of the sun struck the fly of the small green
master's-tent Kingozi appeared, demanding water wherewith to wash. At
the sound of his voice men stirred sleepily, sat up, poked the remains
of their tiny fires. As though through an open tap the freshness of
night-time drained away. The hot, searching, stifling African day took
possession of the world.

After breakfast Kingozi looked about him for shelter. A gorgeous,
red-flowering vine had smothered one of the flat-topped thorn trees in
its luxuriance. The growths of successive years had overlaid each
other. Kingozi called two men with _pangas_ who speedily cut out the
centre, leaving a little round green room in the heart of the shadow.
Thither Kingozi caused to be conveyed his chop-box table, his canvas
chair, and his tin box; and there he spent the entire morning writing
in a blank book and carefully drawing from field notes in a pocketbook
a sketch map of the country he had traversed. At noon he ate a light
meal of bread, plain rice with sugar, and a _balauri_ of tea. Then for
a time he slept beneath the mosquito bar in his tent.

At this hour of fiercest sun the whole world slept with him. From the
baked earth rose heat waves almost as tangible as gauze veils. Objects
at a greater distance than a hundred yards took on strange distortions.
The thorn trees shot up to great heights; animals stood on stilts; the
tops of the hills were flattened, and from their summits often reached
out into space long streamers. Sometimes these latter joined across
wide intervals, creating an illusion of natural bridges or lofty
flat-topped cliffs with holes clear through them to the open sky
beyond. All these things shimmered and flickered and wavered in the
mirage of noon. Only the sun itself stared clear and unchanging.

At about two o'clock Kingozi awoke and raised his voice. Mali-ya-bwana,
next in command after Cazi Moto and Simba, answered.

"Get the big gun," he was told, "and the water bottles."

Mali-ya-bwana was not a professed gun bearer, but he could load, and
Kingozi believed him staunch. Therefore, often, in absence of Simba,
the big Baganda had been pressed into this service.

The blasting heat was fiercest at this hour. The air was saturated by
it just as water may hold a chemical in solution. Every little while a
wave would beat against the cheek as though a furnace door had been
opened. Nevertheless Kingozi knew that this was also the hour when the
sun's power begins to decline; when the vertical rays begin to give
place. For it is not heat that kills, but the actinic power of rays
unfiltered by a long slant through the earth's atmosphere.

The two men tramped methodically along, paying little attention to
their surroundings. Game dozed everywhere beneath the scanty shade,
sometimes singly, sometimes in twos or threes, sometimes in herds.
Motionless they stood; and often, were it not for the switch of a tail,
they would have remained unobserved. Even the sentinel hartebeestes,
posted atop high ant hills on the outskirts of the herds, seemed half
asleep. Nevertheless they were awake enough for the job, as was
evidenced when the two human figures came too near. Then a snort
brought every creature to its feet, staring.

The objective of the men seemed to be a rise of land which the
lessening mirage now permitted to appear as a small kopje, a solitary
hill with rocky outcrops. Toward this they plodded methodically:
Kingozi slouching ahead, Mali-ya-bwana close at his heels, very proud
of his temporary promotion from the ranks. Suddenly he snapped his
fingers. At the signal Kingozi stopped and looked back inquiringly over
his shoulder.

Mali-ya-bwana was pointing cautiously to a low red clay ant hill
immediately in their path and about thirty yards ahead. To the casual
glance it looked no different from any of the hundreds of others of
like size and colour everywhere to be seen. Kingozi's attention,
however, now narrowed to a smaller circle than the casual. It did not
need Mali-ya-bwana's whispered "_faru_" (rhinoceros) to identify the
mound.

Cautiously the two men began to back away. When they had receded some
twenty yards, however, the huge beast leaped to its feet. The rapidity
of its movements was extraordinary. There intervened none of the slow
and clumsy upheaval one would naturally expect from an animal of so
massive a body and such short, thick legs. One moment it slumbered, the
next it was afoot, warned by some slight sound or jar of the earth
or--as some maintain--by a telepathic sense of danger. Certainly, as
far as they knew, neither Kingozi nor Mali-ya-bwana had disturbed a
pebble or broken a twig.

The rhinoceros faced them, snorting loudly. The sound was exactly that
of steam roaring from a locomotive's safety valve. Strangely enough, in
spite of the massive structure and the loose, thick skin of the beast,
it conveyed an impression of taut, nervous muscles. Though it faced
directly toward them, the men knew that they were as yet unseen. The
rhinoceros' eyesight is very short, or very circumscribed, or both; and
only objects in motion and comparatively close enter its range of
vision. Kingozi and his man held themselves rigidly immovable, waiting
for what would happen. The rhinoceros, too, held himself rigidly
immovable, his nostrils dilating between snorts, his ears turning; for
his senses of smell and hearing made up in their keenness for the
defects of his eyes.

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, he stuck his tail
perpendicular and plunged forward at a clumsy-looking but exceedingly
swift gallop.

An inexperienced man would have considered himself the object of a
deliberate "charge"; but an old African traveller, such as Kingozi,
knew this for a blind rush in the direction toward which the animal
happened to be headed. The rhinoceros, alarmed by the first intimation
of danger, unable to get further news from its keener senses, had been
seized by a panic. Were nothing to deflect him from the straight line,
he would continue ahead on it until the panic had run out.

But the two men were exactly in that line!

Kingozi hitched his light rifle forward imperceptibly. Although this
was at present only a blind rush, should the rhinoceros catch sight of
them he would fight; and within twenty-five yards or so his eyesight
would be quite good enough. As the beast did not slow up in the first
ten yards, but rather settled into its stride, Kingozi took rapid aim
and fired.

His intention was neither to kill nor to cripple his antagonist. If
that had been the case, he would have used the heavy double rifle that
Mali-ya-bwana held ready near his elbow. The bullet inflicted a slight
flesh wound in the outer surface of the beast's left shoulder. Kingozi
instantly passed the light rifle back with his right hand, at the same
motion seizing the double rifle with his left.

But at the _spat_ of the bullet the rhino veered toward the direction
from which it seemed to his stupid brain the hurt had come. Tail erect,
he thundered away down the slope.

For a hundred yards he careered full speed, then slowed to a trot,
finally stopped, whirled, and faced to a new direction. The sound of
his blowing came clearly across the intervening distance.

A low bush grew near. The rhino attacked this savagely, horning it,
trampling it down. The dust arose in clouds. Then the huge brute
trotted slowly away, still snorting angrily, pausing to butt violently
the larger trees, or to tear into shreds some bush or ant hill that
loomed dangerously in the primeval fogs of his brain.

"Sorry, old chap," commented Kingozi in his own language, "but you're
none the worse. Only I'm afraid your naturally sweet temper is spoiled
for to-day, at least."

He turned to exchange guns with Mali-ya-bwana.

"_N'dio, bwana_," assented the latter to a speech of which he
understood not one word. Mali-ya-bwana was secretly a little proud of
himself for having stuck like a gun bearer, instead of shinning up a
thorn tree like a porter.

Kingozi slipped a cartridge into the rifle, and the two resumed their
walk toward the kopje.



CHAPTER IV


THE STRANGER

By the time the two men had gained the top of the hill the worst heat
of the day had passed. Kingozi seated himself on a flat rock and at
once began to take sights through a prismatic compass, entering the
observations in a pocketbook. Mali-ya-bwana, bolt upright, stared out
over the thinly wooded plain below. He reported the result of his
scouting in a low voice, to which the white man paid no attention
whatever.

"_Twiga[2] bwana_," he said, and then, as his eye caught the flash of
many sing-sing horns, "_kuru, mingi_." Thus he named over the different
animals--the topi, the red hartebeeste, the eland, zebra, some
warthogs, and many others. The beasts were anticipating the cool of the
afternoon, and were grazing slowly out from beneath the trees,
scattering abroad over the landscape.

[Footnote 2: Giraffe.]

From even this slight elevation the outlook extended. Isolated mountain
ranges showed loftier; the tops of unguessed hills peeped above the
curve of the earth; the clear line of the horizon had receded to the
outer confines of terrestrial space, but even then not far enough to
touch the cup of the sky. Elsewhere the heavens meet the horizon: in
Africa they lie beyond it, so that when the round, fleecy clouds of the
Little Rains sail down the wind there is always a fleet of them beyond
the earth disappearing into the immensities of the infinite. There is
space in African skies beyond the experience of those who have dwelt
only in other lands. They dwarf the earth; and the plains and
mountains, lying in weeks' journeys spread before the eye, dwarf all
living things, so that at the last the man of imagination here becomes
a humble creature.

For an hour the two remained on top the kopje. The details of the
unknown country ahead, toward which Kingozi gave his attention, were
simple. From the green line of the watercourse, near which the camp
showed white and tiny, the veldt swept away for miles almost unbroken.
Here and there were tiny parklike openings of clear grass; here and
there more kopjes standing isolated and alone, like fortresses. Far
down over the edge of the world showed dim and blue the tops of a short
range of mountains. Vainly did Kingozi sweep his glasses over the
landscape in hope of another line of green. No watercourse was visible.
On the other hand, the scattered growth of thorn trees showed no signs
of thickening to the dense spiky jungle that is one of the terrors of
African travel. There might be a watercourse hidden in the folds of the
earth; there might be a rainwater "tank," or a spring, on any of the
kopjes. Simba and Cazi Moto were both experienced, and capable of a
long round trip. The problem of days' journeys was not pressing at this
moment. Kingozi noted the compass bearings of all the kopjes; took back
sights in the direction from which he had come; closed his compass; and
began idly to sweep the country with his glasses. In an unwonted mood
of expansion he turned to Mali-ya-bwana.

"We go there," he told the porter, indicating the blue mountain-tops.

"It is far," Mali-ya-bwana replied.

Kingozi continued to look through his glasses. Suddenly he stopped them
on an open plain three or four miles back in the direction from which
he had come the day before. Mali-ya-bwana followed his gaze.

"A safari, _bwana_," he observed, unmoved. "A very large safari," he
amended, after a moment.

Through his prismatic glasses Kingozi could see every detail plainly.
After his fashion of talking aloud, he reported what he saw, partly to
the black man at his side, but mostly to himself.

"_Askaris_,"[3] he said, "six of them. The man rides in a
_machele_[4]--he is either a German or a Portuguese; only those people
use _macheles_--unless he is sick! Many porters--four are no more white
men. More _askaris!_" He smiled a little contemptuously under his
beard. "This is a great safari, Mali-ya-bwana. Four tin boxes and
twelve _askaris_ to guard them; and eighty or more porters; and sixteen
men just to carry the _machele!_ This must be a _Bwana M' Kubwa_."

[Footnote 3: Native troops, armed with Snider muskets.]

[Footnote 4: A hammock slung on a long pole, and carried by four men at
each end.]

"That is what Kavirondos might think," replied Mali-ya-bwana calmly.

Kingozi looked up at him with a new curiosity.

"But not yourself?"

"A man who is a _Bwana M'kubwa_ does not have to be carried. He does
not need _askaris_ to guard him in this country. And where can he get
_potio_ for so many?"

"Hullo!" cried Kingozi, surprised. "This is not porter's talk; this is
headman's talk!"

"In my own country I am headman of many people," replied Mali-ya-bwana
with a flash of pride.

"Yet you carry my tent load."

But Mali-ya-bwana made no reply, fixing his fierce eyes on the distant
crawling safari.

"It must be a sportsman's safari," said Kingozi, this time to himself,
"though what a sportsman wants in this back-of-beyond is a fair
conundrum. Probably one of these chappies with more money than sense:
wants to go somewhere nobody else has been, and can't go there without
his caviare and his changes of clothes, and about eight guns--not to
speak of a Complete Sportsman's Outfit as advertised exclusively by
some Cockney Tom Fool on Haymarket."

He contemplated a problem frowningly. "Whoever it is will be a
nuisance--a _damn_ nuisance!" he concluded.

"_N'dio, bwana_," came Mali-ya-bwana's cheerful response to this speech
in a language strange to him.

"You have asked a true question," Kingozi shifted to Swahili. "Where is
_potio_ to be had for so large a safari? Trouble--much trouble!" He
arose from the flat stone. "We will go and talk with this safari."

At an angle calculated to intercept the caravan, Kingozi set off down
the hill.

After twenty minutes' brisk walk it became evident that they were
approaching the route of march. Animals fled past them in increasing
numbers, some headlong, others at a dignified and leisurely gait, as
though performing a duty. The confused noise of many people became
audible and the tapping of safari sticks against the loads.

At the edge of a tiny opening Kingozi, concealed behind a bush,
reviewed the new arrivals at close range, estimating each element on
which a judgment could be based. As usual, he thought aloud, muttering
his speculations sometimes in his own language, sometimes in the
equally familiar Swahili.

"_Askaris_ not _pukha[5] askaris_ of the government. Those are not
Sniders they carry--don't know that kind of musket. Those boxes are not
the usual type--wonder where they were bought!"

[Footnote 5: Genuine--regular.]

The hammock came into view, swinging on the long pole. It was borne by
four men at each end--experienced _machele_ carriers who would keep
step with a gentle gliding. Eight more walked alongside as relay. They
would change places so skilfully that the occupant of the hammock could
not have told when the shift took place. Alongside walked a tall,
bareheaded, very black man. Kingozi's experienced eye was caught by
differences.

"Of what tribe is that man?" he asked.

But Mali-ya-bwana was also puzzled.

"I do not know, bwana. He is a _shenzi_[6]."

[Footnote 6: Wild Man.]

The unknown was very tall, very straight, most well formed. But his
face was extraordinarily ugly. His flat, wide nose, thick lips, and
small yellow eyes were set off by an upstanding mop of hair. His
expression was of extraordinary fierceness. He walked with a free and
independent stride, and carried a rifle.

"He is not of this country. He is from the west coast, or perhaps Nubia
or the Sudan," was Kingozi's conclusion.

"Many of these people are _shenzis_," Mali-ya-bwana pursued his own
thought.

"That is true," Kingozi acknowledged. "If this is a sportsman, from
what part did he hail to have got together this lot! We will see."

As the swinging hammock came opposite his concealment, Kingozi stepped
forward.

Every one in sight looked in his direction, but none showed any
astonishment at this apparition out of the wilderness. The
sophisticated African has ceased to be surprised at anything a white
man may do. If he can make fire by rubbing a tiny stick _once_, why
should he not do anything under heaven he wants to? A locomotive, an
automobile, a flying machine are miracles, but no less--and no
greater--than ordinary matches. Once admit the ability to transcend
natural laws, once admit the possibility of miracles, why be surprised
at anything? If a white man chose to appear thus in an unknown country,
why not? If he chose again to vanish into thin air, again why not? Only
the fierce-looking savage carrying the rifle rolled his eyes uneasily.

But at this precise moment a diversion on the opposite side of the line
attracted attention enough. A galvanic shiver ran down the string of
porters, succeeded at once by a crashing of loads cast hastily to the
ground. With unanimity the bearers swarmed across the little open space
toward and to either side of Kingozi and his attendant. Reaching the
fringe of flat-topped trees they sprang into the low branches, heedless
of the long thorns, and scrambled aloft until at least partially
concealed. A few of the bolder members lurked behind the trunks, but
held themselves ready for an instant ascent. From a hundred throats
arose a confused cry of "_Faru! Faru!_"

Not joining this first flight remained only the _askaris_, the eight
men bearing the hammock, and the tall Nubian. Of these the _askaris_
were far ahead and to the rear; the hammock bearers were decidedly
panicky; only the Nubian seemed cool and self-possessed. The occupant
of the hammock thrust out a foot to descend.

But before this could be accomplished a rhinoceros burst fully into
view across the open space. His tail was up, he was snorting loudly,
and he headed straight for the hammock. That was large, moving, and
directly in his line of vision. The sight was too much for the bearers.
With a howl they dropped the pole and streaked it to join their
brothers in the thorn trees. The pole and the canopy of the hammock
tangled inextricably its occupant.

A ragged volley from the muskets of the _askaris_ merely seemed to add
to the confusion. With great coolness the Nubian discharged first one
barrel then the other of the heavy rifle he carried. The recoil,
catching him in a bad posture, knocked him backward. The bullets kicked
up a tremendous dust part way between himself and the charging beast.
He was now without defence. Nevertheless he stepped in front of the
entangled struggling figure on the ground.

Before the appearance of the rhinoceros into the open Kingozi had
exchanged rifles, and stood at the ready. He was a good hundred yards
from the hammock. Even in the rush of events he, characteristically,
found time for comments, although they did not in the least interfere
with his rapid movements.

"Hope they don't wing one another," he remarked of the _askaris'_
volley. "Rotten shooting! rotten!" as the Nubian stood his ground. At
the same time he pushed forward the safety catch and threw the heavy
rifle to his shoulder.

A charging rhinoceros--or one rushing near enough a man's direction to
be dangerous--is not a difficult problem. Given nerve enough, and
barring accidents--which might happen in a London flat--a man is in no
danger. If he opens fire too soon, indeed, he is likely to empty his
weapon without inflicting a stopping wound, but if he will wait until
the beast is within twenty yards or so, the affair is certain. For this
reason: just before a rhinoceros closes, he drops his head low in order
to bring his long horn into action. If the hunter fires then, over the
horn, he will strike the beast's backbone. The shot can hardly be
missed, for the range is very close and the outstanding flanges of the
vertebrae make a large mark. The formidable animal goes down like a
stone. In country open enough to preclude the deadly close-at-hand
surprise rush, where one has no chance to use his weapon at all, the
rhinoceros is not dangerous to one who knows his business.

But in this case Kingozi was nearer a hundred and twenty than twenty
yards from the animal. The mark to be hit was now very small; and it
was moving. In addition the heavy double rifle, while accurate enough
at that range, was not, owing to its weight and terrific recoil, as
certain as a lighter rifle. These things Kingozi knew perfectly. The
muscles under his beard tightened; his gray eyes widened into a glare
like that of Simba in sight of game.

Just before the rhinoceros dropped his head for the toss, the Nubian
stepped directly into the line of fire.

"_Lala!_--lie down!" Kingozi shouted.

Somehow the whip-snap of authority in his voice reached the Nubian's
consciousness. He dropped flat, and almost instantly the white man
fired.

At the roar of the great gun the rhinoceros collapsed in mid career,
going down, as an animal always does under a successful spine shot,
completely, without a struggle or even a quiver.

"That was well shot, master," said Mali-ya-bwana.

Kingozi reloaded the rifle and started forward. At the same time the
occupant of the hammock finally emerged from the tangle and came erect.



CHAPTER V


THE ENCOUNTER

Kingozi saw a tall figure without a coat, dressed in brown shirt,
riding breeches, and puttees. The Nubian had retrieved a spilled sun
helmet even before the stranger had scrambled erect, so the head and
face were invisible. Kingozi's countenance did not change, but a faint
contempt appeared in his eyes. The first impression conveyed by the
numbers of the tin boxes and their bearers and escort had been
deepened. Why? Because the riding breeches were of that exaggerated cut
sometimes actually to be seen outside tailor's advertisements. They
were gathered trimly around an effeminately slender waist, and then
ballooned out to an absurd width, only to contract again skin tight
around the knees.

"_M'buzi!_" grunted Kingozi, applying to the stranger the superlative
of Swahili contempt. He did not know he spoke aloud; for it is not well
for one white man to criticise another to a native. But Mali-ya-bwana
replied.

"_Bibi_," he corrected.

Kingozi stared. "By Jove, you're right!" he exclaimed in English. "It
_is_ a woman!" He burst into an unexpected laugh. "It isn't balloon
breeches; it's _hips!_" he cried. This correction seemed to him
singularly humorous. He approached her, laughing.

It was evidently an angry woman, to judge by her gestures and the
deprecating attitude of the Nubian. Kingozi surmised that she probably
did not fancy being dumped down incontinently before an angry
rhinoceros. After a moment, however, her attitude lost its rigidity,
she gestured toward the dead monster, evidently commending the savage.
He shook his head and motioned in Kingozi's direction. The woman
turned, showing an astonished face.

Kingozi was now close up. He saw before him a personality. Physically
she was beautiful or not, according as one accepted conventional
standards. The dress she wore revealed fully the fact that she had a
tall, well-knit figure of long, full curves; a thoroughly feminine
figure in conformation, and yet one that looked competent to transcend
the usual feminine incompetencies. So far she measured to a high but
customary standard. But her face was as exotic as an orchid. It was
long, narrow, and pale with three accents to redeem it from what that
ordinarily implies--lips of a brilliant carmine, eyes of a deep
sea-green, and eyebrows high, arched, clean cut, narrow as though drawn
by a camel's-hair brush. Indeed, in civilization no one would have
believed them to have been otherwise produced. In spite of the awkward
sun helmet she carried her head imperiously.

"If you _will_ ride in a hammock, you ought to teach your men to
shoot," was Kingozi's greeting. "It's absurd to go barging through a
rhino country like this. You look strong and healthy. Why don't you
walk?"

Her crest reared and her nostrils expanded haughtily. For a half-minute
she stared at him, her sea-green eyes darkening to greater depths. This
did not disturb Kingozi in the least: indeed he did not see it. His
eyes were taking in the surroundings.

The dead rhinoceros lay a scant fifteen paces distant; loads were
scattered everywhere; the _askaris_, their ancient muskets reloaded,
had drawn near in curiosity. From the thorn trees across the tiny grass
opening porters were descending, very gingerly, and with lamentations.
It is comparatively easy to ascend a thorn tree with the fear of death
snapping at your heels: to descend in cold blood is another matter.

"Why don't you do your work!" he addressed the soldiers. "Do you want
to catch _kiboko_?"

The startled _askaris_ scuttled away about their business, which was,
at this moment, to herd and hustle the reluctant porters back to their
job. Kingozi, his head and jaw thrust forward, stared after them, his
eyes--indeed, his whole personality--projecting aggressive force. The
men hurried to their positions, their loud laughter stilled, glancing
fearfully and furtively over their shoulders, whipped by the baleful
glare with which Kingozi silently battered them.

[Illustration: "'If you _will_ ride in a hammock, you ought to teach
your men to shoot,' was Kingozi's greeting"]

Only when the last man had picked up his load did Kingozi turn again to
the woman. Although her bosom still heaved with emotion, it was a
suppressed emotion. He met a face slightly and inscrutably smiling.

"You take it upon yourself to manage my safari?" she said. "You think I
cannot manage my men? It is kind of you."

Her English was faultless, but some slight unusual spacing of the
words, some ultra-clarity of pronunciation, rather than a recognizable
accent, made evident that the language was not her own.

"Your _askaris_ are slack," said Kingozi briefly.

"And how of these?" she demanded imperiously, sweeping with an almost
theatrical gesture the miserable-looking group of hammock bearers.

"They are at fault," replied Kingozi indifferently, "but after all they
are common porters. You can't expect gun-bearer service or _askari_
service from common porters, now can you?"

He looked at her directly, his clear, steady eyes conveying nothing but
a mild interest in the obvious. In contrast to his detached almost
indifferent calm, the woman was an embodiment of emotions. Head erect,
red lips compressed, breast heaving, she surveyed him through narrowed
lids.

"So?" she contented herself with saying.

"It's the nature of the beast to run crazy," pursued Kingozi
tranquilly. "You really can't blame them."

"Then am I to be thrown down, like a sack, when it pleases them to
run?" she demanded tensely. "Really, you are incredible."

"I should expect it. The real point is that you have no business to
ride in a hammock through a rhino country."

The woman's control slipped a very little.

"Who are you to teach me my business?"

For the first time Kingozi's careless, candid stare narrowed to a focus.

"You have not told me what your business is," he replied with an edge
of intention in his tones. Their glances crossed like rapiers for the
flash of an instant.

She turned to the hammock bearers.

"Lie down!" she commanded. Then to the impassive Nubian, "The _kiboko!_
I suppose," she observed politely to Kingozi, "that you will admit
these men should be punished, and that you will permit me to do so?"

"Surely they should be punished; that goes without saying."

"Give them thirty apiece," she ordered the Nubian.

"That is too many," interposed Kingozi. "Six is a great plenty for such
people. It is their nature to run away."

"Thirty," she repeated to the Nubian, without a glance in the white
man's direction.

The huge negro produced the rhinoceros-hide whip, and went to his task.
To lay thirty lashes on sixteen backs and to do justice to the occasion
is a great task. The Nubian's face streamed sweat when he had finished.
The bearers, who had taken the punishment in silence, arose, saluted,
and begun to skylark among themselves, which was their way of working
off emotion.

"_Askaris!_" summoned the woman.

They came trotting.

"Lay down your guns! Lie down!"

A mild wonder appeared in Kingozi's gray eyes.

"Do you _kiboko_ your _askaris?_" he asked.

She jerked her head in his direction.

"Do you presume to question my actions?"

"By no means; I am interested in methods."

She paid him no more attention. Kingozi waited patiently until this
second bout of punishment was over. The _askaris_ lay quietly face down
until their mistress gave the word, then leaped to their feet, saluted
smartly, seized their guns, and marched jauntily to their appointed
positions. The woman watched them for a moment, and turned back to
Kingozi.

Her mood had completely changed. The orgy of punishment had cleared
away the nervous effects of the fright she had undergone.

"So; that is done," she said. "I have travelled much in Africa. I what
you call know my way about. See how my men fall into line. It will be
so at camp. _Presto!_ Quick! The tents will be up, the fires made."

Her lips smiled at him, but her sea-green eyes remained steady and
inscrutable.

"They seem smart enough," acknowledged Kingozi without interest. "Have
you ever tried them out?"

"Tried them out?" she repeated. "I do not understand."

"You never know what hold you really have until you get in a tight
place."

"And if I get in a 'tight place,'" she rejoined haughtily, "I shall get
out again--without help from negroes--or anybody."

"Quite so," conceded Kingozi equably. His attitude and the tone of his
voice were indifferent, but the merest flicker of the tail of his eye
touched the dead rhino. His expression remained quite bland. She saw
this. The pallor of her cheek did not warm, but her strangely
expressive eyes changed.

"_Bandika!_" she cried sharply. The men began to take up their loads.

"I will wish you a good afternoon," observed Kingozi as though taking
his leave from an afternoon tea. "By the way, do you happen to care for
information about the next water, or do you know all that?" "Thank you,
I know all that," she replied curtly.

The _askaris_ began to shout the order for the advance, "_Nenda!
nenda!_" the men to swing forward. Kingozi stared after them, watching
with a professional eye the way they walked, the make-up of their
loads, the nature of their equipment; marking the lame ones, or the
weak ones, or the ones recently sick. His eye fell on the figure of the
strange woman. She was striding along easily, the hammock deserted,
with a free swing of the hips, an easy, slouch of the relaxed knees
that indicated the accustomed walker. Kingozi smiled.

"'I know all that,'" he repeated. "Now I wonder if you do, or if some
idea of silly pride makes you say so." He was talking aloud, in
English. Mali-ya-bwana stood attentive, waiting for something he could
understand. Kingozi's eye fell on the dead rhinoceros.

"There is good meat; tell the men they can come out to get what they
wish of it. There will be lions here to-night."

"Yes, _bwana_."

"If she 'knew all that,'" observed Kingozi, "she knew more than I did.
Small chance. Still, if she has information or guides, she may know the
next water. But how? Why?"

He shifted his rifle to the crook of his arm.

"That _bibi_ is a great _memsahib_," he told Mali-ya-bwana. "And this
evening we will go to see her. Be you ready to go also."



CHAPTER VI


THE LEOPARD WOMAN

In the early darkness of equatorial Africa Kingozi, accompanied by
Mali-ya-bwana with a lantern, crossed over to the other camp. Simba and
Cazi Moto had come in almost at dusk; but they were very tired, and
Kingozi considered it advisable to let them rest. They had covered
probably thirty-five miles. Cazi Moto had found no water, and no traces
of water. Furthermore, the game had thinned and disappeared. Only old
tracks, old trails, old signs indicated that after the Big Rains the
country might be habitable for the beasts. But Simba had discovered a
concealed "tank" in a kopje. He had worked his way to it by "lining"
the straight swift flight of green pigeons, as a bee hunter on the
plains used to line the flight of bees. The tank proved to be a deep,
hidden recess far back under overhanging rocks, at once concealed and
protected from the sun and animals. Its water was sweet and abundant.

"No one has used that water. It is an unknown water," concluded Simba.

"How far?"

"Four hours."

"_Vema_." Kingozi bestowed on him the word of highest praise.

The stranger woman's camp was not far away; in fact, but just across
the little dry stream-bed. Her safari was using the same pool with
Kingozi's.

At the edge of the camp he paused to take in its disposition. From one
detail to another his eye wandered, and in it dawned a growing
approval. Your native, left to his own devices, pitches his little
tents haphazard here, there, and everywhere, according as his fancy
turns to this or that bush, thicket, or clump of grass. Such a camp
straggles abominably. But here was no such confusion. Back from the
water-hole a hundred yards, atop a slight rise, and under the thickest
of the trees, stood a large green tent with a projecting fly. A huge
pile of firewood had been dumped down in front of it, and at that very
moment one of the _askaris_, kneeling, was kindling a fire. Behind the
big tent, and at some remove, gleamed the circle of porters' tents each
with its little blaze. Loads were piled neatly, covered with a
tarpaulin, and the pile guarded by an _askari_.

Kingozi strode across the intervening space.

Before the big tent a table had been placed, and beside the table a
reclining canvas chair of the folding variety. On a spread of figured
blue cloth stood a bottle of lime juice, a sparklets, and an enamelware
bowl containing flowers. The strange woman was stretched luxuriously in
the chair smoking a cigarette.

She wore a short-sleeved lilac tea gown of thin silk, lilac silk
stockings, and high-heeled slippers. Her hair fell in two long braids
over her shoulders and between her breasts, which the thin silk
defined. Her figure in the long chair fell into sinuous, graceful,
relaxed lines. As he approached she looked at him over the glowing
cigarette; and her eyes seemed to nicker with a strange restlessness.
This contrast--of the restless eyes and the relaxed, graceful
body--reminded Kingozi of something. His mind groped for a moment; then
he had it.

"_Bibi ya chui!_" he said, half to himself, half to his companion, "The
Leopard Woman!"

And, parenthetically, from that moment _Bibi-ya-chui_--the Leopard
Woman--was the name by which she was known among the children of the
sun.

She did not greet him in any way, but turned her head to address
commands.

"Bring a chair for the _bwana_; bring cigarettes; bring _balauri--lime
juice_----"

Kingozi found himself established comfortably.

She moved her whole body slightly sidewise, the better to face him. The
soft silk fell in new lines about her, defining new curves. Her red
lips smiled softly, and her eyes were dark and inscrutable.

"I was what you call horrid to-day," she said. "It was not me: it was
the frightenedness from the rhinoceros. I was very much frightened, so
I had the porters beaten. That was horrid, was it not? Do you
understand it? I suppose not. Men have no nerves, like women. They are
brave always. I have not said what I feel. I have heard of you--the
most wonderful shot in Central Africa. I believe it--now."

Kingozi's eyes were lingering on her silk-clad form, the peep of ankles
below her robe. She observed him with slanted eyes, and a little breath
of satisfaction raised her bosom. Abruptly he spoke.

"Aren't you afraid of fever mosquitoes in that rig?" said he.

Her body stirred convulsively, and her finely pencilled eyebrows, with
their perpetual air of surprise, moved with impatience; but her voice
answered him equably:

"My friend, at the close of the hard day I must have my comfort. There
can be no fever here, for there are no people here. When in the fever
country I have my 'rig'"--subtly she shaded the word--"just the same.
But I have a net--a big net--like a tent beneath which I sit. Does that
satisfy you?"

She spoke with the obvious painstaking patience that one uses to
instruct a child, but with a veiled irony meant for an older
intelligence.

Kingozi laughed.

"I do appear to catechize you, don't I? But I am interested. It is
difficult to realize that a woman alone can understand this kind of
travel."

He had thrown off his guarded abstraction, and smiled across at her as
frankly as a boy. The gravity of his face broke into wrinkles of
laughter; his steady eyes twinkled; his smile showed strong white
teeth. In spite of his bushy beard he looked a boy. The woman stared at
him, her cigarette suspended.

"You have instructed me about my camp; you have instructed me about my
men; you have instructed me about my marching; you have even instructed
me about my clothes." She tallied the counts on her slender fingers.
"Now I must instruct you."

"Guilty, I am afraid," he smiled; "but ready to take punishment."

"Very well." With a sinuous movement she turned on her elbow to face
him. "Listen! It is this: you should not wear that beard."

She fell back, and raised the cigarette to her lips.

For a moment Kingozi stared at her speechless with surprise; but
immediately recovered.

"I shall give to your advice the same respectful consideration you
accord mine," he assured her gravely.

She laughed in genuine amusement.

"Only I have more excuse," continued Kingozi. "A woman--alone--so far
away----"

"You said that before," she interrupted. "In other words, what
in--what-you-call? Oh, yes! what in hell am I doing up here? Is that
it?"

She turned on him a wide-eyed stare. Kingozi chuckled.

"That's it. What in--in hell _are_ you doing up here?"

"Listen, my friend. In this world I do what I please--always. And when
I find that which people tell me cannot be done, that I do--at once. My
life is full of those things which could not be done, but which I have
done."

"I believe you," said Kingozi, but he said it to himself.

"I have done them at home--where I live. I have done them in the cities
and courts. Whatever the people tell me is impossible--'Oh, it cannot
be done!'--with the uplifted hand and eye--you understand--that I do.
Four years ago I came to Africa, and in Africa I have done what they
tell me women have never done. I have travelled in the Kameroons, in
Nyassaland, in Somaliland, in Abyssinia. Then they tell me--'yes, that
is very well, but you follow a track. It is a dim track; but it is
there. You go alone--yes; but you have us at your back.' And I ask
them: 'What then? where is this place where there is no track?' And
they wave their hands, and say 'Over yonder'; so I come!"

She recited all this dramatically, using her hands much in
gesticulation, her eyes flashing. In proportion as she became animated
Kingozi withdrew into his customary stolid calm.

"Quite so," he commented, "spirit of adventure, and all that sort of
thing. Where did you get this lot?"

"What?"

He waved his hand.

"Your men."

She considered him a barely appreciable instant.

"Why--the usual way--from the coast."

"They are strange to me--I do not recognize their tribes," Kingozi
replied blandly. "So you are pushing out into the Unknown. How far do
you consider going?"

"Until it pleases me to stop."

Kingozi produced his pipe.

"If you do not mind?" he requested. He deliberately filled and lighted
it. After a few strong puffs he resumed:

"The country, you say, is unknown to you."

"Of course."

"I imagined you told me this afternoon that you knew of this water. I
must have been mistaken."

He blew a cloud, gazing straight ahead of him in obviously assumed
innocence. She examined him with a narrow, sidelong glance.

"No," she said at last, "you were not mistaken. I did tell you so."

"Well?" Kingozi turned to her.

"I was very angry, so I lied," she replied naively. "Women always lie
when they get very angry."

"Or tell the truth--uncomfortably," grinned Kingozi.

"Brava!" she applauded. "He does know something about women!" With one
of her sudden smooth movements she again raised herself on her elbow.
"How much?" she challenged.

"Enough," he replied enigmatically.

They both laughed.

Across the accustomed night noises came a long rumbling snarl ending
sharply with a snoring gasp. It was succeeded by another on a different
key. The two took up a kind of antiphony, one against the other, now
rising in volume, now dying down to a low grumble, again suddenly
bursting like an explosion.

"The lions have found that rhino," remarked Kingozi indifferently.

For a moment or so they listened to the distant thunders.

"I have not sufficiently thanked you even yet for this afternoon," she
said. "You saved my life--you know that."

"Happened to be there; and let off a rifle."

"I know shooting. It was a wonderful shot at that distance and in those
circumstances."

"Chancy shot. Had good luck," replied Kingozi shortly.

Undeterred by his tone, she persisted.

"But you are said by many to be the best shot in Africa."

He glanced at her.

"Indeed! I think that a mistake. For whom do you take me?"

"You are Culbertson," she told him. She pronounced the name slowly,
syllable by syllable, as though English proper names were difficult to
her.

He laughed.

"Whoever he may be. I am known as Kingozi hereabouts."

"You are not Cul-bert-son?"

"I am anything it pleases you to have me. And who are you?"

She had become the spoiled darling, pouting at him in half-pretended
vexation.

"You are playing with me. For that I shall not tell you who I am."

"It does not matter; I know."

"You know! But how?"

"I know many things."

"What is it then? Tell me!"

He hesitated, smiling at her inscrutably. The flames from the fire were
leaping high now, throwing the lantern-light into eclipse. An _askari_,
wearing on his head an individual fancy in marabout feathers, leaned on
his musket, his strong bronze face cast into the wistful lines of the
savage countenance in repose. The lions had evidently compounded their
quarrel. Only an occasional rasping cough testified to their presence.
But in the direction of the dead rhinoceros the air was hideous with
the plaints of the waiting hyenas. Their peculiarly weird moans came in
chorus; and every once in a while arose the shrill, prolonged titter
that has earned them the name of "laughing hyena."

"_Bibi-ya-chui_," he told her at length.

She considered this, her red lower lip caught between her teeth.

"The Leopard Woman," she repeated, "and it is thus that I am known!
You, Kingozi--the Bearded One; I, Bibi-ya-chui--the Leopard Woman!" She
laughed. "I think I like it," she decided.

"Now we know all about each other," he mocked.

"But no: you have asked many questions, which is your habit, but I have
asked few. What do you do in this strange land? Is
it--what-you-call--'spirit of adventure' also?"

"Not I! I am an ivory hunter."

"You expect to find the elephant here?"

"Who knows--or ivory to trade."

"And then you get your ivory and make the magic pass, and presto! it is
in Mombasa," she said, with a faint sarcasm.

"You mean I have not men enough to carry out ivory. Well, that is true.
But you see my habit is to get my ivory first and then to get _shenzis_
from the people roundabout to act as porters," he explained to her
gravely.

Apparently she hesitated, in two minds as to what next to say. Kingozi
perceived a dancing temptation sternly repressed, and smiled beneath
his beard.

"I see," she said finally in a meek voice.

But Kingozi knew of what she was thinking. "She is a keen one," he
reflected admiringly. "Caught the weak point in that yarn straight off!"

He arose to his feet, knocking the ashes from his pipe.

"You travel to-morrow?" he asked politely.

"That I have not decided."

"This is a dry country," Kingozi suggested blandly. "Of course you will
not risk a blind push with so many men. You will probably send out
scouts to find the next water."

"That is possible," she replied gravely; but Kingozi thought to catch a
twinkle in her eye.

He raised his voice:

"Boy!"

Mali-ya-bwana glided from one of the small porters' tents.

"_Qua heri_." Kingozi abruptly wished her farewell in Swahili.

"_Qua heri_," she replied without moving.

He turned into the darkness. The tropical stars blazed above him like
candles. Kingozi lapsed into half-forgotten slang.

"Downy bird!" he reflected, which was probably not exactly the
impression the Leopard Woman either intended or thought she had made.



CHAPTER VII


THE WATER-HOLE

A seasoned African traveller in ordinary circumstances sleeps very
soundly, his ear attuned only to certain things. So Kingozi hardly
stirred on his cork mattress, although the lions roared full-voiced
satisfaction when they left the rhinoceros, and the yells of the hyenas
rose to a pandemonium when at last they were permitted to join the
feast. Likewise the nearer familiar noises of men rising to their daily
tasks at four o'clock--the yawning, stretching, cracking of firewood,
crackling of fire, low-voiced chatter--did not disturb him. Yet, so
strangely is the human mind organized, had during the night a soft
whisper of padded feet, even the deep breathing of a beast, sounded
within the precincts of the camp, he would instantly have been broad
awake, the rifle that stood loaded nearby clasped in his hand. Thus he
lay quietly through the noises of men working, but came awake at the
sound of men marching. He arose on his elbow and drew aside the flap of
his tent.

At the same instant Cazi Moto stopped outside. The usual formula ensued.

"_Hodie!_" called Cazi Moto.

"_Karibu_," replied Kingozi.

Thus Cazi Moto at once awakened and greeted his master, and Kingozi
acknowledged.

Cazi Moto entered the tent and lighted the tiny lantern, for it was
still an hour and a half until daylight.

"I hear men marching," said Kingozi.

Cazi Moto stopped.

"It is the safari of Bibi-ya-chui." Already Kingozi's nickname for her
had been adopted.

Cazi Moto disappeared, and a moment later was heard outside pouring
water into the canvas basin.

Instead of arising immediately, as was his ordinary custom, Kingozi lay
still. The Leopard Woman was already travelling! What could that mean?
She was certainly taking some chances hiking around thus in the dark.
Perhaps some aged or weak lion had not been permitted a share of that
rhinoceros. And again she was taking chances pushing out blindly with
over a hundred men into the aridity of the desert. Kingozi contemplated
this thought for some time. Then, making up his mind, he arose and
began to dress.

As he was drying his face Simba came for the guns, and a half-dozen of
the porters prepared to strike and furl the tent. Already the canvas
washstand had disappeared.

"Simba," observed Kingozi in English, of which language Simba knew but
three words, "she is no fool. She knows where there is water out
yonder; but it is water at least forty miles away. She's got to push
and push hard to make it, and that's why she's making so early a start.
I had a notion this 'country of the great Unknown' wasn't quite so
'unknown' as it might be."

He finished this speech coincidentally with the drying of his hands.
The impatient Cazi Moto snatched the towel deftly but respectfully and
packed it away. Simba, who had listened with deference until his
_bwana_ should finish this jargon, grinned.

"Yes, suh!" he used two of his English words at a bang.

Kingozi ate his breakfast by firelight. With the exception of his camp
chair and the eating service, the camp was by now all packed, and the
men were squatting before their fires waiting.

But there was a hitch. Kingozi called up Simba and began to question
him.

"You say the water is four hours' march?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Four hours for you, or four hours for laden men?"

"The safari can go in four hours, _bwana_."

"Is there game there?"

"No, _bwana_. It is a guarded water, and there is no game."

Kingozi considered.

"Very well. I want six men. Before the march we must get meat."

Some time since the flames of the African sunrise had spread to the
zenith, glowing and terrible as a furnace. Although the sky was thus
brilliantly illuminated, the earth, strangely enough, was still gray
with twilight. Objects fifty yards distant were indeterminate. Objects
farther away were lost. The light was daylight, but it was inadequate,
as though charged with mist.

And then suddenly the daylight was clear.

It was like the turning on by a switch. The dim shapes defined clearly,
becoming trees, rocks, distant hills. And almost immediately the rim of
the sun showed above the horizon.

Kingozi had already decided on the best direction in which to hunt.
Neither the direction taken by the Leopard Woman's safari nor the
immediate surroundings of the night's orgy over the rhino carcass was
desirable. The fact that the big water-hole below camp had not only
remained unvisited, but apparently even desired, led him to deduce the
existence of another, alternative, drinking place. He had yesterday
explored some distance downstream; therefore he now turned up.

Simba with the big rifle followed close at his heels. The six porters
stole along fifty yards in the rear. They were quite as anxious for
meat--promptly--as anybody, and were as unobtrusive as shadows.

For upward of a mile the hunters encountered nothing but a few dik-dik
and steinbuck--tiny grass antelope, too small for the purpose. Then a
shift of wind brought to them a medley of sound--a great persistent
barking of zebras supplying the main volume. At the same time they saw,
over a distant slight rise, a cloud of dust.

Simba's eyes were gleaming.

"Game! Much game there, _bwana!_" he cried.

"I see," replied Kingozi quietly.

The porters accompanied them to within a few rods of the top of the
rise. There they squatted, and the other two crawled up alone.

Below them, probably three hundred yards away, was a larger replica of
the other water-hole. At its edge and in its shallows stood a few
beasts. But the sun was now well above the horizon, the drinking time
was practically over.

Three long strings of game animals were walking leisurely away in three
different directions. They were proceeding soberly, in single file,
nose to tail. The ranks ran with scarcely a break, to disappear over
the low swells of the plain. Alongside the plodders skipped and ran,
rushed back and forth the younger, frivolous characters, kicking up
their heels, biting at one another, or lowering their horns in short
mimic charges--gay, animated flankers to the main army. There were
several sorts, each in its little companies or bands, many times
repeated, of from two or three to several score; although occasionally
strange assortments and companionships were to be seen, as a black,
shaggy-looking wildebeeste with a troop of kongoni. Kingozi saw,
besides these two, also the bigger and smaller gazelles, many zebra,
topi, the lordly eland; and, apart, a dozen giraffes, two rhinoceros,
and some warthogs. There were probably two thousand wild animals in
sight.

The hunters lay flat, watching. This multiplicity afforded them a
wonderful spectacle, but that was about all. If they should crawl three
yards farther they would indubitably be espied by some one. It was
impossible to single out a beast as the object of a stalk: all the
others must be considered, too. There was no cover.

Kingozi was too old at the business to hurry. He considered the
elements of his problem soberly before coming back to his first and
most obvious conclusion. Then he raised himself slowly to his favourite
sitting position and threw off the safety.

The distance was a fair three hundred yards, which is a long shot--when
it _is_ three hundred yards. The fireside and sporting magazine hunters
of big game are constantly hitting 'em through the heart at even
greater distances--estimated. It is actually a fact, proven many times,
that those estimates should be divided by two in order to get near the
measured truth! The "four hundred yards if it's an inch!" becomes two
hundred--and even two hundred yards at living game in natural
surroundings is a long and creditable shot.

In taking his aim Kingozi modified his usual custom because of the
distance. When one can get his beast broadside on, the most immediately
fatal shot is one high in the shoulder, about three-quarters of the way
up. That drops an animal dead in his tracks. The next best is a bullet
low in the shoulder. Third is a really accurate heart shot. This latter
is always fatal, of course; but ordinarily the quarry will run at
racing speed for some little distance before falling dead. In certain
types of country this means considerable tracking, may even mean the
loss of the animal. Next comes anywhere in the barrel forward of the
short ribs--a chancy proceeding, and one leading to long chases. After
that the likelihood of a cripple is too great.

Now it is evident that one must aim at what he can be sure of hitting.
The high shoulder shot is all right if the distance is so short that
one can be absolutely certain of placing his bullet within a six-inch
circle. Otherwise the chance of over-shooting--always great--becomes
prohibitive. The low shoulder shot increases the circle to from eight
to twelve inches, with the chance outside that of merely breaking a
foreleg, grazing brisket, or missing entirely under the neck. The heart
shot--or rather an attempt at it--is safer for a longer range, not
because the mark is larger, but because even if one misses the heart,
he is apt to land either the shoulder or the ribs well forward. The
only miss is beneath, and that is clear, as the heart is low in the
body. And at extreme ranges, the forward one-third of the barrel is the
point of aim. It should only rarely be attempted. Unless a man is
certain he can hit that mark, _every time_, he is not justified in
taking the shot.

This principle applies to every one: as well to the beginner as to the
expert. The only difference between the two is the range at which this
certainty exists. The tyro's limit of absolute certainty for the heart
shot may be--and probably is--a hundred yards; for the high shoulder it
may be as near as thirty. This takes into consideration his
inexperience in the presence of game as well as his inaccuracy with the
rifle, and it keeps in mind that he must hit that mark not merely nine
times out of ten, but _every time_. If he cannot get within the hundred
yards by stalking, then he should refuse the chance. As expertness
rises in the scale the distances increase. Provided there were no such
things as nerves, luck, faulty judgment, and the estimate of distances
one man should be as mercifully deadly as another. Naturally the man
who had to stalk to within a hundred yards would not get as many shots
as the one who could take his chance at two hundred. This conduct of
venery is an ideal that is only approximated. Hence misses.

But even if a man lives rigorously up to his principles and knowledge,
there are other elements that bring in uncertainty. For one thing, he
must be able to estimate distance with some degree of accuracy. It
avails little to know that you can hit a given mark at two hundred and
fifty yards, if you do not know what two hundred and fifty yards is.
And here enter a thousand deceits: direction of light, slope of ground,
nature of cover, temperature, mirage, time of day, and the like. An
apparent hundred yards over water or across a cañon would--were, by
some dissolving-view-change, bush-dotted plain to be
substituted--become nearer three hundred in the latter circumstances.
There is a limit to the best man's experience; a margin of error in the
best man's judgment. Hence more misses.

There is only one method for any man to acquire even this proximate
skill; and that requires long and patient practice. It is this: he
should sight over his rifle at a wild animal, noting carefully the
apparent relative size of the front sight-bead and the animal's body.
He should then pace the distance between himself and that animal. After
he has done this a hundred times, he will be able to make a pretty
close guess by marking how large the beast shows up through the sights.
That is, for that one species of game! In Central Africa, where in a
well-stocked district there are from twenty to thirty species, the
practice becomes more onerous. This same practice--of pacing the
distances--however, has also trained a man's eye for country. He is
able to supplement the front-sight method by the usual estimate by eye.
Most men do not take this trouble. They practise at target range until
they can hit the bull's-eye with fair regularity, miss with nearly
equal regularity in the hunting field, and thenceforth talk vaguely of
"missed him at five hundred yards." It must have been five hundred. The
beast looked very small, there was an awful lot of country between him
and it, and "I wasn't a bit rattled--cool as a cucumber--and I _know_ I
never miss an object of that size at any reasonable range." He was
right: he shot as deliberately as he ever did at the butts. He missed,
not because of the distance, but because he did not know the distance.
It was exactly the range at which he had done the most of his
practice--two hundred yards!

All these considerations have taken several pages to tell. Kingozi
weighed each one of them. Yet so long had been his experience, so
habitual had become his reactions, that his decision was made almost
instantly. A glance at the intervening ground, another through his
sights. The top of the bead covered half a zebra's shoulder. The
distance was not far under or over three hundred. Kingozi knew that,
barring sheer accident, he could hit his mark at that distance.

The animals meantime were moving forward slowly along the three
diverging trails. The last of them had left the water-hole. Kingozi
nodded to Simba. Simba, understanding from long association just what
was required of him, rose slowly and evenly to his feet.

The apparition of this strange figure on the skyline brought a score of
animals to a stand. They turned their heads, staring intently, making
up their minds, their nostrils wide. Kingozi, who had already picked
his beast and partially assured his aim, almost immediately squeezed
the trigger.

Over a second after the flat crack of the rifle a hollow _plunk_
indicated that the bullet had told. It was a strange sound,
unmistakable to one who has once heard it, much as though one brought a
drinking glass smartly, hollow down, into the surface of water.

[Illustration: "After the flat crack of the rifle a hollow _plunk_
indicated that the bullet had told"]

"Hah!" ejaculated Simba.

"Where?" asked Kingozi, who knew by long experience that Simba's sharp
eyes had noted the smallest particular of the beast's behaviour when
the bullet landed, and thence had already deduced its location.

Without removing his eyes, Simba indicated with his forefinger a shot
about midway of the ribs.

At the sound the rear guard of the animals raced madly away for about
seventy yards, whirled in a phalanx, and gazed back. Neither man moved.
Simba continued to stare, and Kingozi had lifted his prism glasses. A
tyro would have attempted to draw near for a finishing shot, and so
would probably have been let in for a long chase. A freshly wounded
animal, if kept moving, is capable of astonishing endurance. But these
two knew better than that. In a very few minutes the zebra, without
fright, without suffering--for a modern bullet benumbs--toppled over
dead. Again Simba raised his voice exultantly to the waiting porters.

"_Nyama! nyama!_" he shouted.

And they, racing eagerly forward, their faces illuminated with one of
the strongest joys the native knows, shouted back:

"_Nyama! nyama!_"

For another two days the provisioning was assured.



CHAPTER VIII


THE THIRST

The little safari made the distance to Simba's guarded water in a
trifle over the four hours. Camp was made high up on the kopje whence
the eye could carry to immense distances. The wall of mountains was now
nearer. Through his glasses Kingozi could distinguish rounded
foothills. He tried to make out whether certain dark patches were
groves or patches of bush--they might have been either--but was unable
to determine. Relative sizes did not exist. The mountains might be five
thousand feet tall or only a fifth of that. And by exactly that
proportion they might be a day's or a five days' journey distant!

Carefully Kingozi examined the length of the range. At length his
attention was arrested. A thread of smoke, barely distinguishable
against the gray of distance, rose within the shadow of the hills.

"Simba!" Kingozi summoned. Then, on the gun bearer's approach: "Look
through the glasses and tell me whether that smoke is a house or a fire
in the grass."

Simba accepted the glasses, but first took a good look with the naked
eye. He caught the location of the smoke almost at once. Then for a
full two minutes he stared through the lenses.

"It is a house, _bwana_," he decided.

As though the words had been a magic spell the mountains seemed in
Kingozi's imagination to diminish in size and to move forward. They had
assured a definite proportion, a definite position. Their distance
could be estimated.

"And how far?" he asked.

"Very far, _bwana_," replied Simba gravely, "eleven hours; twelve
hours."

Kingozi reflected. The safari of the Leopard Woman had passed the kopje
not over a mile away; indeed Kingozi had left her trail only a short
distance back. On the supposition that she was well informed, it seemed
unlikely that she could expect to make the whole distance from the last
camp to the mountains in one march. Therefore there must be another
water between. In that case, if Kingozi followed her tracks, he would
arrive at that water. On the other supposition--that she was striking
recklessly into the unknown--well, all the more reason for following
her tracks!

They commenced their journey before daylight the following morning.
Each man was instructed to fill his water bottle; and the instructions
were rigidly enforced. In the darkness they stumbled down the gentle
slopes of the kopjes, each steering by the man ahead, and Kingozi
steering by the stars. The veldt was still, as though all the silences,
driven from those portions inhabited by the beasts, had here made their
refuge. The earth lay like a black pool becalmed. Overhead the stars
blazed clearly, slowly faded, and gave way to the dawn. The men spoke
rarely, and then in low voices.

Kingozi led the way steadily, without hurrying, but without loitering.
Daylight came: the sun blazed. The country remained the same in
character. Behind them the kopje dwindled in importance until it took
its place with insignificant landmarks. The mountains ahead seemed no
nearer.

At the end of three hours, by the watch Kingozi carried on his wrist,
he called the first halt. The men laid down their loads, and sprawled
about in abandon. Kingozi produced a pipe.

The rest lasted a full half hour. Then two hours more of marching, and
another rest. By now a normal day's march would be about over. But this
was different. Kingozi rigidly adhered to the plan for all forced
marches of this kind: three hours, a half-hour's rest; then two hours,
a half-hour's rest; and after that march and rest as the men can stand
it, according to their strength and condition.

This latter is the cruel period. At first the ranks hold together.
Then, in spite of the efforts of the headman to bring up the rear, the
weaker begin to fall back. They must rest oftener, they go on with
ever-increasing difficulty. The strong men ahead become impatient and
push on. The safari is no longer a coherent organization, but an
aggregate of units, each with his own problem of weariness, of thirst,
finally of suffering. More and more stretches the distance between the
_bwana_ and his headman.

No native of the porter intelligence has the slightest forethought for
the morrow, and very little for the day. If it is hot and he has
started early, his water bottle is empty by noon.

This wise program Kingozi entered upon carefully. The three hours'
march went well; the two hours followed with every one strong and
cheerful; then two hours more without trouble. Kingozi's men were
picked, and hard as nails. By now it was one o'clock; coming the
hottest part of the day. The power of the vertical sun attained its
maximum. Kingozi felt as though a heavy hand had been laid upon his
head and was pressing him down. The mirage danced and changed, its
illusions succeeding one another momently as the successive veils of
heat waves shimmered upward. Reflected heat scorched his face. His
spirit retired far into its fastness, taking with it all his energies.
From that withdrawn inner remoteness he doled out the necessary
vitality parsimoniously, drop by drop. Deliberately he withdrew his
attention from the unessentials. Not a glance did he vouchsafe to the
prospect far or near; not a thought did he permit himself of
speculation or of wandering interest. His sole job now was to plod on
at an even gait, to keep track of time, to follow the spoor of the
Leopard Woman's safari, to save himself for later. If he had spared any
thought at all, it would have been self-congratulation that Simba and
Cazi Moto were old and tried. For Simba relieved him of the necessity
of watching for dangerous beasts, and Cazi Moto of the responsibility
of keeping account of the men.

At the rest periods Kingozi sat down on the ground. Then in the
relaxation his intelligence emerged. He took stock of the situation.

Mali-ya-bwana and nine others were always directly at his heels. They
dropped their loads and grinned cheerfully at their _bwana_, their
bronze faces gleaming as though polished. If only they were all like
this! Then perhaps five minutes later a smaller group came in, strongly
enough. The first squad shouted ridiculing little jokes at them; and
they shrieked back spirited repartee, whacking their loads vigorously
with their safari sticks. These, too, would cause no anxiety. But then
Kingozi sat up and began to take notice. The men drifted in by twos and
threes. Kingozi scrutinized them closely, trying to determine the state
of their strength and the state of their spirit. And after twenty
minutes, or even the full half hour allotted to the rest period, Cazi
Moto came in driving before him seven men.

The wizened little headman was as cheerful and lively and vigorous as
ever. He, too, grinned, but his eyes held a faint anxiety, and he had
shifted his closed umbrella to his left hand and held the _kiboko_ in
his right. At the fifth rest period five of the seven men stumbled
wearily in; but Cazi Moto and the other two did not appear before
Kingozi ordered a resumption of the march.

But the mountains had moved near. When this had happened Kingozi could
not have told. It was between two rest periods. From an immense
discouraging distance, they towered imminent. It seemed that a
half-hour's easy walk should take them to the foothills. Yet not a man
there but knew that this nearness was exactly as deceitful as the
distance had been before.

The afternoon wore on. Kingozi's canteen was all but empty, though he
had drunk sparingly, a swallow at a time. His tongue was slightly
swollen. The sun had him to a certain extent; so that, although he
could rouse himself at will, nevertheless, he moved mechanically in a
sort of daze.

He heard Simba's voice; and brought himself into focus.

The gun bearer was staring at something on the ground. Kingozi followed
the direction of his gaze. Before him lay a dead man.

It was one of the common porters--a tall, too slender savage, with
armlets of polished iron, long, ropy hair--a typical _shenzi_. His load
was missing: evidently one of the _askaris_ had taken it up.

Kingozi's safari filed by, each man gazing in turn without expression
at the huddled heap. Only Maulo, the camp jester, hurled a facetious
comment at the corpse. Thereupon all the rest laughed after the
strange, heartless custom of the African native. Or is it heartless? We
do not know.

The day's march had passed through the phase of coordinated action. It
was now the duty of each man to get in if he could. It was Kingozi's
duty to arrive first, and to arrange succour for Cazi Moto and those
whom he drove.

Twenty minutes beyond the dead man they came upon three porters sitting
by the wayside. They were men in the last extremity of thirst and
exhaustion, their eyes wide and vacant, their tongues so swollen that
their teeth were held apart. Nothing was to be done here, so Kingozi
marched by.

Then he came upon a half-dozen bags of _potio_. They were thrown down
pellmell, anyhow; so that Kingozi concluded they had been
surreptitiously thrown away, and not temporarily abandoned with intent
to return for them.

After that the trail resembled the traces of a rout. Every few yards
now were the evidences of desperation: loads of _potio_, garments,
water bottles emptied and cast aside in a gust of passion at their
emptiness. At intervals also they passed more men, gaunt, incredibly
cadaverous, considering that only the day before they had been strong
and well. They sat or lay inert, watching the safari pass, their eyes
apathetic. Kingozi paid no attention to them, nor to the loads of
_potio_, nor to the garments and accoutrements; but he caused Simba to
gather the water bottles. After a time Simba was hung about on all
sides, and resembled at a short distance some queer conical monster.

Then they topped the bank of a wide shallow dry streambed and saw the
remnants of other safari below them.

The Leopard Woman sat on a tent load. Even at this distance her erect
figure expressed determination and defiance. The Nubian squatted beside
her. Men lay scattered all about in attitudes of abandon and
exhaustion; yet every face was turned in her direction.

Kingozi descended the bank and approached, his experienced eye
registering every significant detail.

She turned to him a face lowering like a thundercloud, her eyes
flashing the lightnings, her lips scarlet and bitten. Kingozi noted the
bloodied _kiboko_.

"They won't go on!" she cried at him harshly. "I can't make them! It is
death for them here, but all they will do is to sit down! It is
maddening! If they must die----"

She leaped to her feet and drew an automatic pistol.

"_Bandika!_" she cried. "Take your loads! Quickly!"

She threatened the man nearest her. He merely stared, his expression
dull with the infinite remoteness of savage people. Without further
parley she fired. Although the distance was short, she missed, the
bullet throwing up a spurt of sand beneath the man's armpit. He did not
stir, nor did his face change.

Kingozi's bent form had straightened. An authority, heretofore latent,
flashed from his whole personality.

"Stop!" he commanded.

She turned toward him a look of convulsed rage. Then suddenly her
resistance to circumstances broke. She hurled the automatic pistol at
the porter, and flopped down on the tent load, hiding her face in her
hands.

Kingozi paid her no further attention.

"Simba!" he called.

"Yes, suh!"

"Take one man. Collect all water bottles. Take a lantern. Go as rapidly
as you can to find water. Fill all the bottles and bring them back.
There are people in the hills. There will be people near the water. Get
them to help you carry back the water bottles."

Simba selected Mali-ya-bwana to accompany him, but this did not meet
Kingozi's ideas.

"I want that man," said he.

Simba and one of the other leading porters started away. Kingozi gave
his attention to the members of the other safari.

They sat and sprawled in all attitudes. But one thing was common to
all: a dead sullenness.

"Why do you not obey the _memsahib?_" Kingozi asked in a reasonable
tone.

No one answered for some time. Finally the man who had been shot at
replied.

"There is no water. We are very tired. We cannot go on without water."

"How can you get water if you do not go on?"

"_Hapana shauri yangu_," replied the man indifferently, uttering the
fatalistic phrase that rises to the lips of the savage African almost
automatically, unless his personal loyalty has been won--"that is not
my affair." He brooded on the ground for a space then looked up. "It is
the business of porters to carry loads; it is the business of the white
man to take care of the porters." And in that he voiced the philosophy
of this human relation. The porters had done their job: not one inch
beyond it would they go. The white woman had brought them here: it was
now her _shauri_ to get them out.

"You see!" cried the Leopard Woman bitterly. "What can you do with such
idiots!"

Kingozi directed toward her his slow smile.

"Yes, I see. Do you remember I asked you once when you were boasting
your efficiency, whether you had ever tried your men? Your work was
done smartly and well--better than my work was done. But my men will
help me in a fix, and yours will not."

"You are quite a preacher," she rejoined. "And you are exasperating.
Why don't you do something?"

"I am going to," replied Kingozi calmly.

He called Mali-ya-bwana to him.

"Talk to these _shenzis_," said he.

Mali-ya-bwana talked. His speech was not eloquent, nor did it flatter
the Leopard Woman, but it was to the point.

"My _bwana_ is a great lord," said he. "He is master of all things. He
fights the lion, he fights the elephant. Nothing causes him to be
afraid. He is not foolish, like a woman. He knows the water, the sun,
the wind. When he speaks it is wisdom. Those who do what he says follow
wisdom. _Bassi!_"

Immediately this admonition was finished Kingozi issued his first
command:

"Bring all loads to this place."

Nobody stirred at first.

"My loads, the loads of Bibi-ya-chui--all to this place."

Mali-ya-bwana and the other fourteen of Kingozi's safari who were now
present brought their loads up and began to pile them under Kingozi's
direction.

"Quickly!" called Kingozi in brisk, cheerful tones. "The water is not
far, but the day is nearly gone. We must march quickly, even without
loads."

The import of the command began to reach the other porters. This white
man did not intend to camp here then--where there was no water! He did
not mean to make them march with loads! He knew! He was a great lord,
and wise, as Mali-ya-bwana had said! One or two arose wearily and
stiffly, and dragged their loads to the pile. Others followed.
Kingozi's men helped the weakest. Kingozi himself worked hard,
arranging the loads, covering them with tarpaulins, weighting the edges.

His intention reached also the Leopard Woman. She watched proceedings
without comment for some time. Then she saw something that raised her
objection.

"I shall want that box," she announced. "Leave that one out. And that
is my tent being brought up now."

Apparently Kingozi did not hear her. He bestowed the box in a space
left for it, and piled the two tent loads atop. The Leopard Woman arose
and glided to his side.

"That box----" she began.

"I heard you," replied Kingozi politely, "but it will really be
impossible to carry anything at all."

"That box is indispensable to me," she insisted haughtily.

"You have no men strong enough to carry a load: and mine will need all
the strength they have left before they get in."

He went on arranging the loads under the tarpaulins.

"Those loads are my tent," she said, as Kingozi turned away.

"We cannot take them."

Her eyes flashed. She whirled with the evident intention of issuing her
commands direct. Kingozi's weary, slow indifference fell from him. In
one bound he faced her, his chin thrust forward. His blue eyes had
focussed into a cold, level stare.

"Don't dare interfere!" he ordered. "If you attempt it, I shall order
you restrained--physically. Understand? I do not know how far you
intend to travel--or where; but if you value your future authority and
prestige with your own men, do not make yourself a spectacle before
them."

"You would not dare!" she panted.

The tenseness relaxed. Kingozi became again the slow-moving, slouching,
indifferent figure of his everyday habit.

"Oh, I can dare almost anything--when I have to. You do not seem to
understand. You have come a cropper--a bad one. Left to yourselves you
are all going to die here. If I am to help you to your feet, I must do
it without interference. I think we shall get through: but I am not at
all certain. Go and sit down and save your strength."

"I hate you!" she flashed. "I'd rather die here than accept your help!
I command you to leave me!"

"Bless you!" said Kingozi, as though this were a new thought. "I wasn't
thinking especially of _you_; I am sorry for your boys."

Mali-ya-bwana, under his directions, had undone the loads containing
the lanterns. Everything seemed now ready for the start. All of
Kingozi's safari had arrived except Cazi Moto and five men.

"Have you any water left?" Kingozi asked the Leopard Woman.

She stared straight ahead of her, refusing to answer. Unperturbed,
Kingozi turned to the Nubian.

"Which is _memsahib's_ canteen?"

The Nubian silently indicated two of the three hung on his person.
Kingozi shook them, and found them empty. His own contained still about
a pint, and this he poured into one of hers. She appeared not to notice
the act.

The march was resumed. Mali-ya-bwana was instructed to lead the way
following the scraped places on the earth, the twigs bent over, and the
broken branches by which Simba had marked his route for them. Kingozi
himself brought up the rear. Reluctantly, apathetically, the Leopard
Woman's men got to their feet. Kingozi was everywhere, urging,
encouraging, shaming, joking, threatening, occasionally using the
_kiboko_ he had taken from one of the _askaris_. At last all were under
way. The Leopard Woman sat still on the load, the Nubian crouched at
her back. The long, straggling, staggering file of men crawled up the
dry bank and disappeared one by one over the top. Each figure for a
moment was silhouetted against the sky, for the sun was low. Kingozi
toiled up the steep, his head bent forward. In his turn he, too, stood
black and massive on the brink, the outline of his powerful stooped
shoulders gold-rimmed in light. She watched him feverishly, awaiting
from him some sign that he realized her existence, that he cared
whether or not she was left behind. He did not look back. In a moment
he had disappeared. The prospect was empty of human life.

She arose. For an instant her face was convulsed with a fairly demoniac
fury. Then a mask of blankness obliterated all expression. She followed.



CHAPTER IX


ON THE PLATEAU

Two hours into the night Kingozi, following in the rear, saw a cluster
of lights, and shortly came to a compact group of those who had gone
before him. They were drinking eagerly from water bottles. Simba,
lantern in hand, stood nearby. A number of savages carrying crude
torches hovered around the outskirts. Kingozi could not make out the
details of their appearance: only their eyeballs shining. He drew Simba
to one side.

"There are many _shenzis_?"

"Many, like the leaves of the grass, _bwana_."

"The huts are far?"

"One hour, _bwana_, in the hills."

"These _shenzis_ are good?"--meaning friendly.

"_Bwana_, the _sultani_ of these people is a great lord. He has many
people, and much riches. He has told, his people to come with me. He
prepares the guest house for you."

"Tired, Simba?"

"It has been a long path since sunup, _bwana_. But I had water, and the
people gave me _potio_ and meat. I am strong."

"Cazi Moto is back there--in the Thirst," suggested Kingozi, "and many
others. And there is no water."

"I will go, _bwana_, and take the _shenzis_ with me."

He set about gathering the water bottles and gourds that had not been
emptied. Mali-ya-bwana and, unexpectedly, a big Kavirondo of Kingozi's
safari, volunteered. The rest prepared to continue the journey.

But another delay occurred. The Leopard Woman, who had walked
indomitably, now collapsed. Her eyes were sunken in her head, her lips
had paled; only the long white oval of her face recalled her former
splendid and exotic beauty. When the signal to proceed was given, she
stepped forward as firmly as ever for perhaps a dozen paces, then her
knees crumpled under her.

"I'm afraid I'm done," she muttered to Kingozi.

In the latter's eyes, for the first time, shone a real and ungrudging
admiration. He knelt at her side and felt her pulse. Without
hesitation, and in the most matter-of-fact way, he unbuttoned her
blouse to the waist and tore apart the thin chemise beneath.

"Water," he commanded.

With the wetted end of his neck scarf he beat her vigorously below the
left breast. After a little she opened her eyes.

"That's better," said Kingozi, and began clumsily to rebutton her
blouse.

A slow colour rose to her face as she realized in what manner she had
been exposed, and she snatched her garments together. Kingozi, watching
her closely, seemed to see in this only a satisfactory symptom.

"That's right; now you're about again. Blood going once more."

They proceeded. A man on either side supported the Leopard Woman's
steps.

Shortly the hills closed around them. The dark velvet masses compassed
them about, and the starry sky seemed suddenly to have been thrust
upward a million miles. The open plain narrowed to a track along which
they groped single file. They caught the sound of running water to
their left; but far below. There seemed no end to it.

But then, unexpectedly, they found themselves on a plateau, with the
mass of the mountains on one side and the sea of night on the other, as
though it might be the spacious deck of a ship. A multitude of people
swarmed about them, shining naked people, who stared; and there seemed
to be huts with conical roofs, and a number of little winking fires
that shifted position. The people led the way to a circular hut of good
size, with a conical thatched roof and wattle walls. Kingozi stooped
his head, thrusting the lantern inside. The interior had been swept. A
huge earthen tub full of water stood by the door. The place contained
no other furnishings.

"Bring the _memsahib_ here," he commanded.

She was half dragged forward. Kingozi took her in his arms to prevent
her falling.

"Bring grass," he ordered.

The request was repeated outside in Swahili, and turned into a strange
tongue. Kingozi heard many feet hurrying away.

He stood supporting the half-fainting form of the Leopard Woman. Her
head rested against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her muscles had
all gone slack, so that her body felt soft and warm. Kingozi, waiting,
remembered her as she had looked the evening of his call--silk-clad,
lithe, proud, with blood-red lips, and haughty, fathomless eyes, and
the single jewel that hung in the middle of her forehead. Somehow at
this moment she seemed smaller, in her safari costume, and helpless,
and pathetic. He felt the curve of her breast against him, and the
picture of her as he had seen her out there in the Thirst arose before
his eyes. At that time it had not registered: he was too busy about
serious things. But now, while he waited, the incident claimed,
belated, his senses. His antagonism, or distrust, or coldness, or
suspicion, or indifference, or whatever had hardened him, disappeared.
He stared straight before him at the lantern, allowing these thoughts
and sensations to drift through him. Subconsciously he noted that the
lamp flame showed a halo, or rather two halos, one red and one green.
By experience he knew that this portended one of his stabbing headaches
through the eyes. But the thought did not hold him. He contemplated
unwaveringly the spectacle of this soft, warm, helpless but indomitable
piece of femininity fronting the African wilderness unafraid.
Unconsciously his arms tightened around her, drawing her to him. She
gave no sign. Her form was limp. Apparently she was either half asleep
or in a stupor. But had Kingozi looked down when he tightened his arms,
instead of staring at the halo-encircled lantern, he would have seen
her glance sidewise upward into his face, he would have discerned a
fleeting smile upon her lips.

Almost immediately the people were back with armfuls of the long grass
that grows on the edge of mountainous country. Under Kingozi's
directions they heaped it at one side. He assisted the Leopard Woman to
this improvised couch and laid her upon it. She seemed to drop
instantly asleep.

They brought more grass and piled it in another place. Mali-ya-bwana
superintended these activities zealously. He had drunk his fill, had
bolted a chunk of goat's flesh one of the savages had handed him, now
he was ready to fulfil his _bwana's_ commands.

"You will eat?" he asked.

But Kingozi was not hungry. His strong desire was for a tall _balauri_
of hot tea, but this could not be. He knew it Was unsafe to drink the
water unboiled--it is unsafe to drink any African water unboiled--but
this time it could not be helped. He was not even very tired, though
his eyes burned. There was nothing more to do. Kingozi knew that Simba
and Cazi Moto would not attempt to come in.

They now had both food and water, and would camp somewhere out on the
plain.

"I will sleep," he decided.

Mali-ya-bwana at once thrust the savages outside, without ceremony,
peremptorily. When the _bwana_ of an African belonging to the safari
class wants anything, the latter gets it for him. The headman of the
author of these lines went single handed and stopped in its very
inception a royal _n'goma_, or dance, to which men had come a day's
journey, merely because his _bwana_ wanted to sleep! Kingozi was here
alone, in a strange country, for the moment helpless; but Mali-ya-bwana
hustled the tribesmen out as brusquely as though a regiment were at his
back. Which undoubtedly had its effect.

Kingozi sat down on the straw and blew out his lantern. The wattle
walls were not chinked; so the sweet night wind blew through freely;
and elusively he saw stars against the night. The Leopard Woman
breathed heavily in little sighs. He was not sleepy. Then everything
went black----


When Kingozi awakened it was full daylight. A varied murmur came
happily from outside, what the Africans call a _kalele_--a compound of
chatter, the noise of occupation, of movement, the inarticulate voice
of human existence. He glanced across the hut. The Leopard Woman was
gone.

"Boy!" he shouted.

At the sound of his voice the _kalele_ ceased. Almost immediately Cazi
Moto stooped to enter the doorway. Cazi Moto was dressed in clean
khaki, and bore in his hand a _balauri_ of steaming tea. Kingozi seized
this and drained it to the bottom.

"That is good," he commented gratefully. "I did not expect to see you,
Cazi Moto. Did all the men get in?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"_Vema!_ And the men of the Leopard Woman?"

"Many died, _bwana_; but many are here."

Kingozi arose to his feet.

"I must have food. These _shenzis_ eat what?"

"Food is ready, _bwana_."

"I will eat. Then we must make _shauri_ with these people to get our
loads. My men must rest to-day."

"Come, _bwana_," said Cazi Moto.

Kingozi stooped to pass through the door. When he straightened outside,
he paused in amazement. Before him stood his camp, intact. The green
tent with the fly faced him, the flaps thrown back to show within his
cot and tin box. White porters' tents had been pitched in the usual
circle, and before each squatted men cooking over little fires. The
loads, covered by the tarpaulin, had been arranged in the centre of the
circle. At a short distance to the rear the cook camp steamed.

Cazi Moto stood at his elbow grinning.

"Hot water ready, _bwana_," said he; and for the first time Kingozi
noticed that he carried a towel over his arm.

"This is good, very good, Cazi Moto!" said he. "_Backsheeshi m'kubwa_
for this; both for you and for Simba."

"Thank you, _bwana_," said Gaza Moto. "Simba brought the water, and it
saved us; and I thought that my _bwana_ should not sleep on grass a
second time before these _shenzis_."

"Who carried in the loads? Not our porters?"

"No, _bwana_, the _shenzis_."

Kingozi glanced at his wrist watch. It was only ten o'clock. "When?"

"Last night."

"They went back last night?"

"Yes, _bwana_. Mali-ya-bwana considered that it was bad to leave the
loads. There might be hyenas--or the _shenzis_----"

Kingozi slapped his thigh with satisfaction. This was a man after his
own heart.

"Call Mali-ya-bwana," he ordered.

The tall Baganda approached.

"Mali-ya-bwana," said Kingozi. "You have done well. For this you shall
have _backsheeshi_. But more. You need not again carry a load. You will
be--" he hesitated, trying to invent an office, but reluctant to
infringe upon the prerogatives of either Simba or Cazi Moto. "You will
be headman of the porters; and you, Cazi Moto, will be headman of all
the safari, and my own man besides."

The Baganda drew himself erect, his face shining. Placing his bare
heels together, he raised his hand in a military salute. Kingozi was
about to dismiss him, but this arrested his intention.

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked sharply.

"I was once in the King's African Rifles."[7]

[Footnote 7: Only, of course, Mali-ya-bwana gave the native name for
these troops.]

"You can shoot, then?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Good!" commented Kingozi thoughtfully. Then after a moment: "_Bassi_."

Mali-ya-bwana saluted once more and departed. Kingozi turned toward his
tent.

It had been pitched under a huge tree, with low, massive limbs and a
shade that covered a diameter of fully sixty yards. Before it the usual
table had been made of piled-up chop boxes, and to this Cazi Moto was
bearing steaming dishes. The threatened headache had not materialized,
and Kingozi was feeling quite fit. He was ravenously hungry, for now
his system was rested enough to assimilate food. His last meal had been
breakfast before sunup of the day before. Without paying even casual
attention to his surroundings he seated himself on a third chop box and
began to eat.

Kingozi's methods of eating had in them little of the epicure. He
simply ate all he wanted of the first things set before him. After this
he drank all he wanted from the tall _balauri_. Second courses did not
exist for Kingozi. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, he fumbled for his
pipe and tobacco, and looked about him.

The guest house had been built, as was the custom, a little apart from
the main village. The latter was evidently around the bend of the hill,
for only three or four huts were to be seen, perched among the huge
outcropping boulders that were, apparently, characteristic of these
hills. The mountains rose rather abruptly, just beyond the plateau;
which, in turn, fell away almost as abruptly to the sweep of the
plains. The bench was of considerable width--probably a mile at this
point. It was not entirely level; but on the other hand not
particularly broken. A number of fine, symmetrical trees of unknown
species grew at wide intervals, overtopping a tangle of hedges, rank
bushes, vines, and shrubs that appeared to constitute a rough sort of
boundary between irregular fields. A tiny swift stream of water hurried
by between the straight banks of an obviously artificial ditch.

But though the village was hidden from view, its inhabitants were not.
They had invaded the camp. Kingozi examined them keenly, with
curiosity. Naked little boys and girls wandered gravely about; women
clung together in groups; men squatted on their heels before anything
that struck their attention, and stared.

These people, Kingozi noted, were above middle size, of a red bronze,
of the Semitic rather than the Hamitic type, well developed but not
obviously muscular, of a bright and lively expression. The women shaved
their heads quite bare; the men left a sort of skull cap of hair atop
the head. Earlobes were pierced and stretched to hold ivory ornaments
running up to the size of a jampot. There were some, but not many,
armlets, leglets, and necklets of iron wire polished to the appearance
of silver. The women wore brief skirts of softened skins: the men
carried a short shoulder cape, or simply nothing at all. Each man bore
a long-bladed heavy spear. Before squatting down in front of whatever
engaged his attention for the moment, the savage thrust this upright in
the ground. Kingozi, behind his pipe, considered them well: and
received a favourable impression. An immovable, unblinking semicircle
crouched at a respectful distance taking in every detail of the white
man's appearance and belongings, watching his every move. Nobody spoke;
apparently nobody even winked.

Now appeared across the prospect two men walking. One was an elderly
savage, with a wrinkled, shrewd countenance. He was almost completely
enveloped in a robe of softened skins. Followed him a younger man,
dangling at the end of a thong a small three-legged stool cut entire
from a single block of wood. The old man swept forward with
considerable dignity; the younger, one hand held high in the most
affected fashion, teetered gracefully along as mincingly as any dandy.

The visitor came superbly up to where Kingozi sat, and uttered a
greeting in Swahili. He proved to possess a grand, deep, thunderous
voice.

"_Jambo!_" he rolled.

Kingozi stared up at him coolly for a moment; then, without removing
his pipe from his teeth, he remarked:

"_Jambo!_"

The old man, smiling, extended his hand.[8]

[Footnote 8: Many African tribes shake hands in one way or another.]

Kingozi, nursing the bowl of his pipe, continued to stare up at him.

"Are you the _sultani?_" he demanded abruptly.

The old man waved his hand in courtly fashion.

"I am not the _sultani_," he answered in very bad Swahili; "I am the
headman of the _sultani_."

Kingozi continued to stare at him in the most uncompromising manner. In
the meantime the younger man had loosed the thong from his wrist and
had placed the stool on a level spot. The prime minister to the
_sultani_ arranged his robe preparatory to sitting down.

Kingozi removed his pipe from his lips, and sat erect.

"Stand up!" he commanded sharply. "If you are not the _sultani_ how
dare you sit down before me!"

The youth whisked the stool away: the old man covered his discomfiture
in a flow of talk. Kingozi listened to him in silence. The visitor
concluded his remarks which--as far as they could be understood--were
entirely general: and, with a final courtly wave of the hand, turned
away. Then Kingozi spoke, abruptly, curtly.

"Have your people bring me eggs," he said, "milk, _m'wembe_."[9]

[Footnote 9: A sort of flour ground from rape seeds.]

The old man, somewhat abashed, made the most dignified retreat possible
through the keenly attentive audience of his own people.

Kingozi gazed after him, his blue eyes wide with their peculiar
aggressive blank stare. A low hum of conversation swept through the
squatting warriors. Those who understood Swahili murmured eagerly to
those who did not. These uttered politely the long drawn "A-a-a-a!" of
savage interest.

"Cazi Moto, where is my chair?" Kingozi demanded, abruptly conscious
that the chop box was not very comfortable.

"Bibi-ya-chui has it."

"Where is she?"

"Right behind you," came that young woman's voice in amused tones. "You
have been so busy that you have not seen me."

Kingozi turned. The chair had been placed in a bare spot close to the
trunk of the great tree. He grinned cheerfully.

"I was pretty hungry," he confessed, "and I don't believe I saw a
single thing but that curry!"

[Footnote 9: A sort of flour ground from rape seeds.]

"Naturally. It is not to be wondered at. Are you all rested?"

"I'm quite fit, thanks. And you?"

She was still in her marching costume; but her hair had been smoothed,
her face washed. The colour had come back to her lips, the light to her
expression. Only a faint dark encircling of the eyes, and a certain
graceful languor of attitude recalled the collapse of yesterday.

"Oh, I am all right; but perishing for a cigarette. Have you one?"

"Sorry, but I don't use them. Are not all your loads up yet?"

"None of them."

"Well, they should be in shortly. Cazi Moto has given you breakfast, of
course."

"Yes. But nobody has yet gone for my loads."

"What!" exclaimed Kingozi sharply. "Why did you not start men for them
when you first awakened?"

She smiled at him ruefully.

"I tried. But they said they were very tired from yesterday. They would
not go."

"Simba!" called Kingozi.

"Suh!"

"Bring the headman of Bibi-ya-chui. Is he that mop-headed blighter?" he
asked her.

"Who? Oh, the Nubian, Chaké. No; he is just a faithful creature near
myself. I have no headman."

"Who takes your orders, then?"

"The _askaris_."

"Which one?"

"Any of them." She made a mouth. "Don't look at me in that fashion. Is
that so very dreadful?"

"It's impossible. You can never run a safari in that way. Simba, bring
all the _askaris_."

Simba departed on his errand. Kingozi turned to her gravely.

"Dear lady," said he gravely, "I am going to offend you again. But this
won't do. You are a wonderful woman; but you do not know this game well
enough. I acknowledge you will handle this show ordinarily in tiptop
style; but in a new country, in contact with new peoples--it's a
specialist's job, that's all."

"I'm beginning to think so," she replied with unexpected humility.

"Already you've lost control of your organization: you nearly died from
lack of water--By the way, why didn't you push ahead with your Nubian,
and find the water?"

"I had to get my men on."

He looked on her with more approval.

"Well, you're safe out of it. And now, I beg of you, don't do it any
more."

"Is my little scolding all done?" she asked after a pause.

"Forgive me. I did not mean it as a scolding."

She sat upright and rested her elbows on her knees, her chin in her
hands. Her long sea-green eyes softened.

"Listen: I deserve that what you say. I thought I knew, because always
I have travelled in a good country. But never the hell of a dry
country. I want you to know that you are quite right, and I want to
tell you that I know you saved me and my men: and I would not know what
to do now if you were not here to help me. There!" she made a pretty
outward-flinging gesture. "Is that enough?"

Kingozi, like most men whose natural efficiency has been hardened by
wide experience, while impervious to either open or wily antagonism,
melted at the first hint of surrender. A wave of kindly feeling
overwhelmed the last suspicions--absurd suspicions--his analysis had
made. He was prevented from replying by the approach of Simba at the
head of eight of the _askaris_. They slouched along at his heels,
sullen and careless, but when they felt the impact of Kingozi's cold
glare, they straightened to attention. Kingozi ran his eye over them.

"Where are the other four?" he demanded.

"Three are in the _shenzis'_ village. One says he is very tired."

"Take Mali-ya-bwana and Cazi Moto. Take the leg chains. Bring that one
man before me with the chains on him. Have him bring also his gun; and
his cartridges."

Ignoring the waiting eight, Kingozi resumed his conversation with the
Leopard Woman.

"They are out of hand," said he. "We must impress them."

"_Kiboko?_" she inquired.

"Perhaps--but you have rather overdone that. We shall see."

"I heard you talk with that old man a few moments ago," she said. "And
I heard also much talk of our men about it. He is a very powerful
chief--next to the _sultani_. Are not you afraid that your treatment of
him will make trouble? You were not polite."

"What else have you heard?"

"This _sultani_ has apparently several hundred villages. They keep
goats, fat-tailed sheep, and some few cattle. They raise _m'wembe_,
beans, peanuts, and bananas. They have a war caste of young men."

Kingozi listened to her attentively.

"Good girl!" said he. "You use your intelligence. These are all good
points to know."

"But this old man----"

"No; I have not insulted him. I know the native mind. I have merely
convinced him that I am every bit as important a person as his
_sultani_."

"What do you do next? Call on the _sultani_."

"By no means. Wait until he comes. If he does not come by, say
to-morrow, send for him."

Simba appeared leading a downcast _askari_ in irons. Kingozi waved his
hand toward those waiting in the sun; and the new captive made the
ninth.

"Now, Simba, go to the village of these _shenzis_. Tell the other three
_askaris_ to come; and at once. Do not return without them."

Simba, whose fierce soul all this delighted beyond expression, started
off joyfully, trailed by a posse of his own choosing.

"What are you going to do?" asked the Leopard Woman curiously.

"Get them in line a bit," replied Kingozi carelessly. "I feel rather
lazy and done up to-day; don't you?"

"That is so natural. And I am keeping your chair----"

"I've been many trips without one. This tree is good to lean
against----"

They chatted about trivial matters. A certain ease had crept into their
relations: a guard had been lowered. To a small extent they ventured to
question each other, to indulge in those tentative explorations of
personality so fascinating in the early stages of acquaintanceship. To
her inquiries Kingozi repeated that he was an ivory hunter and trader;
he came into this country because new country alone offered profits in
ivory these days; he had been in Africa for fifteen years. At this last
she looked him over closely.

"You came out very young," she surmised.

"When my father took me out of the medical school to put me into the
ministry. I had a knack for doctoring. I ran away."

"Why did you come to Africa?"

"Didn't particularly. Started for Iceland on a whaling ship. Sailed the
seven seas after the brutes. Landed on the Gold Coast--and got left
behind."

She looked at him hard, and he laughed.

"'Left' with my kit and about sixty pounds I had hung on to since I
left home--my own money, mind you! _And_ a harpoon gun! Lord!" he
laughed again, "think of it--a harpoon gun! You loaded it with about a
peck of black powder. Normally, of course, it shot a harpoon, but you
could very near cram a nigger baby down it! And kick! If you were the
least bit off balance it knocked you flat. It was the most
extraordinary cannon ever seen in Africa, and it inspired more respect,
acquired me more _kudos_ than even my beard."

"So _that's_ why you wear it!" she murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing; go on."

"Just the sight of that awe-inspiring piece of ordnance took me the
length of the Congo without the least difficulty."

"Tell me about the Congo."

Apparently, at this direct and comprehensive question, there was
nothing to tell about the Congo. But adroitly she drew him on. He told
of the great river and its people, and the white men who administered
it. The subject of cannibals seemed especially to fascinate her. He had
seen living human beings issued as a sort of ration on the hoof to
native cannibal troops.

Simba returned with the other three _askaris_.

Kingozi arose from the ground and stretched himself.

"I'm sorry," said he, "I'm afraid I shall have to ask you for the chair
now."

She arose, wondering a little. He placed the chair before the waiting
line of _askaris_, and planted himself squarely in it as in a judgment
seat. He ran his eye over the men deliberately.

"You!" said he suddenly, pointing his forefinger at the man in irons.
"You have disobeyed my orders. You are no longer an _askari_. You are a
common porter, and from now on will carry a load. It is not my custom
to use _kiboko_ on _askaris_; but a common porter can eat _kiboko_, and
Mali-ya-bwana, my headman of safari, will give you twenty-five lashes.
_Bassi!_"

Mali-ya-bwana, well pleased thus early to exercise the authority of his
new office, led the man away.

Kingozi dropped his chin in his hand, a movement that pushed out his
beard in a terrifying manner. One after another of the eleven men felt
the weight of his stare. At last he spoke.

"I have heard tales of you," said he, "but I who speak know nothing
about you. You are _askaris_, soldiers with guns, and next to gun
bearers are the greatest men in the safari. Some have told me that you
are not _askaris_, that you are common porters--and not good ones--who
carry guns. I do not know. That we shall see. This is what must be done
now, and done quickly: the loads of your _memsahib_ must be brought
here, and camp made properly, according to the custom. Perhaps your men
are no longer tired: perhaps you will get the _shenzis_. That is not my
affair. You understand?"

The answer came in an eager chorus.

He ran his eye over them again.

"You," he indicated, "stand forward. Of what tribe are you?"

"Monumwezi, _bwana_."

"Your name?"

The man uttered a mouthful of gutturals.

"Again."

He repeated.

"That is not a good name for me. From now on you are--Jack."

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Do you know the customs of _askaris?_"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"H'm," Kingozi commented in English, "nobody would guess it. Then
understand this: You are headman of _askaris_. You take the orders: you
report to me--or the _memsahib_," he added, almost as an afterthought.
"To-morrow morning _fall in_, and I will look at your guns. _Bassi!_"

They filed away. Kingozi arose and returned the chair.

"Is that all you will do to them?" she demanded. "I tell you they have
insulted me; they have refused to move; they should be punished."

"That's all. They understand now what will happen. You will see: they
will not refuse again."

She appeared to struggle against a flare of her old rebellious spirit.

"I will leave it to you," she managed at last.

The squatting savages had not moved a muscle, but their shining black
eyes had not missed a single detail.



CHAPTER X


THE SULTANI

Six hours later the Leopard Woman's camp had arrived, had been pitched,
and everything was running again as usual. The new _askari_ headman,
Jack, had reported pridefully to Kingozi. The latter had nodded a
careless acknowledgment; and had referred the man to his mistress. She
had disappeared for a time, but now emerged again, bathed, freshened,
dainty in her silken tea gown, the braids of hair down her back, the
band of woven gold encircling her brow, the single strange jewel
hanging in the middle of her forehead. For a time she sat alone under
her own tree; but, as Kingozi showed no symptoms of coming to her, and
as she was bored and growing impatient, she trailed over to him, the
Nubian following with her chair. Kingozi was absorbed in establishing
points on his map. He looked up at her and nodded pleasantly, then
moved his protractor a few inches.

"Just a moment," he murmured absorbedly.

She lit a cigarette and yawned. The immediate prospect was dull.
Savages continued to drift in, to squat and stare, then to move on to
the porters' camps. There a lively bartering was going on. From some
unsuspected store each porter had drawn forth a few beads, some snuff,
a length of wire, or similar treasure; and with them was making the
best bargain he could for the delicacies of the country. The process
was noisy. Four _askaris_, with their guns, stood on guard. The shadows
were lengthening in the hills, and the heat waves had ceased to shimmer
like veils.

"That's done," said Kingozi at last.

"Thank the Lord!" she ejaculated. "This bores me. Why do we not do
something? I should like some milk, some eggs--many things. Let us
summon this king."

But Kingozi shook his head.

"That's all very well where the white man's influence reaches. But not
here. I doubt if there are three men in this people who have ever even
seen a white man. Of course they have all heard of us, and know a good
deal about us. We must stand on our dignity here. Let the _sultani_
come to us, all in his own time. Without his goodwill we cannot move a
step farther, we cannot get a pound of _potio_."

"How long will it take? I want to get on. This does not interest me. I
have seen many natives."

Kingozi smiled.

"Two days of visit. Then perhaps a week to get _potio_ and guides."

"Impossible! I could not endure it!"

"I am afraid you will have to. I know the untamed savage. He is
inclined to be friendly, always. If you hurry the process, you must
fight. That's the trouble with a big mob like yours. It is difficult to
feed so many peacefully. Even in a rich country they bring in _potio_
slowly--a cupful at a time. With the best intentions in the world you
may have to use coercion to keep from starving. And coercion means
trouble. Look at Stanley--he left hostilities everywhere, that have
lasted up to now. The people were well enough disposed when he came
among them with his six or eight hundred men. But he had to have food
and he had to have it quickly. He could not wait for slow, diplomatic
methods. He had to _take_ it. Even when you pay for a thing, that
doesn't work. The news travelled ahead of him, and the result was he
had to fight. And everybody else has had to fight ever since."

"That is interesting. I did not know that."

"A small party can negotiate. That's why I say you have too many men."

"But the time wasted!" she cried aghast.

"Time is nothing in Africa." He went on to tell her of the two
travellers in Rhodesia who came upon a river so wide that they could
but just see from one bank to the other; and so swift that rafts were
of little avail. So one man went back for a folding boat while the
other camped by the stream. Four months later the first man returned
with the boat. The "river" had dried up completely!

"They didn't mind," said Kingozi, "they thought it a huge joke."

An hour before sundown signs of activity manifested themselves from the
direction of the invisible village. A thin, high, wailing chant in
female voices came fitfully to their ears. A compact little group of
men rounded the bend and approached. Their gait was slow and stately.

"Well," remarked Kingozi, feeling for his pipe, "we are going to be
honoured by that visit from his majesty."

The Leopard Woman leaned forward and surveyed the approaching men with
some interest. They were four in number. Three were naked, their bodies
oiled until they glistened with a high polish. One of them carried a
battered old canvas steamer chair; one a fan of ostrich plumes; and one
a long gourd heavily decorated with cowrie shells. The fourth was an
impressive individual in middle life, hawkfaced, tall and spare,
carrying himself with great dignity. He wore a number of anklets and
armlets of polished wire, a broad beaded collar, heavy earrings, and a
sumptuous robe of softened goatskins embroidered with beads and cowrie
shells. As he strode his anklets clashed softly. His girt was free, and
he walked with authority. Altogether an impressive figure.

"The _sultani_ is a fine-looking man," observed Bibi-ya-chui. "I
suppose the others are slaves."

Kingozi threw a careless glance in the direction of the approaching
group.

"Not the _sultani_--some understrapper. Chief Hereditary Guardian of
the Royal Chair, or something of that sort, I dare say."

The tall man approached, smiling graciously. Kingozi vouchsafed him no
attention. Visibly impressed, the newcomer rather fussily superintended
the unfolding and placing of the chair. The slaves with the plumed fan
and the gourd stationed themselves at either side. The other two men
fell back.

Now the shrill chanting became more clearly audible. Shortly appeared a
procession. Women bearing burdens walked two by two. Armed men with
spears and shields flanked them. As they approached, it could be seen
that they were very gorgeous indeed; the women hung with strings of
cowries, bound with glittering brass and iron, bedecked with strings of
beads. To one familiar with savage peoples there could be no doubt that
these were close to the purple. Each bead, each shell, each bangle of
wire had been passed through many, many hands before it reached this
remote fastness of barbarity; and in each hand, you may be sure,
profits had remained. But the men were more impressive still. Stark
naked of every stitch of cloth or of tanned skins, oiled with an
unguent carrying a dull red stain, their heads shaved bare save for a
small crown patch from which single feathers floated, they symbolized
well the warrior stripped for the fray. A beaded broad belt supported a
short sword and the _runga_, or war club; an oval shield of buffalo
hide, brilliantly painted, hung on the left arm; a polished long-bladed
spear was carried in the right hand. And surrounding the face, as a
frame, was a queer headdress of black ostrich plumes. Every man of them
wore about his ankles hollow bangles of considerable size; and these he
clashed loudly one against the other as he walked.

It made a great uproar this--the clang of the iron, the wild wailing of
the women's voices.

Kingozi moved his chair four or five paces to the front.

"I'm sorry," he told her, "but I must ask you to stay where you are.
This is an important occasion."

He surveyed the oncoming procession with interest.

"Swagger old beggar," he observed. "His guard are well turned out. You
know those markings on the shields are a true heraldry--the patterns
mean families, and all that sort of thing."

The chanting grew louder as the procession neared. The warriors stared
fiercely straight ahead. Before Kingozi they parted to right and left,
forming an aisle leading to his chair. Down this the women came, one by
one, still singing, and deposited their burdens at the white man's
feet. There were baskets of _m'wembe_, earthen bowls of eggs, fowls,
gourds of milk, bundles of faggots and firewood, woven bags of _n'jugu_
nuts, vegetables, and two small sheep. Kingozi stared indifferently
into the distance; but as each gift was added to the others he reached
forward to touch it as a sign of acceptance. Their burdens deposited,
they took their places in front of the ranks of the warriors.

"Am I supposed to speak?" asked the Leopard Woman.

"Surely."

"Shouldn't we order out our _askaris_ with their guns to make the
parade?"

"No. We could not hope to equal this show, possibly. Our lay is to do
the supercilious indifferent." He turned to his attentive satellite.
"Cazi Moto," he ordered, "tell our people, quietly, to go back to their
camps. They must not stand and stare at these _shenzis_. And tell
M'pishi to make large _balauris_ of coffee, and put in plenty of sugar."

Cazi Moto grinned understandingly, and glided away. Shortly the safari
men could be seen sauntering unconcernedly back to their little fires.

Suddenly the warriors cried out in a loud voice, and raised their right
arms and spears rigidly above their heads. A tall, heavily built man
appeared around the bend. He was followed by two young women, who
flanked him by a pace or so to the rear. They were so laden with savage
riches as to be almost concealed beneath the strings of cowrie shells
and bands of beads. In contrast the man wore only a long black cotton
blanket draped to leave one shoulder and arm bare. Not an earring, not
a bangle, not even a finger ring or a bead strap relieved the sombre
simplicity of the black robe and the dark skin.

"But this man is an artist!" murmured Bibi-ya-chui. "He understands
effect! This is stage managed!"

The _sultani_ approached without haste. He stopped squarely before
Kingozi's chair. The latter did not rise. The two men stared into each
other's eyes for a full minute, without embarrassment, without contest,
without defiance. Then the black man spoke.

"_Jambo, bwana_," he rumbled in a deep voice.

"_Jambo, sultani_" replied Kingozi calmly.

They shook hands.

With regal deliberation the visitor arranged his robes and sat down in
the battered old canvas chair. A silence that lasted nearly five
minutes ensued.

"I thank you, _sultani_, for the help your men have given. I thank you
for the houses. I thank you for these gifts."

The _sultani_ waved his hand magnificently.

"It is not the custom of white men to give gifts until their
departure," continued Kingozi, "but this knife is yours to make
friendship."

He handed over a knife, of Swedish manufacture, the blade of which
disappeared into the handle in a most curious fashion. The _sultani's_
eyes lit up with an almost childish delight, but his countenance showed
no emotion. He passed the knife on to the dignitary who stood behind
his chair.

"This," said Kingozi, taking one of the steaming _balauris_ from Cazi
Moto, "is the white man's _tembo_."

The _sultani_ tasted doubtfully. He was pleased. He gave back the
_balauri_ at last with a final smack of the lips.

"Good!" said he.

Another full five minutes of silence ensued. Then the _sultani_ arose.
He cast a glance about him, his eye, avid with curiosity, held rigidly
in restraint. It rested on the Leopard Woman.

"I see you have one of your women with you," he remarked.

He turned, without further ceremony, and stalked off, followed at a few
paces by the two richly ornamented girls. The warriors again raised
their spears aloft, holding them thus until their lord had rounded the
cliff. Then, the women in precedence, they marched away. Kingozi puffed
his pipe indifferently.

The Leopard Woman was visibly impatient, visibly roused.

"Are you letting him go?" she demanded. "Do not you inquire the
country? Do not you ask for _potio_, for guides?"

"Not to-day," replied Kingozi. He turned deliberately to face her, his
eyes serious. "Please realize once for all that we live here only by
force of _prestige_. My only chance of getting on, our only chance of
safety rests on my ability to impress this man with the idea that I am
a bigger lord than he. And, remember, I have lived in savage Africa for
fifteen years, and I know what I am doing. This is very serious. You
must not interfere; and you must not suggest."

The Leopard Woman's eyes glittered dangerously, but she controlled
herself.

"You talk like a sultan yourself," she protested at length. "You should
not use that tone to me."

Kingozi brushed the point aside with a large gesture.

"I will play the game of courtesy with you, yes," said he, "but only
when it does not interfere with serious things. In this matter there
must be no indefiniteness, no chance for misunderstanding. Politeness,
between the sexes, means both. I will repeat: in this you must leave me
free hand no interference, no suggestion."

"And if I disobey your commands?" she challenged, with an emphasis on
the last word.

He surveyed her sombrely.

"I should take measures," he replied finally.

"You are not my master: you are not the master of my men!"

Kingozi permitted himself a slight smile.

"If you believe that last statement, just try to give an order to your
men counter to an order of mine. You would see. And of course in case
of a real crisis I should have to make myself master of you, if you
seemed likely to be troublesome."

"I would kill you! I warn you; I go always armed!"

From the folds of her silken robe she produced a small automatic pistol
which she displayed. Kingozi glanced at it indifferently.

"In that case you would have to kill yourself, too; and then it would
not matter to either of us."

"I find you insufferable!" she cried, getting to her feet.

She moved away in the direction of her camp. The faithful Nubian folded
her chair and followed. At the doorway of her tent she looked back.
Kingozi, his black pipe in his mouth, was bending absorbedly over his
map.



CHAPTER XI


THE IVORY STOCKADE

The Leopard Woman, emerging from her tent shortly after sunup the next
morning, saw across the opening her own _askaris_ being drilled by
Kingozi, Simba, and Cazi Moto. Evidently the instruction was in rifle
fire. Two were getting individual treatment: Simba and Cazi Moto were
putting them through a careful course in aiming and pulling the trigger
on empty guns. Kingozi sat on a chop box in the shade, gripping his
eternal pipe, and issuing curt orders and criticisms to the baker's
dozen, before him. When he saw the Leopard Woman he arose and strolled
in her direction.

"That's the worst lot of so-called _askaris_ I ever saw," he remarked.
"Where did you pick them up?"

His manner was entirely unconscious of any discussions or dissentions.
He looked into her eyes and smiled genially.

"I took them from the recruiting man, as they came," she replied. As
always the deeps of her eyes were enigmatical; but the surfaces, at
least, of her mood answered his.

"They know how to load a gun, and that is about all. I don't believe
one of them ever fired a weapon before this trip. They haven't the most
rudimentary ideas of aiming. Don't even know what sights are for. My
boys will soon whip them into some sort of shape. I came over to see
how much ammunition you have for their muskets. They really ought to
fire a few rounds--after a week of aiming and snapping. Then they'll be
of some use. Not much, though."

"I really don't know," she answered his question. "Chaké will look and
see."

"Send him over to report when he finds out," requested Kingozi,
preparing to return.

"What move does your wisdom contemplate to-day?" she called after him.

"Oh, return his majesty's visit this afternoon. Like to go?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I'll let you know when. And if you go, you must be content to
stand two or three yards behind me, and to say nothing."

She flushed, but answered steadily enough:

"I'll remember."

It was nearing sundown when Kingozi emerged from his tent and gave the
signal to move. He had for the first time strapped on a heavy revolver;
his glasses hung from his neck; his sleeve was turned back to show his
wrist watch; and, again for the first time, he had assumed a
military-looking tunic. He carried his double rifle.

"Got on everything I own," he grinned.

Simba and Cazi Moto waited near. From the mysterious sources every
native African seems to possess they had produced new hats and various
trinkets. Their khakis had been fresh washed; so they looked neat and
trim.

The Leopard Woman wore still one of her silken negligées, and the jewel
on her forehead; but her hair had been piled high on her head. Kingozi
surveyed her with some particularity. She noted the fact. Her
satisfaction would have diminished could she have read his mind. He was
thinking that her appearance was sufficiently barbaric to impress a
barbaric king.

They rounded the point of cliffs, and the village lay before them. It
rambled up the side of the mountain, hundreds of beehive houses perched
and clinging, with paths from one to the other. The approach was
through a narrow straight lane of thorn and aloes, so thick and so
spiky that no living thing bigger than a mouse could have forced its
way through the walls. The end of this vista was a heavy palisade of
timbers through which a door led into a circular enclosure ten feet in
diameter, on the other side of which another door opened into the
village. Above each of these doors massive timbers were suspended ready
to fall at the cut of a sword. Within the little enclosure, or double
gate, squatted a man before a great drum.

"They're pretty well fixed here," observed Kingozi critically. "Nobody
can get at them except down that lane. The mountains are impassable
because of the thorn. They must use arrows."

"Why?" asked the Leopard Woman.

"The form of their defence. They shoot between the logs of the palisade
down the narrow lane. If they fought only with spears, the lane would
be shorter, and it would be defended on the flank."

"Why don't they defend it on the flank also, even with arrows?" asked
the Leopard Woman shrewdly.

"'It is not the custom,'" wearily quoted Kingozi in the vernacular.
"Don't ask me _why_ a savage does things. I only know he does."

Their conversation was drowned by the sound of the drum.

The guardian did not beat it, but rubbed the head rapidly with the
stick, modifying the pressure scientifically until the vibrations had
well started. It roared hollowly, like some great bull.

The visitors passed through the defensive anteroom and entered the
village enclosure.

On the flat below the hills, heretofore invisible, stood a half-dozen
large houses. At the end, where the cañon began to narrow, a fence
gleamed dazzlingly white. From this distance the four-foot posts,
planted in proximity like a stockade, looked to have been whitewashed.

People were appearing everywhere. The crags and points of the hills
were filling with bold black figures silhouetted against the sky. Men,
women, children, dogs sprang up, from the soil apparently. As though by
magic the flat open space became animated. Plumed heads appeared above
the white fence in the distance, where, undoubtedly, their owners had
been loafing in the shade. Another drum began to roar somewhere, and
with it the echoes began to arouse themselves in the hills.

Paying no attention to any of this interesting confusion Kingozi
sauntered straight ahead. At his command the Leopard Woman had dropped
a pace to the rear.

"The royal palace is behind the white fence," he volunteered over his
shoulder.

They approached the sacred precincts. But while yet fifty yards
distant, Kingozi stopped with an exclamation. He turned to the Leopard
Woman, and for the first time she saw on his face and in his eyes a
genuine and unconcealed excitement.

"My Lord!" he cried to her, "saw ever any man the likes of that!"

The white posts of which the fence was made were elephants' tusks!

"Kingdom coming, what a sight!" murmured Kingozi. "Why, there are
hundreds and hundreds of them--and the smallest worth not less than
fifty pounds!"

Her eyes answered him whole-heartedly, for her imagination was afire.

"What magnificence!" she replied. "The thought is great--a palace of
ivory! This is kingly!"

But the light had died in Kingozi's eyes. "Won't do!" he muttered to
her. "Compose your face. Come."

Without another glance at the magnificent tusks he marched on through
the open gate.

Other drums, many drums, were roaring all about. The cliff of the cañon
was filled with sound that buffeted back and forth until it seemed that
it must rise above the hills and overflow the world. A chattering and
hurrying of people could be heard as an undertone.

The small enclosure was occupied by a dozen of the plumed warriors who
had now snatched up emblazoned shield and polished spear; and stood
rigidly at attention. Women of all ages crouched and squatted against
the fence and the sides of a large wattle and thatch building.

Kingozi walked deliberately about, looking with detached interest at
the various people and objects the corral contained. He had very much
the air of a man sauntering idly about a museum, with all the time in
the world on his hands, and nowhere much to go. Simba and Cazi Moto
remained near the gate. The Leopard Woman, not knowing what else to do,
trailed after him.

This continued for some time. At last her impatience overcame her.

"I suppose I may talk," said she resentfully. "How much longer must
this go on? Why do not you make your call and have it over?"

Kingozi laughed.

"You do not know this game. Inside old Stick-in-the mud is waiting in
all his grandeur. He expects me to go in to him. I am going to wait
until he comes out to me. _Prestige_ again."

Apparently without a care in the world, he continued his stroll. Small
naked children ventured from hiding-places and stared. To some of these
Kingozi spoke pleasantly with the immediate effect of causing them to
scuttle back to cover. He examined minutely the tusks comprising the
stockade. They had been arranged somewhat according to size, with the
curve outward. Kingozi spent some time estimating them.

"Fortune here for some one," he observed.

At the end of an hour the _sultani_ gave up the contest and appeared,
smiling, unconcerned. The men greeted each other, exchanged a few
words. Women emerged from the house carrying _tembo_ in gourd bottles,
and smaller half-gourds from which to drink it. Their eyes were large
with curiosity as to this man and woman of a new species. Kingozi
touched his lips to the _tembo_. They exchanged a few words, and shook
hands again. Then Kingozi turned away, and, followed by the Leopard
Woman and his two men, walked out through the ivory gateway, down
through the open flat, under the fortified portal, and so down the lane
of spiky walls. The drums roared louder and louder. Warriors in spear,
shield, and plumed headdress stood rigid as they passed. People by the
hundreds gazed at them openly, peered at them from behind doors, or
looked down on them from the crags above. They rounded the corner of
the cliff. Before them lay their own quiet peaceful camp. Only the
voice of the drums bellowed as though behind them in the cleft of the
hills some great and savage beast lay hid.

[Illustration: "Their eyes were large with curiosity as to this man and
woman of a new species.... Kingozi touched his lips to the _tembo_"]

"That seemed to be all right," suggested the Leopard Woman, ranging
alongside again.

"They didn't spear us, if that's what you mean. We can tell more about
it to-morrow."

"What will happen to-morrow?"

"Yesterday and to-day finished the 'side' and ceremony. If to-morrow
old Stick-in-the-mud drifts around quite on his own, like any other
_shenzi_, and if the women come into camp freely, why then we're all
right."

"And otherwise?"

"Well, if the _sultani_ stays away, and if you don't see any women at
all, and if the men are painted and carry their shields--they will
always carry their spears--that won't be so favourable." "In which case
we fight?"

"No: I'll alter my diplomacy. There's a vast difference between mere
unfriendliness and hostility. I think I can handle the former all
right. I wish I knew a little more of their language. Swahili hardly
fills the bill. I'll see what I can do with it in the next few days."

"You cannot learn a language in a few days!" she objected incredulously.

"Of course not. But I seem to know the general root idea of this
patter. It isn't unlike the N'gruimi--same root likely--a bastard
combination of Bantu-Masai stock."

She looked at him.

"You know," she told him slowly, "I am beginning to believe you
_savant_. You make not much of it, but your knowledge of natives is
extraordinary. You better than any other man know these people--their
minds--how to influence them."

"I have a little knowledge of how to go at them, that's true. That's
about the only claim I have to being _savant_, as you call it. My book
knowledge and fact knowledge is equalled by many and exceeded by a
great many more. But mere knowledge of facts doesn't get far in
practice," he laughed. "Lord, these scientists! Helpless as children!"
He sobered again. "There's one man has the science and the psychology
both. He's a wonderful person. He knows the native objectively as I
never will; and subjectively as well if not better. It is a rare
combination. He's 'way over west of us somewhere now--in the Congo
headwaters--a Bavarian, name Winkleman."

Had Kingozi been looking at her he would have seen the Leopard Woman's
frame stiffen at the mention of this name. For a moment she said
nothing.

"I know the name--he is great scientist," she managed to say.

"He is more than a scientist; he is a great humanist. No man has more
insight, more sympathetic insight into the native mind. A man of vast
influence."

They had reached Kingozi's camp under the great tree. He began to
unbuckle his equipment.

"I'll just lay all this gorgeousness aside," said he apologetically.

But the Leopard Woman did not proceed to her own camp.

"I am interested," said she. "This Winkleman--he has vast influence?
More than yourself?"

"That is hard to say," laughed Kingozi. "I should suppose so."

She caught at a hint of reluctant pride in his voice.

"Let us suppose," said she. "Let us suppose that you wanted one thing
of natives, and Winkleman wanted another thing. Which would succeed?"

"Neither. We'd both be speared," replied Kingozi promptly. "Positive
and negative poles, and all that sort of thing."

She puzzled over this a moment, trying to cast her question in a new
form.

"But suppose this: suppose Winkleman had obtained his wish. Could you
overcome his influence and what-you-call substitute your own?"

"No more than he could substitute his were the cases reversed. I've
confidence enough in myself and knowledge enough of Winkleman to
guarantee that."

"So it would depend on who got there first?" she persisted; "that is
your opinion?"

"Why, yes. But what does it matter?"

"It amuses me to get knowledge. I admire your handle of these people.
You must be patient and explain. It is all new to me, although I
thought I had much experience."

She arose.

"I am tired now. I go to the _siesta_."

Kingozi stared after her retreating figure. The direct form of her
questions had stirred again suspicions that had become vague.

"What's she driving at?" he asked the uncomprehending Simba in English.
He considered the question for some moments. "Don't even know her name
or nationality," he confessed to himself after a while. "She's a queer
one. I suppose I'll have to give her a man or so to help her back
across the Thirst." He pondered again, "I might take her _askaris_.
Country will feed them now. I'll have a business talk with her."

As the tone of voice sounded final to Simba he ventured his usual reply.

"Yes, suh!" said Simba.



CHAPTER XII


THE PILOCARPIN

The _sultani_ duly appeared the next morning; women brought in firewood
and products of the country to trade; all was well. The entire day, and
the succeeding days for over a week, Kingozi sat under his big tree,
smoking his black pipe. The _sultani_ sat beside him. For long periods
at a time nothing at all was said. Then for equally long periods a
lively conversation went on, through an interpreter mostly, though
occasionally the _sultani_ launched into his bastard Swahili or Kingozi
ventured a few words in the new tongue. Once in a while some intimate
would saunter into view, and would be summoned by his king. Then
Kingozi patiently did the following things:

(a) He performed disappearing tricks with a rupee or other small
object; causing it to vanish, and then plucking it from unexpected
places.

(b) With a pair of scissors--which were magic aplenty in themselves--he
cut a folded paper in such a manner that when unfolded a row of paper
dolls was disclosed. This was a very successful trick. The pleased
warriors dandled them up and down delightedly in an _n'goma_.

(c) He opened and shut an opera hat. The ordinary "plug hat" was known
to these people, but not an opera hat.

(d) He allowed them to look through his prism glasses.

(e) On rare occasions he lit a match.

This vaudeville entertainment was always a huge success. The newcomers
squatted around the two chairs, and the conversation continued.

Bibi-ya-chui occasionally stood near and listened. The subjects were
trivial in themselves, and repeated endlessly.

Ten minutes of this bored her to the point of extinction. She could not
understand how Kingozi managed to survive ten hours day after day. Only
once was he absent from his post, and then for only a few hours. He
went out accompanied by Simba and a dozen _shenzis_, and shot a
wildebeeste. The tail of this--an object much prized as a fly whisk--he
presented to his majesty. All the rest of the time he talked and
listened.

"It is such childish nonsense!" the Leopard Woman expostulated. "How
can you do it?"

"Goes with the job. It's a thing you must learn to do if you would get
on in this business."

And once more she seemed to catch a glimpse of the infinity of savage
Africa, which has been the same for uncounted ages, impersonal, without
history, without the values of time!

But had she known it, Kingozi was getting what he required. Information
came to him a word now, a word then; promises came to him in single
phrases lost in empty gossip. He collected what he wanted grain by
grain from bushels of chaff. The whole sum of his new knowledge could
have been expressed in a paragraph, took him a week to get, but was
just what he wanted. If he had asked categorical questions, he would
have received lies. If he had attempted to hurry matters, he would have
got nothing at all.

About sundown the _sultani_ would depart, followed shortly by the last
straggler of his people. The succeeding hours were clear of _shenzis_,
for either the custom of the country or the presence of strangers
seemed to demand an _n'goma_ every evening. In the night stillness
sounds carried readily. The drums, no longer rubbed but beaten in
rhythm; the shrill wailing chants of women; the stamp and shuffle of
feet; the cadenced clapping of hands rose and fell according to the
fervour of the dance. The throb of these sounds was as a background to
the evening--fierce, passionate, barbaric.

After the departure of the _sultani_ Kingozi took a bath and changed
his clothes. The necessity for this was more mental than physical. Then
he relaxed luxuriously. It was then that he resumed his relations with
the Leopard Woman, and that they discussed matters of more or less
importance to both.

The first evening they talked of the wonder of the ivory stockade.
Kingozi had not yet had an opportunity to find out whence the tusks had
come, whether the elephants had been killed in this vicinity, or
whether the ivory had been traded from the Congo.

"It is very valuable," he said. "I must find out whether old
Stick-in-the-mud knows what they are worth, or whether he can be traded
out of them on any reasonable basis."

"You will not be going farther," she suggested one evening, apropos of
nothing.

"Farther? Why not?" he asked rather blankly.

"You told me you were an ivory hunter," she pointed out.

"Ah--yes. But I have hardly the goods to trade--come back later," he
stumbled, for once caught off his guard. "I'm really looking for new
hunting grounds."

She did not pursue the subject; but the enigmatic smile lurked for a
moment in the depths of her eyes.

Every night after supper Kingozi caused his medicine chest to be
brought out and opened, and for a half-hour he doctored the sick. On
this subject he manifested an approach to enthusiasm.

"I know I can't doctor them all," he answered her objection, "and that
it's foolish to pick out one here and there; but it interests me. I
told you I was a medical student by training." He fingered over the
square bottles, each in its socket. "This is not the usual safari drug
list," he said. "I like to take these queer cases and see what I can do
with them. I may learn something; at any rate, it interests me. McCloud
at Nairobi fitted me out; and told me what it would be valuable to
observe."

She appeared interested, and shortly he became enough convinced of this
to show and explain each drug separately. The quinine he carried in the
hydrochlorate instead of the sulphate, and he waxed eloquent telling
her why. Crystals of iodine as opposed to permanganate of potash for
antiseptic he discussed. From that he branched into antisepsis as
opposed to asepsis as a practical method in the field.

"Theory has nothing to do with it," said he. "It's a matter of which
will _work!_"

It was all technical; but it interested her for the simple reason that
Kingozi was really enthusiastic. True enthusiasm, without pose or
self-consciousness, invariably arouses interest.

"Now here's something you'll never see in another safari kit," said he,
holding up one of the square bottles filled with small white crystals,
"and that wouldn't be found in this one except for an accident. It's
pilocarpin."

"What is pilocarpin?" she asked, making a difficulty of the word.

"It is really a sort of eye dope," he explained. "You know atropin--the
stuff an oculist uses in your eyes when he wants to examine
them--leaves your vision blurred for a day or so."

"Yes, I know that."

"The effect of atropin is to expand the pupil. Pilocarpin is just the
opposite--it contracts the pupil."

"What need could you possibly have of that?"

"There's the joke: I haven't. But when I was outfitting I could not get
near enough phenacetin. I suppose you know that we use phenacetin to
induce sweating as first treatment of fever."

"I am not entirely ignorant. I can treat fevers, of course."

"Well, I took all they could spare. Then McCloud suggested pilocarpin.
Though it is really an eye drug, to be used externally, it also has an
effect internally to induce sweating. So that's why I have it."

She was examining the bottles.

"But you have atropin also. Why is that?"

"There's a good deal of ophthalmia or trachoma floating around some
native districts. I thought I might experiment."

"And this"--she picked up a third bottle--"ah, yes, morphia. But how
much alike they all are."

"In appearance, yes; in effect most radically and fatally
different--like people," smiled Kingozi.

But though Kingozi's scientific interest was keen in certain
directions--as ethnology, drugs, and zoology--it had totally blind
spots. Thus the Leopard Woman kept invariably on her table the bowl of
fresh flowers; and she manifested an unfailing liking to investigate
such strange shrubs, trees, flowers, or nondescript growths as
flourished thereabouts.

"Do you know how one names these?" she asked him concerning certain
strange blooms.

"I know nothing whatever about vegetables," he replied with indifferent
scorn.

Several times after that, forgetting, she proffered the same question
and received exactly the same reply. Finally it became a joke to her.
Slyly, at sufficient intervals so that he should not become conscious
of the repetition, she took delight in eliciting this response, always
the same, always delivered with the same detached scorn:

"I know nothing whatever about vegetables."

In the meantime Simba, with great enthusiasm, continued his drill of
the _askaris_. Kingozi gave them an hour early in the day. They
developed rapidly from wild trigger yanking. An allowance of two
cartridges apiece proved them no great marksmen, but at least steady on
discharge.

The "business conversation" Kingozi projected with the Leopard Woman
did not take place until late in the week. By that time he had pieced
together considerable information, as follows:

The mountain ranges at their backs possessed three practicable routes.
Beyond the ranges were grass plains with much game. Water could be had
in certain known places. No people dwell on these plains. This was
because of the tsetse fly that made it impossible to keep domestic
cattle. Far--very far--perhaps a month, who knows, is the country of
the _sultani_ M'tela. This is a very great _sultani_--very great
indeed--a _sultani_ whose spears are like the leaves of grass. His
people are fierce, like the Masai, like the people of Lobengula, and
make war their trade. His people are known as the Kabilagani. The way
through the mountains is known; guides can be had. The way across the
plains is known; but for guides one must find representatives of a
little scattered plains tribe. That can be done. _Potio_ for two weeks
can be had--and so on.

Kingozi was particularly interested in these Kabilaganis: and pressed
for as much information as he could. Strangely enough he did not
mention the ivory stockade, nor did he attempt either to trade or to
determine whether or not the _sultani_ knew its value.

At the end of eight days he knew what he wished to know.

"I shall leave in two days," he told the Leopard Woman. "I should
suggest that you go to-morrow. I will send Simba with you to show you
the water-hole in the kopje. After that you know the country for
yourself."

"But I am not going back!" she cried. "I am going on."

"That is impossible." He went on to explain to her what he had learned
of the country ahead: omitting, however, all reference to M'tela and
his warrior nation. "More plains: more game. That's all. You have more
of that than you can use back where we came from. And with every step
you are farther away. I am going on--very far. I may not come back at
all."

She listened to all his arguments, but shook her head obstinately at
their end.

"Your plan does not please me," said she. "I will go and see these
plains for myself."

This was final, and Kingozi at last came to see it so.

"I was going to suggest that I relieve you of your _askaris_," said he,
"but if you persist in this foolish and aimless plan, you will need
them for yourself."

"Cannot we go together, at least for a distance?"

But to this he was much opposed.

"I shall be travelling faster than your cumbersome safari," he
objected. "I could not delay."

And in this decision he seemed as firm as had she in her intention to
proceed. After a light reconnaissance, so to speak, of argument,
appeal, and charm, she gave over trying to persuade him, and fell back
on her usual lazily indifferent attitude. Kingozi went ahead with his
preparations, laying in _potio_, examining kits, preparing in every way
his compact little caravan for the long journey before it. Then
something happened. He changed his mind and decided to combine safaris
with the Leopard Woman.



CHAPTER XIII


THE TROPIC MOON

For several nights the plain below the plateau had been a sea of
moonlight, white, ethereal, fragile as spun glass. Each evening the
shadow of the mountains had shortened, drawing close under the skirts
of the hills. In stately orderly progression the quality of the night
world was changing. The heavy brooding darkness was being transformed
to a fairy delicacy of light.

And the life of the world seemed to feel this change, to be stirring,
at first feebly, then with growing strength. The ebb was passed; the
tides were rising to the brim. Each night the throb of the drums seemed
to beat more passionately, the rhythm to become quicker, wilder: the
wailing chants of the women rose in sudden gusts of frenzy. Dark
figures stole about in shadows; so that Kingozi, becoming anxious, gave
especial instructions, and delegated trusty men to see that they were
obeyed.

"If our men get to fooling with their women, they'll spear the lot of
us!" he explained.

And at last, like a queen whose coming has been prepared, a queen in
whose anticipation life had quickened, the moon herself rose serenely
above the ranges.

Immediately the familiar objects changed; the familiar shadows
vanished. The world became a different world, full of enchantment, of
soft-singing birds, of chirping insects, of romance and recollections
of past years, of longings and the spells of barbaric Africa.

Kingozi sat with the Leopard Woman "talking business" when this miracle
took place. When the great rim of the moon materialized at the
mountain's rim, he abruptly fell silent. The spell had him, as indeed
it had all living things. From the village the drums pulsed more
wildly, shoutings of men commenced to mingle with the voices of the
women; a confused clashing sound began to be heard. In camp the fires
appeared suddenly to pale. A vague uneasiness swept the squatting men.
Their voices fell: they exchanged whispered monosyllables, dropping
their voices, they knew not why.

The Leopard Woman arose and glided to the edge of the tree's shadow,
where she stood gazing upward at the moon. Kingozi watched her. He, old
and seasoned traveller as he was, had indeed fallen under the spell. He
did not consider it extraordinary, nor did it either embarrass or stir
his senses, that standing as she did before the moon and the little
fires her body showed in clear silhouette through her silken robe.
Apparently this was her only garment. It made a pale nimbus about her.
She seemed to the vague remnant of Kingozi's thinking perceptions like
a priestess--her slim, beautiful form erect, her small head bound with
the golden fillet from which, he knew, hung the jewel on her forehead.
As though meeting this thought she raised both arms toward the moon,
standing thus for a moment in the conventional attitude of invocation.
Then she dropped her arms, and came back to Kingozi's side.

Again it was like magic, the sudden blotting out of the slim human
figure, the substitution of the draped form as she moved from the light
into the shadow. But on Kingozi's retina remained the vision of her as
she was. He shifted, caught his breath.

As she came near him his hand closed over hers, bringing her to a halt.
She did not resist, but stood looking down at him waiting. He struggled
for an appearance of calm.

"Who are you?" he asked unsteadily. "You have never told me."

"You have named me--Bibi-ya-chui--the Woman of the Leopards."

She was smiling faintly, looking down at him through half-closed eyes.

"But who are you? You are not English."

"My name: you have given it. Let that suffice. Me--I am Hungarian." She
stooped ever so slightly and touched the upstanding mop of his wavy
hair. "What does it matter else?" she asked softly.

She was leaning: the moonlight came through the branches where she
leaned; the little fires--again the silken robes became a nimbus--and
the drums of the _n'goma_, the drums seemed to be throbbing in his
veins----

He leaped to his feet and seized her savagely by the shoulders. The
soft silk slipped under his fingers. She threw back her head, looking
at him steadily. Her eyes glowed deep, and the jewel on her forehead.
Kingozi was panting.

"You are wonderful--maddening!" he muttered. This sudden unexpected
emotion swept him away, as a pond, quiet behind the dam, becomes a
flood.

"I knew we could be such friends!" she said.

And then one of those tiny incidents happened that so often change the
course of greater events. In the darkness that still lingered the other
side of the camp an _askari_ challenged sharply some lurking wanderer.
According to his recent teaching he used the official word.

"_Samama!_" said he.

The metallic rattle of his musket and the brief official challenge
awakened Kingozi as would a dash of cold water. His instinct to crush
to his breast this alluring, fascinating, willing goddess of the moon
was as strong as ever. But across that instinct lay the shadow of a
former day. A clear picture flashed before his mind. He saw a man in
the uniform of a high office, and heard that man's words of instruction
to himself. The words had concluded with a few informal phrases of
trust and confidence. While these were being spoken, outside a sentry
had challenged: "_Samama!_" and as he moved, the metal of his
accoutrements had clicked.

With a wrench Kingozi turned, dropping her shoulders. He deliberately
ran away. At the edge of his own camp he looked back. She was still
standing as he had left her. The moonlight, striking through the
opening in the branches, fell across her. At this distance she was
merely a white figure; but Kingozi saw her again as she had stood in
invocation to the moon. As though she had only awaited his turning, she
raised her hand in grave salutation and disappeared.

Kingozi was too restless, too stirred, to sit still. After a vain
attempt to smoke a quiet and ruminative pipe he arose and began to
wander about. The men looked up at him furtively from their little
fires where perpetually meat roasted. He strode on through the camp.
His feet bore him to the narrow lane leading to the village. Down the
vista he saw flames leaping, and figures leaping wildly, too, and the
drums beat against his temples. He turned back seeking quiet, and so on
through camp again, and past the Leopard Woman's tent. His mind was in
a turmoil. No perception reached him of outside things--once the
disturbance of human creatures was past. His feet led him unconsciously.

It was the old struggle. He desired this woman mightily. That he had
been totally indifferent to her before argued nothing. He had been
suddenly awakened: and he was in the prime of life. But the very
strength of his desire warned him. If he had really been on a hunt for
ivory--well--he wrenched his mind savagely from even a contemplation of
possibilities. Still, it would be a very sweet relation in a lonely
life--a women of this quality, this desirability, this understanding,
able to travel the wilderness of Africa, eager for the life, young,
beautiful, tingling with vitality. In spite of himself Kingozi played
with the thought. The fever was in his brain, the magic of the tropic
moon was flooding his soul.

Some warning instinct brought him back to the world about him. His
steps had taken him down the cañon trail. He stood at the edge of the
open plain.

Facing him and not twenty yards distant stood a lion.

The sight cleared Kingozi's brain of all its vapours. For the first
time he realized clearly what he had done. He, a man whose continued
existence in this dangerous country had depended on his unfailing
readiness, his ever-present alertness and presence of mind, had
committed two of the cardinal sins. In savage Africa no man must at any
time stir a foot into the veldt or jungle unarmed; in savage Africa no
man must go at night fifty feet from a fire without a torch or lantern.

By day a lion is usually harmless unless annoyed. Game herds manifest
no alarm at his presence, merely opening through their ranks a lane for
his indifferent passing. But at night he asserts his dominion.

Kingozi realized his deadly peril. The beast bulked huge and black--a
wild lion is a third larger than his menagerie relative--looking as big
as a zebra against the moonlight. His eyes glowed steadily as he
contemplated this interloper in his domain. After a moment he sank
prone, extending his head. The next move, Kingozi knew, would be the
flail-like thrash of the long tail, followed immediately by the rush.

Nothing was to be done. The immediate surroundings were bare of trees,
and in any case the lightning charge of the beast would have caught his
victim unless the branches had happened to be fairly overhead.

The glowing eyes lowered. A rasping gurgling began deep in the animal's
throat, rising and falling in tone with the inhaling and exhaling of
the breath. This increased in volume. It became terrifying. The long
tail stiffened, whacked first to one side, then to the other. The
moment was at hand.

Kingozi stood erect, his hands clenched, every muscle taut. All his
senses were sharpened. He heard the voices of the veldt, near and far,
and all the little sounds that were underneath them. His vision seemed
to pierce the darkness of the shadows, so that he made out the details
of the lion's mane, and even the muscles stiffening beneath the skin.

And then at the last moment a kongoni, panic stricken, running blind,
its nose up, broke through the thin bush to the left and dashed across
the trail directly between the man and the lion.

African animals are subject to these strange, blind panics, especially
at night. The individual so affected appears to lose all sense of its
surroundings. It has been known actually to bump into and knock down
men in plain and open sight. What had so terrified the kongoni it would
be impossible to say. Perhaps a stray breeze had wafted the scent of
this very lion; perhaps some other unseen danger actually threatened,
or perhaps the poor beast merely awakened from the horror of a too
vivid dream.

The diversion occurred at the moment of the lion's greatest tension.
His body was poised for the attack, as a bow is bent to drive forth the
arrow. Probably without conscious thought on his part, instinctively,
he changed his objective. The huge body sprang; but instead of the man
the kongoni was struck down!

Kingozi stooped low and ran hard to the left. When at a safe distance
he straightened his back, and set his footsteps rapidly campward.

The incident had thoroughly awakened him. His brain was working clearly
now, and under forced draught. The magic of moonlight had lost its
power. Habits of years reasserted themselves. His usual iron common
sense regained its ascendency; though, strangely enough, there
persisted in his mind a mystic feeling for the symbolism of this missed
danger.

"Settles it!" he said, in his usual fashion of talking aloud. "I'm on a
job, and I must do it. Came near being a messy ass!"

He saw plainly enough that a mission such as his had no place in it for
women--even such women as Bibi-ya-chui. She must go back--or stay
here--didn't matter much which. The call of duty sounded very clear. By
the time he had reached the level of the upper plateau his mind was
fully made up. As far as he was concerned the Leopard Woman had
definitely lost all chance of going alone.

The frosted moonlight still lay across the world. It meant nothing but
illumination to Kingozi. By its light he discerned a paper lying
against a bush; and since paper of any sort is scarce, he picked it up.

At camp he lighted his lantern and spread out his find on the table. It
proved to be a map.

A glance proved to Kingozi that it was not his property. He remembered
a sudden wind squall early in the afternoon. Evidently it had swept the
Leopard Woman's table.

The map was in manuscript, very well drawn, and the text was German.
From long habit Kingozi glanced first at the scale of miles, then
raised his eyes to determine what country was represented. After a
moment he arose, took his lantern into his tent, and there spread his
find on his cot.

For it was a map of this very locality!

Kingozi examined it with great attention, finally getting out for
comparison his own sketch maps. The German map was a more finished
product; otherwise they were practically the same. Kingozi searched for
and found records of the various waters along his back track. Each was
annotated in ink in a language strange to him--probably Hungarian, he
reflected. At the dry _donga_ where he had overtaken and rescued the
Leopard Woman's water-starved safari he found the legend _wasser_ also.

"Explorations for this map made after the rains," he concluded.

Here the Leopard Woman had written the German word _nein!_ underscored
several times.

So far Kingozi's sketches and the German map were the same. But the
German map furnished all details for some distance in advance. This
village was indicated, and the mountains, and plains beyond. The three
practical routes were plotted by means of red lines. These lines
converged at the far side of the ranges, united in one, and proceeded
out across the plains. Kingozi counted days' journeys by the indicated
water-holes up to eleven. Then the map ceased; but an arrow at the end
of the red line was explained by a compass bearing, and the name
M'tela. And, as far as Kingozi could see, the sole purport of the whole
affair was not topography but a route to the country of M'tela!

Here was a facer! As far as any one knew, the country he had just
traversed was unexplored. Yet here was a good detailed map of just that
route. Furthermore, a copy was in the hands of this woman who claimed
she was out for sport merely, and had no knowledge of the country.
Yes--she had made just that statement. Of course she might be out
merely for adventure, just as she said. If she were of prominence and
influence, she might easily enough have obtained a copy of a private
map. But then why did she pretend ignorance? She seemed never to have
heard of the name of M'tela; yet this map's sole reason for being was
that it indicated at least the beginning of a route to M'tela's country.

Could she be on the same errand as himself?

That sounded fantastic. Kingozi reviewed the circumstances. M'tela was
a formidable myth, gradually taking shape as a reality. He was reported
as a mighty chief of distant borders. Tales of ten thousand spears
drifted back to official attention. Allowing the usual discount, M'tela
still loomed as a powerful figure. Nobody had paid very much attention
to him until this time, but now his distant border had become
important. Through it a new road from the north was projected. The
following year the route was to be explored. The friendship of M'tela
and his umpty-thousand spears became important. His hostility could
cause endless trouble and delay. Kingozi's present job was to lay the
foundations for this friendship.

"You have a free hand, Culbertson," the very high official had said to
him. "We are not going to suggest or advise. Choose your own men; take
as many or as few as you please. Take your own time and your own
methods. But get the results."

"I appreciate your confidence, sir," Kingozi had replied.

"You and that man Winkleman are the best hands on earth with natives,
and we know it. Requisition what you want."

This woman was a Hungarian: she possessed a German official map. Could
she be on official business? It did not seem likely. Women are not much
good at that sort of thing in Africa. What official business could she
be on? The same as his own? That seemed still more unlikely; but if so,
why should they not work together? Germany and England had an equal
stake in the opening of this new route. An amical Boundary Commission
had just completed a satisfactory survey between the German and British
East African Protectorates. But she had lied to him, and she had acted
lies of apparent ignorance! Why that?

Having examined the subject from all sides, and having discovered it as
yet incapable of solution, Kingozi, characteristically, decided to go
slow. If she were on the same mission as himself, that fact would
develop in due time, and then they could work together. If she were
still on some mission, but a mission other than his own, that fact,
too, would in due time develop. If she were merely travelling in idle
curiosity--well, she ought not to lie!

For Kingozi had changed his mind. No longer was he determined that she
must turn back at this point. Now he was equally determined that she
must accompany him.

"I'll keep an eye on you, young woman," said he. "You pretend to be
very eager to go on with me. We'll see! But now you'll find it
difficult to quit this game. You may get more of it than you bargained
for. If you are really out just for sport and curiosity, I'm sorry for
you. But you shouldn't lie!"

He copied the map roughly; then returned it to the spot under the
bushes where he had found it.

Next morning he announced to the Leopard Woman his changed decision. He
was self-contained and direct. She smiled secretly to herself. She
thought she understood both the change of decision and the brusqueness.
One was the magic of the tropic moon; the other was the shy,
half-ashamed reaction of the strong man whose emotions have controlled
him. The proof--that she was going with him.

She was wrong!



CHAPTER XIV


OVER THE RANGES

When the day came for departure the Leopard Woman was indisposed, and
could not travel. At the end of that period eight bags of _potio_
disappeared. They had to be replaced. Kingozi occupied the time on the
details of his preparations. Then three men deserted, and all loads had
to be redistributed. At last they were off.

A horde of savages accompanied them at first. These dropped off one by
one until there remained only the guides appointed. The trail led
steeply upward. It soon shook free of the thorn tangle and debouched on
grassy rolling shoulders from which a wide, maplike view could be seen
of the country through which they had passed. Shortly they skirted a
deep deft cañon in which sang a brook; and at its head came to a
forest. The trees were tall, their cover dense; long, ropelike vines
hung in festoons. It was very still. A colobus barked somewhere in the
tops; the small green monkeys swung from limb to limb, or scampered
along the rope vines, chattering. Silent, gaudy birds swooped across
dusky spaces. The dripping of water reached the ear; the smell of
dampness the nostrils.

This was as far as they went the first day. The climb had been severe;
and at the end of three and a half hours the woman announced that she
was done up. Nothing remained but to make camp. This was done,
therefore; and all the afternoon Kingozi lay flat on the cot he had
caused to be brought into the open air, and blew smoke upward, and
stared at the maze of limbs in the forest roof. The Leopard Woman kept
her tent; but he did not offer to disturb her. He was thinking.

Next day they marched for hours through the forest, and at last came
out on more rolling grass shoulders. Evidently this side of the
mountains was not abrupt, but slanted off in a gentle slope to unknown
distances. There the game began to reappear; and Kingozi dropped two
hartebeeste for the safari. Here Cazi Moto came up in great
perturbation to announce that two of the _memsahib's_ porters were
missing. The little headman did not understand how it happened, as he
had zealously brought up the rear. Unless, of course, it was a case of
desertion.

Kingozi looked thoughtful, then ordered camp to be pitched. Accompanied
by Simba, Mali-ya-bwana, and three _askaris_ he took the back track. At
the end of an hour and a half of brisk walking he met the two missing
porters. Their explanation was voluble. They had fallen out for a few
moments, and when they had resumed their loads, the safari was ahead.
Then they had hastened, but the road had divided. They had taken the
wrong fork.

"Show me where the road divided," ordered Kingozi.

The loads were deposited by the side of the trail, and the delinquents,
with every appearance of confidence, led the way back another hour's
march to a veritable fork. Kingozi examined the earth for tracks.

"Could you not see that the safari had gone this way and not that way?"
he asked.

"Yes, _bwana_," they said together; "we saw it after a little. That is
why we came back."

Kingozi grunted, but said nothing. The nine men retraced their steps.
Both porters were on a broad grin, laughing and talking in subdued
tones to the _askaris_. The _bwana_ strode on rapidly ahead. They
followed at a little dogtrot, carrying their loads easily.

At camp Kingozi ordered them to place the loads in place beneath the
tarpaulin.

"Simba," said he in a casual voice, "these men get _kiboko_."

"Yes, _bwana_. How many?"

"Fifty."

The bystanders gasped, and the shining countenances of the culprits
turned a sickly gray. Fifty lashes is a maximum punishment, inflicted
only for the gravest crimes. More cannot be administered without fear
of grave consequences. The offence of straggling is generally
considered not serious. Even Simba was not certain he had heard aright.

"How many, _bwana_?" he asked again.

"Fifty," repeated Kingozi tonelessly, and turned his blank, baleful
glare in their direction.

The punishment was administered. When it was finished the porters,
shaking like leaves, blankets drawn over their bleeding flanks, were
brought to face the white man seated in his chair.

"_Bassi_," he pronounced. The word went out into a dead silence, so
that it was heard to the farthest confines of the hushed camp. "Let no
man hereafter miss the trail."

He arose and entered his tent. Cazi Moto was there, unfolding the
canvas bath tub, laying out the clean clothes. He looked up from his
occupation, his wizened face contorted in a shrewd smile.

"No more will we make camp when the sun is only a few hours high," he
surmised.

Kingozi looked at him.

"You and I have handled many safaris, Cazi Moto," he replied.

Delays from these causes ceased, but other delays supervened. Never
were the reasons for them attributable to accident; but they were more
numerous than ordinarily. Kingozi said nothing.

All the day's march he walked fifty yards ahead of the long procession.
The Leopard Woman walked part of the time; part of the time she rode a
donkey procured from the _sultani_. The two necessarily held little
converse during the day. At camp Kingozi had many tasks--camp to
arrange, meat to procure, sick to doctor, guides to interrogate. Only
at the evening meal, which now they shared, did he and his travelling
companion resume their intimacies.

The relation had developed into a curious one. For one thing, it was
more expansive. They discussed many subjects of what might be called
general interest, talking interestedly on books, world politics,
colonial policies, even the larger problems of life. In these
discussions they explored each other's intelligence, came to a mental
approachment, a cold, clear respect for each other's capacity and
experience. Never did they approach the personal. At no time in their
acquaintance had they talked so unrestrainedly, so freely, with so much
genuine pleasure; at no time did they touch so little the mysteries of
personality.

If the Leopard Woman felt this, or wondered at the cloaked withdrawal,
she gave no sign. Apparently she was all candour. She seemed to throw
herself frankly and with pleasure into this relationship of the head,
to have forgotten the possibilities so richly though so momentarily
disclosed by the magic of the moon. She lounged in her canvas chair,
twisting her lithe body within her silks; she smoked her cigarettes;
the jewel of changing lights glowed on her forehead; she talked in her
modulated voice and quaint, precise English. The man's pulses remained
calm. His eyes did not miss the beauty of her form, as frankly defined
beneath the silk as the forms of the naked _bibis_ of the village; nor
the alluring paleness of her face in contrast to the red lips; nor the
drowning passion of her wide eyes. But they did not reach his senses.
Were the insulation of his plain duty--which to Kingozi meant quite
sincerely his whole excuse for existence in this puzzling life--were
this to be withdrawn--he never even contemplated the thought. Reminders
from that night of the moon prevented him from doing so.

After this fashion they came to the grass plains of the uplands. Here
ensued more delays. These did not spring from delinquencies in the
safari: the exemplary punishment assured that. But things broke, and
things were forgotten, and things had to be done differently. The
guides, procured with difficulty from the little hunting peoples of the
plain, disappeared at the end of the second day. They professed
themselves afraid of Chaké, the Nubian. The latter vehemently denied
having spoken a word to them. Day's marches were shortened because the
woman could not stand long ones. Kingozi found it a great bother to
travel with a woman.

Nevertheless, he made no attempts to separate the safaris. He had been
watching closely. These difficulties, the delays, breakages, and
abbreviations of day's journeys had, nine times out of ten, their
origin in the camp of the Leopard Woman. In ordinary circumstances he
would have put this down to inferior organization. But there was the
mysterious, unmentioned map, whose accuracy, by the way, he found
exact. Gradually he came to the conclusion that the delays were not
entirely accidental. The conclusion became a conviction that the
Leopard Woman was making as much of a drag and as big a nuisance of
herself as possible.

Why?

She wanted to become such a burden that Kingozi would go on without
her. Again, why? At the village she had vehemently refused to go back,
and had pleaded to join forces with Kingozi. This puzzled him for some
time. Then he saw. Of course she did not want to turn back. If, as he
surmised, she had some errand with M'tela, like his own, she would not
want to turn back, but she would like a plausible excuse to separate
from him once the ranges of mountains were crossed. Why did she not
drop off then on the excuse, say, of the wonderful new hunting grounds?
That would be simple. Kingozi concluded that she wished the initiative
to come from him. And the more convinced he was that she wanted to get
rid of him, the more firmly he resolved that she must remain.

But it did make for slow travel.

What of it? There was no haste. There was plenty of game, the days
passed pleasantly, the evenings were delightful. A moonbeam flashed in
his brain showing him vistas----He firmly shut the window!

Certainly if Bibi-ya-chui harboured any active desire to drive Kingozi
into leaving her to her own devices, she concealed it well.
Occasionally in the evening, when he stared into the distance, she
twisted herself to look at him. Then her eyes widened, no one could
have told with what emotion. In her fixed stare could have been many
things--or nothing. Did she desire this man, as she had seemed to the
night of the full moon, and did she but bide her time, knowing this was
not the moment? Did she desire this man, and hate him because he had
touched her only to turn away? Did the very simplicity and directness
of his nature baffle her? Did she hate him for his mastering of
circumstances but not herself? Any or all of these emotions might have
lain beneath the smoulder in her eyes. One thing Kingozi would not have
seen, had he turned his head suddenly enough, and that was
indifference. But he continued to stare out into the veldt, and she
continued to stare at him; while around them the chatter of men, the
wail of hyenas, the thunder of lions, the shrill, thin cries of night
birds, and the mighty brooding silence that took no account of them all
attended the African night.



CHAPTER XV


THE SHARPENING OF THE SPEAR

Thus passed six weeks. By the end of this time the combined safaris had
progressed out into the unknown country about a normal three weeks'
journey. The rest was delay.

They had ventured out into the plain as into an enchanted sea. The
mountains had dropped below the horizon behind them; none had as yet
arisen before. The veldt ran in long, low undulations, so that always
they walked up or down gentle slopes. It was as though a ground swell
had set in toward distant, invisible shores. Here the short grass was
still green from the rains. Water lay in pools at the bottom of
_dongas_. By this good fortune travel was independent of the permanent
water, and hence safe and easy. Game was everywhere. Not for a single
hour in all that six weeks were they out of sight of it. Scattered over
the sward like deer in a pack the beasts grazed placidly in twos or
threes, or in great bands. Without haste, almost imperceptibly, they
drew aside to allow the safari to pass, and closed in again behind it.
Thus the travellers were always the centre of a little moving oasis of
clear space five hundred yards in diameter. Occasionally some unusual
and unexpected crease in the earth or density of brush in the _dongas_
brought them in surprise fairly atop an unsuspecting herd. Then ensued
a wild stampede. This communicated itself visually to all the animals
in sight. They moved off swiftly. And then still other remote beasts,
unaware of the cause of disturbance, quite out of sight of the safari,
but signalled by twinkle of stripe or flash of rump, also took flight.
So that far over the veldt, at last, the game hordes shifted uneasily
until the impulse died.

In this country were many lions. Most of the requisites of a lion were
here present--abundant game, water, the cover of the low brush in the
_dongas_. Only lacked a few rocky kopje fastnesses to make it ideal;
but that lack could be, and was, overlooked. The members of the safari
often saw the great beasts sunning themselves atop ant hills; walking
with dignity across the open country; sitting on their haunches to
stare with great yellow eyes at these strangers passing by. Here they
had never been annoyed or hunted; so here they had not become as
strictly nocturnal as nearer settlement. In all their magnificence they
stalked abroad, lords of the veldt. Kingozi's finger itched for the
trigger. There is no more exciting sport than that of lion shooting
afoot. It is a case of kill or be killed; for a lion, once the issue is
joined, never gives up. He fights literally to the death; and when he
is so crippled that he can no longer keep his feet, he drags himself
forward, and dies facing his opponent dauntlessly. No other beast
furnishes the same danger, the same thrill. His mere appearance stirs
the most sluggish spirit.

"_Simba! Simba! Simba!_" the exclamation ran back the line of the
safari, the sibilant hissed excitedly. Kingozi's heart bounded, and his
knuckles whitened as he gripped his rifle.

"_Bwana hapana piga?_" Simba implored. "Is not _bwana_ going to shoot?"

But Kingozi shook his head. The temptation was strong, but he resisted
it. He refrained from shooting at the lions for exactly the same reason
that he had insulated himself against the Leopard Woman's charms.

In all this wide country were no settled habitations. Your African
native requires hills or forests; he will not dwell on open plains at
any great distance from his natural protection. A few people there
were, hunters and nomads, living on wild honey and game. They were
solitaries and lived where night found them, a little race, shyer than
the game. For days and days they flanked the safari before venturing to
approach. Then one would appear a hundred yards away and open shouted
negotiations with the porters. Perhaps after a few hours he would
venture into camp. Invariably Kingozi interrogated these people. They
stood before him palpitating like birds, poised, tense for flight. He
asked them of water, of people, of routes. By means of kind treatment
and little presents he tried to gain their confidence. Sometimes thus
he induced them to talk freely, but never did he succeed in persuading
them to guide him. The mere fact of interrogation rendered them uneasy.
Probably they could not themselves have understood that uneasiness; but
invariably at nightfall they disappeared. They made fire by the rubbing
of sticks, shot poisoned arrows at game.

From them Kingozi gained little but chatter. They knew accurately every
permanent water, to be sure. This information, in view of the abundance
of rain pools, was not at present valuable; nevertheless Kingozi
questioned them minutely, and made many marks on the map he was
preparing. Always he mentioned M'tela. At first he introduced the name
at any time in the course of the interview; but soon he found that this
dried up all information. So then he reserved that subject for the
last. They were afraid of the very syllables. They spoke them under
their breaths, with side glances. M'tela was a great lord; a lord of
terror, to be feared.

At first the information was most vague. M'tela was over yonder--a long
distance--who knows how far? He possessed more or less mythical
characteristics, ranging from a height of forty or fifty feet down to
the mere possession of a charm by which he could kill at a distance.
Then, as the journey went on, the vagueness began to define. M'tela
took form as a big man with a voice like the lion at night. His
surroundings began to be described. He lived in the edge of a forest;
his people were many; he had forty wives, and the like. Still it was
far, very far. Kingozi concluded that none of these people had in
person visited the Kabilagani, but were talking at second hand.

And finally direct information came to him--in the form of fear. M'tela
was a great lord, a lord of many spears, his hand was heavy, he took
what he desired, his warriors were fierce and cruel and could not be
gainsaid. Told under the breath, with furtive glances to right and to
left. And not far: a three days' journey. Kingozi translated this into
terms of safari travel and made it about eight days. And, indeed,
though no mountains as yet raised their peaks above the horizon, fleets
of clouds setting sail from the distant ranges winged their way
joyously down a growing wind.

The Leopard Woman fell ill and kept her tent. Kingozi waited two days,
then sought her out. His patience over delay was about gone. The
headaches to which physical exhaustions always made him subject had
annoyed him greatly of late, had rendered him irritable. His eyes
bothered him--a reflex from his run-down condition, he thought,
combined with a slight inflammation due to the glare of sun or
yellowing grass. Boracic acid helped very little. The halo he had
noticed around the light that evening when they had first arrived at
the _sultani's_ village returned. He saw it about every campfire, every
lantern flame, even around the brightest of the stars. Altogether he
approached the interview in a strongly impatient mood.

The Leopard Woman lay abed beneath silken sheets. This was the first
time Kingozi had ever seen sheets of any kind on any kind of a safari.
In reality the Leopard Woman was an enticing, luring vision, but
Kingozi, through the lenses of his mood, saw only the silkiness and
"sheetiness" of those covers. He began to comprehend the numerous tin
boxes.

"I'm going to leave you here and push on," he began abruptly. "You will
be all right with the men I shall leave you. When you feel able to do
so, follow on. I'll leave a plain trail."

She objected feebly; but immediately, seeing that this would not touch
his mood, she asked him the reason of his haste.

"I'll tell you," he replied, "about a week distant is a chief named
M'tela. Did you ever hear of him?"

"M'tela?" she repeated the name thoughtfully. "No--but I don't know
much about native tribes."

Remembering her map Kingozi's lips compressed under his beard. What
earthly object could she have in lying?--unless her errand was as
secret as his own.

"Well, he is described as being very powerful. And of course he will
hear of us. It is well to make friends with him before he has had a
chance to think us over too long. I'll just go on and see him."

"When will you start?" she asked, conceding the point without
discussion.

"To-morrow morning. I shall make the distance in about five days,
probably: you should be able to do so in eight or ten. How are you
feeling to-day?"

"Better. I wondered would you ask."

He picked up her wrist.

"Pulse seems steady. Any fever?"

"A little early and late."

"Well, keep on with the hydrochlorate. You'll pull out in a day or so."

But the Leopard Woman pulled out in a second or so after Kingozi's
departure. As soon as he was safe away, she threw back the covers and
swung to the edge of the cot. At her call Chaké, the Nubian, appeared.
To him she immediately began to give emphatic directions, repeating
some of them over and over vehemently. He bent his fuzzy head
listening, his yellow eyeballs showing, his fang-like teeth exposed in
a grin of comprehension. When she had finished he nodded, said a few
words in his own tongue, and glided from the tent.

At his own camp he stooped and picked up a weapon. This was a spear,
and belonged to him personally. He had brought it all the way from
Nubia. It differed from any of the native spears of East Africa both in
form and in weight. Its blade was broad and shaped like a leaf; its
haft was of wood; and its heel was shod with only the briefest length
of iron. Chaké kept this spear in a high state of polish, so that its
metal shone like silver. He lifted it, poised it, made as though to
throw it, to thrust with it. Then with a sigh of renunciation he laid
it aside. From behind one of the porters' tents he took another spear,
one typical of this country that had been traded for only a day or two
before. This Chaké considered clumsy and unnecessarily heavy.
Nevertheless he bore it out into the long grass where he squatted in
concealment; and, producing a stone, began painstakingly to sharpen the
point and edges. As the slow labour went on he seemed to work himself
gradually to a pitch of excitement. A little crooning song began to
rise and fall, to flow and ebb. His eyes flashed, his back bent to a
tense crouch. Every few moments he dashed the spear against an
imaginary shield, poised it, thrust with it strongly, the chant rising.
Then abruptly his voice fell, his muscles relaxed, he resumed the
rythmical whetting with the stone.

All afternoon he squatted, passing the stone over the steel; polishing
long after the point and edges were as sharp as they could be made.
When the sun grew large at the world's edge he threw himself flat on
his belly and wormed his way to a position a few yards from Kingozi's
tent. There he left the spear. When he had gained a spot a hundred
yards away, he arose to his feet and walked quietly into camp. A moment
later he was sitting on his heels before his fire, eating his evening
meal.



CHAPTER XVI


THE MURDER

That night Kingozi was restless and could not sleep. His vision had
been blurring badly during the day, and now his eyeballs ached as
though they had been seared. After his solitary evening meal he
wandered about restlessly, gripping his pipe strongly between his
teeth. Shortly after dark he entered his tent with the idea of turning
in early; but the pain drove him out again. He remained only long
enough to substitute his mosquito boots for his day boots. The Nubian,
lying in the long grass beside the newly sharpened spear, settled
himself to wait.

Kingozi's figure lost itself among the men of the camp. The strong,
clean wind that blew every day from distant ranges, was falling with
the night. A breath of coolness came with it. Chaké shivered and wished
he had brought his blanket. The time was very long; but back of Chaké
were generations of men who had lain patiently in wait. He gripped the
haft of the heavy spear.

Black night descended in earnest. The little fires were dying down.
Still Kingozi, tortured by his headache, wandered about. Upward of two
hours passed. Then at last the crouching Nubian saw dimly the
silhouette of the white man returning, caught in the glimmer of coals
the colour of the khaki coat he wore. The moment was at hand. Chaké
arose to his knees, his spear in his right hand. As soon as his victim
should lie down on the cot, it was his intention to thrust him through
the canvas. It must be remembered that the cot was placed close to the
wall, and that the body of the sleeper was defined against it.

But unexpectedly the wearer of the khaki coat passed the tent door and
proceeded to the rear where he reached upward to the rear guy rope
where hung a towel, or some such matter. This brought him to within
four feet of the kneeling Nubian, the broad of his back exposed, both
arms upraised. Without hesitation Chaké drove the spear into his back.
The sharp long blade slipped through the flesh as easily as a hot knife
into butter. The murdered man choked once and pitched forward headlong
on his face. Chaké, leaving the weapon, glided swiftly away.

Once well beyond the chance of a fire glimmer he arose to his feet and
quickly regained his own camp. This was exactly on the opposite side of
the circle. The four men with whom he shared his tiny cotton tent,
_askaris_ all as beseemed his dignity, were sound asleep. He squatted
on his heels, pushed together the embers of his fire, staring into the
coals. His ugly face was as though carved from ebony. Only his wild
savage eyes glowed and flashed with a brooding lambent flame; and his
wide nostrils slowly expanded and contracted as though with some inner
heaving emotion.

Thus he sat for perhaps ten minutes. Then on the opposite side of the
circle a commotion began. Some one cried out, figures ran to and fro,
commands were given, brands were snatched from dying fires, torches
were lit. Elsewhere, all about camp, sleepers were sitting up, were
asking one another what was the matter. The _askaris_ in Chaké's tent
grumbled, and turned over, and asked what it was all about. Chaké shook
his mop of hair, staring into the fire.

From the Leopard Woman's tent came a sharp summons. The Nubian arose
and stalked boldly across the open space. At the closed tent he
scratched his fingernail respectfully against the canvas.

"_Karibu, karibu!_" summoned his mistress impatiently. He slipped
between the flaps and stood inside.

The Leopard Woman was seated upright in her cot. On the tin box near
the head of the bed burned a candle in a mica lantern. By its dim light
her face looked paler than ever, and deep black circles seemed to have
defined themselves under her eyes. The Nubian and the white woman
stared at each other for a moment.

"It is done?" she asked finally, in a hoarse whisper.

"It is done, _memsahib_," he replied calmly.

For another pause she stared at him, her eyes widening. "You have done
well. _Bassi!_" she enunciated at last.

The tent flaps still quivered behind the Nubian's exit, when she threw
herself face downward on the cot. Her body shook with convulsive dry
sobs. After a moment she twisted on her side. Both hands clutched her
throat, as though she strangled for air. Her eyes were round and
rolling. It was as if some mighty pent force were struggling for
release. Suddenly the release came. She began to weep, the tears
streaming down her face. Shortly she commenced to mutter little short
disjointed phrases in her own language. She wrung her hands.

"I had to do it!" she gasped in German. "I had to do it! It was the
only way! Tell me it was the only way!" she seemed to appeal to some
one invisible. And then she resumed her lament in the Hungarian.

But all at once something dried this emotion as the sear of a flame
would dry water over which it passed. The tears ceased, her eyes
flashed, she jerked her body upright, listening. The commotion of
pursuit and investigation was sweeping past her tent.

Distinctly she heard the voice of Kingozi giving commands.

An instant later Chaké darted into the tent and fell to the ground. His
face was the sickly gray of a negro in terror, his eyes rolled in his
head, his teeth chattered, his every muscle trembled.

"_Memsahib! Memsahib!_" he gasped.

Her eyes were blazing with an anger the more fierce in that some of it
was reaction.

"Fool!" she spat at him.

"I killed him, _memsahib!_ I drove the _shenzi_ spear through his back!
I left him lying there! He is a god! He has come back from the dead!"

"Fool!" she repeated, and swung her feet to the floor. "Stay here! Do
not go out!" she commanded, when she had assumed her mosquito boots.
She slipped out between the tent flaps.

Torches were everywhere flickering about. She stopped one of the men as
he passed.

"A _shenzi_ has killed Mavrouki with a spear," the man answered her
question.

She stood for some time watching the torches. Then she saw Kingozi
himself take his place by the pile of loads.

"Fall in!" he commanded sharply.

She returned to her tent.

"Here!" she addressed the crouching Nubian. "It is as I said. You have
been a fool. You have killed a porter by mistake. Now the _bwana_ has
ordered to _fall in_. He wishes to see if any are missing. Go take your
place, and answer to your name."

"Oh, _memsahib!_ Oh, _memsahib!_" the man was groaning.

"Go, I say!" she cried. "And hold up your head. If this is suspected of
you, you will surely die."

Kingozi called the roll by the light of a replenished fire.

As each man was named, he was required to step forward to undergo
Kingozi's scrutiny.

Most were uneasy, many were excited. Kingozi passed them rapidly in
review. But when Chaké came forward, he paused in the machine-like
regularity of his inspection.

"Hullo, my bold buccaneer," said he in English, "what ails you?"

The Leopard Woman had drawn near. Kingozi glanced at her over his
shoulder.

"I know these Fuzzy-Wuzzies pretty well," he remarked. "This man has
the blood look in his eye."

"He's been sick all day," she ventured.

"Sick, eh? Have you had him about you all evening?"

The Leopard Woman hesitated the least appreciable portion of a second.

"No," she answered, "he was sick; I let him sleep in his own camp."

She withdrew a pace, almost as though washing her hands of the affair.
Kingozi whirled and levelled his forefinger at the Nubian.

"Why did you use a _shenzi_ spear?" he demanded.

Over Chaké's face had come the blank, lifeless expression of the
obstinate savage. Kingozi recognized it, and knew that further
interrogation was a matter of much time and patience. His eyes and head
ached cruelly.

"Very well," he answered the Nubian's unspoken opposition. "You'll
keep. Simba, get me the hand irons and the leg irons. Guard this man.
To-morrow we will look into it." He turned away without waiting to see
his commands carried out. "I've got a beastly headache," he remarked to
Bibi-ya-chui. "This affair--this whole affair--will keep. Cazi Moto, I
want two men with guns--my men--to stand by my tent, one in front, one
in the rear."

The Leopard Woman watched his drooping, wearied form making its way to
his tent. He walked shuffling, almost stumbling. The habitual masking
stare of her eyes changed. Something softer, almost yearning, crept
into them. When the tent flaps had fallen behind him she threw both
arms aloft in a splendid tragic gesture, careless of the staring men.
Her face was convulsed by strong emotion. She turned and fled to her
own tent, where she threw herself face down on her cot.

"It must be done! It must be done!" she groaned to her pillow.



CHAPTER XVII


THE DARKNESS

Kingozi retired again to his cot; but for a long time he could not get
to sleep. Little things annoyed him. A fever owl in a thorn tree
somewhere nearby called over and over again monotonously, hurriedly,
without pause, without a break in rhythm. Kingozi knew that the bird
would thus continue all night long, and he tried to adjust his mind to
the fact, but failed. It seemed beyond human comprehension that any
living creature could keep up steadily so breathless a performance.
Some of the men were chatting in low voices. Ordinarily he would not
have heard them at all; now they annoyed him. He stood it as long as he
could, then shouted "_Kalele!_" at them in so fierce a tone that the
human silence was dead and immediate. But this made prominent other
lesser noises. Kingozi's headache was worse. He tossed and turned, but
at last fell into a half-waking stupor.

He was brought to full consciousness by the entrance of Cazi Moto. He
opened his eyes. It was still night--a very black night, evidently, for
not a ray of light entered the tent.

"What time is it, Cazi Moto?" he asked.

"Five o'clock, _bwana_."

It was time to rise if a march was to be undertaken. Kingozi waited a
moment impatiently.

"Why do you not light the candle?" he demanded.

"The candle is lighted, _bwana_" replied Cazi Moto, with a slight tone
of surprise.

Kingozi reached his outspread hand across to his tin box. His fingers
encountered a flame, and were slightly scorched. He lay back and closed
his eyes.

"The men have struck their tents?" he asked Cazi Moto after a moment.

"Yes, _bwana_, all is prepared."

Then there must be a dozen little fires, and the tent must be filled
with flickering reflections. Kingozi lay for some time, thinking. He
could hear Cazi Moto moving about, arranging clothes and equipment.
When by the sounds Kingozi knew that the task was finished and Cazi
Moto about to depart, he spoke.

"We shall not make safari to-day," he said. Cazi Moto stopped.

"_Bwana?_"

"We shall not make safari to-day."

Cazi Moto's mind adjusted itself to this new decision. Then, without
comment, he glided out to reverse all his arrangements.

Left alone Kingozi lay on his back and bent his will power to getting
control of the situation.

He was blind.

At first the mere thought sent so numbing a chill through all his
faculties that he needed the utmost of his fortitude to prevent an
insensate and aimless panic. Gradually he gained control of this.

Then he groped for the candle. By experiment he found that at a
distance of a foot or so the illumination registered. Then there was no
paralysis of the nerve itself. Desperately he marshalled his unruly
thoughts, striving to look back into the remote past of his student
days. Fragments of knowledge came to him, but nothing on which to build
a theory of what was wrong.

"It's mechanical; it's mechanical," he muttered over and over to
himself, but could not seem to progress beyond this point. All he could
conclude was that it was _not_ ophthalmia or trachoma. He had seen a
good deal of these two plagues of Egypt, and their symptoms were absent
here. He concentrated until his mind was weary, and his will slipped.
At last in despair he relaxed and in an unconscious gesture rubbed his
eyes with his forefingers and thumbs. The contact brought him to with a
jerk.

The eyeballs, instead of feeling soft and velvety under the lids, were
as hard as marbles.

The shock of this phenomenon rang a bell in his memory. A distinct
picture came to him of his classroom and old Doctor Stokes. He could
fairly hear the slow, impressive voice.

"There is one symptom," the past was saying to him, "one symptom, young
gentlemen, that is not always present; but when present establishes the
diagnosis beyond any doubt. I refer to a peculiar hardening of the
eyeball itself----"

"Glaucoma!" cried Kingozi aloud.

His thoughts, like hounds on a trail, raced off after this new scent.
Desperately he tried to recollect. In snatches he captured knowledge.
Of its accuracy he was sometimes in doubt; but little by little that
doubt grew less. To change the figure, the latent images of his past
science developed slowly, like the images on a photographic plate.

Glaucoma--a hardening, an enlarging of the pupil, a change in the shape
and consistency of the iris--yes, he had it fairly well. Treatment?
Let's see--an operation on the iris, delicate. That was it. Impossible,
of course. But there was something else, a temporary expedient, until
the surgeon could be reached--an undue expansion of the pupil----

"Why," shouted Kingozi aloud, sitting up in bed. "Pilocarpin, of
course!"

What luck! He fervently blessed the shortage of phenacetin that had
forced him to take pilocarpin as a sweating substitute for fever.

"Cazi Moto!" he called. Then, as the headman hurried up: "Get me the
box of medicines, quick!"

He waited until he heard the little man reenter the tent.

"Place it here," he commanded. "Now go."

He groped for the case, opened it----

The bottles it contained were all of the same shape. He remembered that
the pilocarpin was at the right-hand end--or was it the left? Hastily
he uncorked the left-hand bottle, and was immediately reassured. It
contained tablets. The right-hand bottle, on the contrary, held the
typical small crystals. But a doubt assailed him. At the same end of
the case were the receptacles also of the atropin and the morphia. He
remembered the Leopard Woman's remarking how much alike they all were.
Kingozi seemed to see plainly in his mind's eye the precise
arrangement, to visualize even the exact appearance of the labels on
the bottles--first the morphia, next to it the pilocarpin, and last the
atropin. But while he contemplated this mental image, it shifted. The
pilocarpin and atropin changed places. And this latter recollection
seemed as distinct to him as the first had been.

He fingered the three bottles, his brows bent. And across his mental
travail floated another thought that brought him up all standing.

Pilocarpin and atropin had exactly the opposite effect.

"Here, this won't do!" he said aloud. "If I get the wrong stuff in my
eyes it will destroy them permanently."

He raised his voice for Cazi Moto.

"When Bibi-ya-chui is awake," he told the headman, "I want to see her.
Tell her to come."



CHAPTER XVIII


THE LEOPARD WOMAN CHANGES HER SPOTS

Kingozi washed, dressed, had his breakfast, and sat quietly in his
chair. In the open he found that he had a dim consciousness of light,
but that was all. There was no pain.

After a while Cazi Moto came to report that the Leopard Woman was out
and about. Kingozi's message had been delivered.

"She says you shall come to her tent," concluded Cazi Moto. Kingozi
considered. To insist that she should come to him might lead to a
downright refusal, unless he sent her word of his condition. This he
did not wish to do. His recollections of the classroom were now
distinct. He knew that the pilocarpin would restore his vision within a
few hours; and while the alleviation would be temporary, it might last
some months, or until he could get the proper surgical aid. Therefore
it would be as well not to let the men know anything was even
temporarily the matter.

"Take my chair," he ordered Cazi Moto. Then when the latter started
off, he followed, touching lightly the folded seat. As he felt the
shade of the tree under which the Leopard Woman's tent had been
pitched, he chanced a "good morning." Her reply gave him her direction,
and he seated himself facing her.

"I am stupid this morning," he said. "Had a bad night. I wanted you to
do something for me--read a label, as a matter of fact--and it never
occurred to me that I might bring the label to you. Cazi Moto, go get
my box of medicines."

"I do not quite understand," replied the Leopard Woman. "What is it you
would have me do?"

"Read a label--on a bottle."

"Why is it you do not read it yourself?"

"My eyes do not focus well this morning."

"I see," she said slowly. "And you would have me indicate for you the
remedy. That is it?"

"Yes, that is it. I've stupidly forgotten which the bottle is I want."

He heard her moving slightly here and there. He strained his ears to
understand what she was about.

"You are blind!" she cried suddenly.

"Temporarily--until I get my remedy. How did you know?"

"The look of you; and just this moment I thrust suddenly at your face."

Cazi Moto arrived with the medicine chest which he placed at his
master's feet, and opened. Kingozi extracted the three bottles.

"The table is directly in front of you," came the Leopard Woman's voice.

He reached out, and after a moment deposited the vials on the table.

"It's one of these," he said, "but I don't know which. Just read them
for me."

"This remedy will cure you?"

"It will give me my sight. I have what is known as glaucoma. It is an
undue expansion of the pupil. This remedy contracts it again. The only
real cure is an operation."

A silence ensued.

"Well?" asked Kingozi at length.

"It interests me," came her voice. "Suppose you had not this remedy?"

"I should remain blind," replied Kingozi simply.

"Until you obtained the remedy?"

"Probably for always. One must not let glaucoma run or it becomes
chronic. It's God's own luck that I have this stuff with me--it's the
pilocarpin I told you of. The other stuff--atropin--would blind me for
sure!"

He thrust forward the three bottles.

"Here," he urged.

"If you had not the remedy--this what-you-call--pilocarpin, what would
you do?" An edge of eagerness had crept into her tones.

"Do?" said Kingozi, a little impatiently. "I'd streak it for a surgeon.
I have no desire to lose my sight."

Another pause.

"I shall not read your labels," she decided. Her voice now was low and
decided.

"What!" cried Kingozi.

He could hear the rustle of her clothes as she leaned forward.

"Listen," she said. "Why should I do this for you? You have treated me
as a man treats his dog, his horse, his servant, his child--not as a
man treats a woman. Do you think because I have been the meek one, the
quiet one, that I have not cared?"

"But this--my sight----"

"Your sight is safe. You tell me so yourself. Go back to your surgeon.
And if you suffer inconvenience on the way--or pain--or humiliation--or
anger--why that is what you have made me suffer."

"I----?"

"You! You have treated me with scorn, with contempt, like a little
child, as though I did not exist! You have--what-you-call--ridden
over--overridden what I propose, what I try to do. You and your lordly
way! You are not a man--you are a fish of cold blood; a statue of iron!
You have nothing but the head! You 'know nothing whatever about
vegetables'--nor women! Bah! Shall I read your labels and give you your
sight? Ah, no! ah, _non!_"

Kingozi was stunned. Idly his hand slid forward across the table. It
encountered and closed upon her wrist. Instantly she struggled to be
free, whereupon mechanically he tightened his clasp. She made a
desperate effort to do something. His other hand sought hers. It
grasped one of the three bottles, and even as he determined this fact,
she tried again to hurl it to the ground. Frustrated, she relaxed her
grip, and he released her.

He could hear the fling of her body as she stood upright; could catch
the indrawing of her breath.

"Read them for yourself!" was her parting shot as she withdrew.

Kingozi sat very still for a long time. Then he arose abruptly and
commanded Cazi Moto to return with him to his own camp. There he caused
his chair to be placed in the shade.

"Cazi Moto," said he, "listen well. You are my other hands; now you
must be something else. I am sick in the eyes; I can see nothing. In
one of these bottles is the medicine that will cure me, and in one of
them is the medicine that will make me blind forever. I do not know
which it is; and I cannot read the _barua_ because I cannot see it. And
Bibi-ya-chui cannot read it. So you must be my eyes. Take a stick, and
make on the ground marks exactly like those on the _barua_. Make them
deep, so that I may feel them with my hands."

[Illustration: "'Cazi Moto, take a stick and make on the ground marks
exactly like those on the _barua_. Make them deep, so that I may feel
them with my hands'"]

Cazi Moto sharpened a stick, smoothed out a piece of earth, and
squatted beside it.

The Central African native is untrained either to express himself or to
see pictorially. We have been so trained since the building blocks of
our infancy, so that a photograph of a scene is to us an exact replica
of that scene in miniature. As a matter of fact, it is only an
arbitrary and conventional arrangement of black and white. A raw native
sees nothing more than that even in a portrait of him self.

So Cazi Moto went at this task absolutely unequipped both of brain and
of hand. In addition the label was rather difficult. The printed body
of it contained the firm name of the chemists and their address; the
drug itself was written, Kingozi remembered with exasperation, in his
own not very legible script.

"Dashed fool!" he told himself aloud in his usual habit. "Deserve what
you've got. Ought to have segregated the drugs--ought to have printed
the labels--no use thinking of that now."

Cazi Moto worked painstakingly, his shrewd and wizened face puckered in
absorption. He accomplished a legible _Borroughs & Wellcome_ after many
trials. Then he proceeded with the script. It seemed impossible to make
a start; he did not even begin at the beginning, but was inclined to
view the work as an entity and to begin drawing it at the top of the
middle. Kingozi corrected that. At last the white man's fingers made
out distinctly a capital M. He erased it with a sweep of the hand.

"That part of the _barua_ again," he ordered.

After a time Cazi Moto repeated the feat.

"Once more."

This was quicker.

Kingozi dropped that bottle into his side pocket with a sigh of relief.

"Evidently the morphine," he said. "We'll try it again later to be
sure. Wish I didn't scribble such a rotten hand. My capital As and Ps
are something alike."

He had a new idea. For fifteen minutes he tried to get from Cazi Moto
at first the number of letters on each label; and later, when the
flowing script proved this impractical, an idea of the relative lengths
of the words. Neither method was certain enough; another argument for
printing your labels, thought Kingozi.

"We'll get it, old sportsman!" he cried aloud in English. "We'll try
for the first letter."

He bent forward, but the lesson went no further.

For an hour the Leopard Woman had been watching, curious as to what
these two were doing so quietly in the shade of the tree. At last she
evidently made up her mind she must find out. Quietly she drew near
them unnoticed, so that at last she was standing only a few feet to one
side. There she witnessed the final triumph as to the morphine, and
heard Kingozi's last confident speech. As he leaned forward to place
another bottle for Cazi Moto to copy from, she gathered her forces,
rushed forward between them, snatched the vial, and dashed it violently
against a rock, where it naturally broke into innumerable pieces. Cazi
Moto stared up at her, astounded into immobility. Kingozi, without a
trace of emotion, leaned back in his chair.

"I think I am losing my wits," he remarked. "I have been criminally
stupid through this whole affair. I might have foreseen something of
the kind."

She stood there panting excitedly, her hands clinched at her sides.

"I will read your label for you now--the bottle you hold in your hand!
It is atropin--atropin--" She laughed wildly.

"I thank you, madam," he said ironically.

"Now you must go back!"

"Yes. Now I must go back. I thank you."

"You may well thank me. I have saved your life!" she cried
hysterically, and was gone.

Kingozi did not examine the meaning of this; indeed, it hardly
registered at all as it was to him evidently the product of excitement.

He forgot even the scandalized Cazi Moto squatting at his feet. For a
long time he stared sightlessly straight ahead. He could not explain
this woman. The whole outburst, the complete about-face in what had
been their apparent relations, overwhelmed him. He had had no idea of
the slow damming back of resentments; in fact, he really had no idea
that there were causes for resentment at all! He had done the direct,
obvious, efficient thing in a number of instances when naturally her
powers or abilities were inadequate. Characteristically, he forgot
utterly the night of the full moon!

First of all, it was evident that he must turn back if he was to save
his eyesight. As he remembered glaucoma, it ought to be surgically
treated within two months, at most.

The second point was whether he could turn back. His mission was a
simple one. Would it wait? He could not see why not. He had been sent
to gain the friendship and active alliance of M'tela and his spears;
and had been given _carte blanche_ in the matters of equipment,
methods, and time. Inside a year or so the International Boundary
Commission would be running boundary lines through that country. Until
then the Kabilagani could very well go on as they probably had gone on
for the last five hundred years.

Very well; as far as his job was concerned, he could go back; as far as
his eyes were concerned, he must go back.

Remained the problem of Bibi-ya-chui.

Why was she in the country? For the same purpose as himself? It seemed
unlikely; she appeared to have slight qualifications for such a task.
Indeed, in the candour of his own inner communings Kingozi acknowledged
that he and the German, Winkleman, alone could be held really fitted
for that sort of negotiation. But if she were? Why did she not say so?
Their object would be the same. It was as much to Germany's interest to
pacify, to make friendly this hinterland before the advent of the
Boundary Commission. All this was a puzzle. But there was the
indubitable secret map, and the indubitable concealment of purpose;
and--to Kingozi's mind--the indubitable attempt to make travelling so
tedious that he would split safaris and permit her to go alone.

This led to another conclusion. He could not see the reason for it all,
but one thing was clear: she must not even now be allowed to take her
own course. Whatever she was up to, she did not intend to let him know
about it; ergo it was something inimical to him, either personally or
officially. Probably personally, Kingozi thought with a grim smile. He
was no fool about women when his mind was sufficiently disengaged from
other things; and now he remembered the inhibited promise of the tropic
moon. Still he could take no chances. He could turn back; he must turn
back; and as a corollary the Leopard Woman must turn back with him!



CHAPTER XIX


THE TRIAL

He remembered Cazi Moto squatting, undoubtedly horrified to the core.

"Cazi Moto, are you there?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Where has the _memsahib_ gone?"

"Into her tent, _bwana_."

"Listen well to me. She has destroyed the medicine. Now we must go back
to where _Bwana_ Marefu can come to fix my eyes. We shall go with all
the men as far as the people of the _sultani_. There we will leave many
porters and many loads. With a few men we will go to Bwana Marefu. When
he has fixed my eyes, then we will come back. I will fix a _barua_ for
_Bwana_. This must be sent on ahead of us so he can come to meet us.
Pick two good men for messengers. Is all that understood?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Tell me, then, what is to be done?"

Cazi Moto repeated the gist of what had been said. Kingozi nodded.

"That is it."

"_Bwana?_" Cazi Moto hesitated.

"Yes. Speak."

"That woman. Shall she be _kibokoed_ or killed?"

Kingozi caught back a chuckle.

"No," he said gravely. "That will wait for later. But see that she is
watched; do not permit her to talk to her men; take all her guns and
pistols, and bring them to me."

"And this Chaké?"

"Of course." Kingozi had really forgotten the man in the concentrations
of the past few hours. "Let him be brought before me an hour before
sundown."

He found himself all at once overcome with sleep. Hardly was he able to
stagger to his cot before he fell into a deep, refreshing slumber.

At the appointed hour Cazi Moto scratched on his tent door. Kingozi
arose and walked confidently into the opening. Cazi Moto deftly
indicated the location of the chair. Kingozi sat down.

Although he could not see, he visualized the scene well enough.
Immediately in front of him, and ten feet away, stood the manacled
Nubian, with an armed man at either elbow. Behind them, in turn, were
grouped silently all the combined safaris. At his own elbows stood Cazi
Moto and Simba--possibly Mali-ya-bwana.

He allowed an impressive wait to ensue. Then abruptly he began his
interrogation. He had been thinking over the circumstances, off and on,
since last night, and had determined on his line. Ordinarily he would
have called for witnesses of various sorts, but this would have been
not at all for the purpose of piling up evidence against the accused.
That is the civilized fashion; and is superfluous among savages.
Kingozi's witnesses would have been called solely for the purpose of
furnishing information to himself. He needed only one piece of
information here, and that only one witness could furnish him--the man
before him.

"Why did you kill Mavrouki?" he demanded.

"I did not kill Mavrouki, _bwana_."

"That is a lie," rejoined Kingozi calmly.

Chaké became voluble.

"All night I sat by my fire cooking _potio_ and meat," he protested.
"This the _askaris_ will tell you. And my spear lay in the tent with
the _askaris_," he went on at great length, repeating these two points,
babbling, protesting, pleading. Kingozi listened to him in dead silence
until he had quite run down.

"Listen," said he impressively, "all these words are lies. This is what
happened: from one of the _shenzis_ you traded a spear, or a spear was
given you. Your own spear you left in the tent. All day you sat in the
grass and sharpened the _shenzi_ spear." This was a wild guess, based
on probabilities, but by the uneasy stir in the throng Kingozi knew he
had scored. "Then at night you waited, and you speared Mavrouki with
the _shenzi_ spear, and you left it in his back, for you said to
yourself, 'men will think a _shenzi_ has done this thing.' Then you
went quietly to your fire, and cooked _potio_, and your own spear was
all the time where the _askaris_ were lying."

Kingozi paused. He knew without Cazi Moto's whispered assurance that
every shot had told. It was a simple bit of deduction, but to these
simpler minds it seemed miraculous.

"Why did you wish to kill me?" he demanded.

The Nubian, taken completely by surprise, began to chatter with fright.

"I did not wish to kill you, _bwana_. I wished to kill Mavrouki."

"That is a lie," said Kingozi equably. "Why should you wait for
Mavrouki near my tent? Was Mavrouki my gun bearer, or even my cook,
that he should come to my tent? Mavrouki was a porter, and if you
wished to kill Mavrouki you would wait by the porters' camp."

He said these words slowly, without emphasis, in almost a detached
manner. By the murmur he knew that this amazing reasoning had, as
usual, struck the men with deep astonishment. The African native is a
simple creature. He waited a full minute.

"Mavrouki wore a khaki coat. He and I were the only people of all the
safari who had khaki coats. That is why in the darkness you mistook
Mavrouki for me. That is why you killed Mavrouki."

He said this in a firm voice, as though making an indisputable
statement. The buzz of low-voiced comment increased. This time he did
not pause.

"Why did you wish to kill me?" he repeated.

But again he sensed the fact that Chaké had taken refuge in the dull
stupidity that is an acknowledgment of defeat. He knew that he would
get no more replies. After waiting a few moments he went on. His voice
had become weighty with authority and measured with doom.

"You will not tell. Let it be so. And now listen; and you other safari
men listen also. Because you have wished to kill me, you shall have two
hundred lashes with the _kiboko_; and then you shall be hanged."

A moment of horror was followed by a low murmur of comment. Not a man
there but realized that the unfortunate Nubian would never live to be
hanged. A punishment of twenty-five is as much as the most stoical can
stand in silence; fifty as much as can be absorbed without permanent
injury; seventy-five an extreme resorted to on a very few desperately
rare occasions. Beyond that no experience taught the result. Kingozi's
sentence was equivalent to death by torture.

He leaned forward in his chair, listening intently. He heard his
victim's gasp, the mutter of the crowd. They passed him by. Then he
sank back, a half smile on his lips. He had caught the rustle of silks,
the indignant breathing of a woman. He knew that Bibi-ya-chui stood
before him.

"But this is atrocious!" she cried. "This cannot go on!"

"It shall go on," he replied steadily. "Why not?"

"He is my man. I forbid it!"

"He is my man to punish when he attempts my life."

"I shall prevent this--this--oh, this outrage!"

"How?" he asked calmly.

She turned to the men and began to talk to them in Swahili, repeating
emphatically what she had just said to Kingozi in English, uttering her
commands. They were received in a dead silence.

"You have heard the _memsahib_ speak, you men of the _memsahib's_
safari," remarked Kingozi; then: "You, Jack, whom I made chief of
_askaris_, you speak."

"What does the _bwana_ say of this?" came Jack's deep voice after a
moment.

"You have heard."

"What the _bwana_ says is law."

"Does any man of you think differently? Speak!"

No voice answered. Kingozi turned to where, he knew, the Leopard Woman
stood.

"You see?"

He heard only a choked sob of rage and impotence. After waiting a
minute he resumed:

"Do my command. Let three men, in turn, give the _kiboko_. You, Simba,
see that they strike hard."

A faint clink of manacles indicated that the guards had laid hands on
their victim.

"Wait!" cried the Leopard Woman in a strangled voice.

Kingozi raised his hand.

"You--you brute!" she cried. "You shall not do this! Chaké is not to
blame! It is I--I, who speak. I did this. I ordered him to kill you. I
alone should be punished!"

He drew a deep breath.

"I thought so," he said softly; then in Swahili: "These are my orders.
Let this man be well guarded. Let him be treated well, and given
_potio_ and meat. He shall be punished later. And now," he turned to
Bibi-ya-chui in English again, "let us drop the excitement and the
hysterics. Let us sit down calmly and discuss the matter. Perhaps you
are now ready to tell me why you have lied to me; why you have
concealed your possession of a secret map and other information; why
you have deliberately delayed my march; and, above all, why you have
refused to aid my blindness and have attempted to kill me."



CHAPTER XX


KINGOZI'S ULTIMATUM

But she did not immediately answer this. She was on fire with a new
thought.

"This is another of your--what you call--traps!" she cried. "You never
intended to kill this man with the _kiboko!_ You intended to make me
speak--as I did!"

"That's as may be," he rejoined. "At least I should have tried how far
he would have been faithful to you before telling what he knew--if you
had not spoken."

"He is faithful--to the death," she asseverated with passion.

"I am inclined to believe you are right. But that is neither here nor
there. I am waiting answers to my questions."

"And you shall wait," she took him up superbly. "I shall not answer!"

He shrugged his shoulders wearily.

"That is your affair. I must confess that I am curious to know,
however, why you did not shoot me. You have a pistol."

"Your men took that pistol."

"But not until late this morning. You had plenty of chance."

"I could not," she said, her voice taking on a curious intonation;
"there was no need."

"You mean since I went blind there was no need," he interjected quickly.

She hesitated whether to reply. Then:

"Yes, that is it," she assented.

Kingozi leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair.

"I must tell you that my blindness is not going to help you in the way
you believe," he said.

"What do I believe?" The animation of curiosity crept into her voice.

"For one thing, you believe I am no ivory hunter; and you know
perfectly why I am in this country."

"Do I?"

"Do you not?"

"Well--yes."

"Why is it, tell me."

She pondered this, then made up her mind

"I do not know why not. The time for fencing is over. I know perfectly
that you are sent by your government to make treaty with M'tela. And I
know," she added with the graciousness of one who has got back to sure
ground, "that no one could do it better; and no one as well."

"Except Winkleman," said Kingozi simply.

"Except Winkleman--perhaps."

"As you say, the time for fencing is over," pursued Kingozi. "That is
true. And it is true also that you are not merely travelling for
pleasure. You are yourself on a mission. You are Hungarian, but you are
in the employ of the German Government."

She laughed musically.

"_Bravo!_" she cried. "That is true. But go on--how do you make the
guess?"

"Your maps, your--pardon me--equivocations, and a few other matters of
the sort. Now it is perfectly evident that you are trying to forestall
me in some manner."

"Point number two," she agreed mockingly.

"I am free to confess I do not know why; and at present I do not care.
That's why I tell you. You are so anxious to forestall me--for this
unknown reason--that when smaller things fail----"

"You are of an interest--what smaller things?"

"Various wiles--some of them feminine. Delays, for example. Do you
suppose I believed for a moment those delays were not inspired? That is
why my punishments were so severe--and other wiles," he concluded
vaguely.

She did not press the point.

"When smaller things failed," he repeated, "you would have resorted
even to murder. Your necessity must have been great."

"Believe me--it was!" she answered.

He brought up short at the unexpected feeling that vibrated in her
voice. His face expressed a faint surprise, and he returned to his
subject with fresh interest.

"And when my eyes failed me, and you could have given me my sight by
the mere reading of a label, you refused; you condemned me to the
darkness. And, further, when I had a chance to learn my remedy for
myself, you destroyed it. I wonder whether that cost you anything, too?"

He sat apparently staring out into the distance, his sightless eyes
wide with the peculiar blank pathos of the blind. The Leopard Woman's
own eyes were suffused with tears!

"I remember now something you said when you broke the bottle of
pilocarpin," he said slowly. "I did not notice it at the time; now it
comes to me. 'I have saved your life,' you said. I get the meaning of
that now. You would have killed me rather than not have forestalled me;
but the blindness saved you that necessity. You know, I am a little
glad to learn that you did not _want_ to kill me."

"Want!" she cried. "How could I want?"

Kingozi chuckled.

"You told me enough times just what you thought of me."

Her crest reared, but drooped again.

"No women likes to be treated so. And if you had your eyes, so I would
hate you again!"

"I don't know why you want to prevent me from reaching M'tela, nor why
you want to reach him first, nor why in its wisdom your government sent
you at all. I'd like to know, just as a matter of curiosity. But it
doesn't really matter, because it does not affect the essential
situation in the least."

"You are going to M'tela just the same?" she inquired anxiously.

"Bless you, no. I have no desire to go blind. It's the beastliest
affliction can come to an active man. And glaucoma is a tricky thing.
I'd like to get to McCloud tomorrow. But still you are not going to get
to M'tela before me."

"No?"

"I am sorry; but you will have to go with me."

"You have the force," she acknowledged after a moment. Somewhat
surprised at her lack of protest--or was it resignation to the
inevitable?--Kingozi checked himself. After a moment he went on.

"Somehow," he mused, "in spite of your amiable activities, I have a
certain confidence in you. It would be much more comfortable for both
of us if you would give me your word not to try to escape, or to go
back, or to leave my camp, or cause your men to leave my camp, or
anything like that."

"Would you trust my word?"

"If you would give it solemnly--yes."

"But to do what I wished to do--as you say just now yourself--I am
ready to use all means--even to killing. Why do you not think I would
also break, my word to do my ends?"

"I think you would not."

"But do you think I would, what you call--consider your trust in me
more great than my government's trust in me?"

"No. I do not think that either."

"Well?"

"I do not think you will give your word to me unless you mean to keep
it. If you do give it, I am willing to rely upon it."

The Leopard Woman moved impulsively to his side.

"Very well. I give it," she said with a choke.

"That you go with my safari, without subterfuge, without sending word
anywhere--in other words, a fair start afresh!"

"Just that," she replied.

"That is your word of honour?"

"My word of honour."

"Give me your hand on it."

She laid her palm in his. His hand closed over hers, gripping it
tightly. Her eyes were swimming, her breast heaved. Slowly she swayed
toward him, leaned over him. Her lips touched his. Suddenly she was
seized hungrily. She abandoned herself to the kiss.

But after a moment she tore herself away from him, panting.

"This must not be!" she cried tragically. "I know not what I do! This
is not good! I am a woman of honour!"

Kingozi, his blind face alight, held out his arms to her.

"Your honour is safe with me," he said.

But he had mistaken her meaning. Step by step she recoiled from him
until she stood at the distance of some paces, her hands pressed
against her cheeks, her eyes fixed on him with a strange mixture of
tenderness, pity, and sternness.

"What is it?" he begged, getting uncertainly to his feet. "Where are
you?"

But she did not answer him. After a moment she slipped away.



CHAPTER XXI


THE MESSENGERS

The return trip began promptly the following morning, and progressed
uninterruptedly for two weeks. One by one they picked up the
water-holes found on the journey out.

A few details had to be adjusted to compensate for Kingozi's lack of
eyes. The matter of meat supplies, for example.

"Good luck I gave some attention to your shooting, old sportsman," he
remarked to Simba in English, then in Swahili: "Here are five
cartridges. Go get me a zebra and a kongoni."

Simba was no shot, but Kingozi knew he would stalk, with infinite
patience and skill, fairly atop his quarry before letting off one of
the precious cartridges.

In the matter of rhinoceros and similar dangers, they simply took a
chance.

Kingozi marched at the end of a stick held by Simba. He gave his whole
energies to getting over the day's difficulties of all sorts. His
relations with the Leopard Woman swung back. Perhaps vaguely, in the
back of his mind, he looked forward to the interpretation of that
unpremeditated kiss; but just now a mixed feeling of responsibility and
delicacy prevented his going forward from the point attained. During
the march they walked apart most of the time. The weariness of forced
travel abridged their evenings.

Chaké walked guarded, and slept in chains.

Whenever the location of water-holes permitted, the safari made long
jumps. The two messengers sent out with a scrawled letter to Doctor
McCloud--whom they knew as Bwana Marefu--were of course far ahead. With
any luck Kingozi hoped to meet the surgeon not far from the mountains
where dwelt the _sultani_ of the ivory stockade.

Thus the march went through a fortnight. The close of the fourteenth
day found them camped near water in a _donga_. The dim blue of
mountains had raised itself above the horizon ahead. This rejoiced the
men. They were running low of _potio_, and they knew that from the
_sultani's_ subjects in these mountains a further supply could be had.
As a consequence, an unwonted _kalele_ was smiting the air. Each man
chatted to his next-door neighbour at the top of his lungs, laughing
loudly, squealing with delight. Kingozi sat enjoying it. He had been so
long in Africa that this happy rumpus always pleased him. Suddenly it
fell to silence. He cocked his ear, trying to understand the reason.

Across the open veldt two figures had been descried. They were coming
toward the camp at a slow dogtrot; and as they approached it could be
seen that save for a turban apiece they were stark naked; and save for
a spear and a water gourd apiece they were without equipment. One held
something straight upright before him, as medieval priests carried a
cross. The turbans were formed from their blankets; mid-blade of each
spear was wound with a strip of red cloth; the object one carried was a
letter held in the cleft of a stick.

By these tokens the safari men knew the strangers to be messengers.

The mail service of Central Africa is slow but very certain. You give
your letter to two reliable men and inform them that it is for _Bwana_
So-and-so. Sooner or later _Bwana_ So-and-so will get that letter. He
is found by a process of elimination. In the bazaars the messengers
inquire whether he has gone north, south, east, or west. Some native is
certain to have known some of his men. So your messengers start west.
Their progress thenceforward is a series of village visits. The gossip
of the country directs them. Gradually, but with increasing certainty,
their course defines itself, until at last--months later--they come
trotting into camp.

These two jogged in broadly agrin. Cazi Moto and Simba led them at once
to Kingozi's chair.

"These men bring a _barua_ for you, _bwana_," said Cazi Moto.

Kingozi took the split wand with the letter thrust crosswise in the
cleft.

"Who sent them?" he asked.

"The _Bwana_ M'Kubwa[10], _bwana_."

[10: _Bwana M'Kubwa_--the great lord, i.e., the chief officer of any
district.]

"Have they no message?"

"They say no message, _bwana_."

"Take them and give them food, and see that they have a place in one of
the tents."

"Yes, _bwana_."

"And send Bibi-ya-chui to me."

The Leopard Woman sent word that she was bathing, but would come
shortly. Kingozi sat fingering the letter, which he could not read. It
was long and thick. He could feel the embossed frank of the Government
Office. The situation was puzzling. It might contain secret orders, in
which case it would be inadvisable to allow the Leopard Woman a sight
of its contents. But Kingozi shook off this thought. At about the time
he felt the cool shadow of the earth rise across his face as the sun
slipped below the horizon, he became aware also by the faint perfume
that the Leopard Woman had come.

"I am in a fix," he said abruptly. "Runners have just come in with this
letter. It is official, and may be secret. I am morally certain you
ought not to know its contents; but I don't see how I am to know them
unless you do. Will you read it to me, and will you give me your word
not to use its contents for your own or your government's purposes?"

She hesitated.

"I cannot promise that."

"Well," he amended after a moment, "you will stick to the terms of your
other promise--that you will not attempt to leave my safari or send
messages until we arrive."

"The fresh, even start," she supplied. "That promise is given."

He handed her the envelope.

A crackle of paper, then a long wait.

"I shall not read you this," she said finally in a strangled,
suppressed voice.

"Why not?" he demanded sharply.

"It contains things I would not have you know."

He felt the paper thrust into his hands, reached for her wrists, and
pinioned them. For once his self-control had broken. His face was
suffused with blood and dark with anger.

But his speech was cut short by an uproar from the camp. Cries,
shrieks, shouts, yells, and the sound of running to and fro steadily
increased in volume. It was a riot.

In vain Kingozi called for Cazi Moto and Simba. Finally he grasped his
_kiboko_ and started in the direction of the disturbance. The Leopard
Woman sprang to his side, and guided him. He laid about him blindly
with the _kiboko_, and in time succeeded in getting some semblance of
order.

"Cazi Moto! Simba!" he shouted angrily.

"Bwana?" "Sah?" two panting voices answered.

"What is this?"

They both began to speak at once.

"You, Cazi Moto," commanded Kingozi.

"These men are liars," began Cazi Moto.

"What men?"

"These men who brought the _barua_. They tell lies, bad lies, and we
beat them for it."

"Since when have you beaten liars? And since when have I ceased to deal
punishment? And since when has it been permitted that such a _kalele_
be raised in my camp?" pronounced Kingozi coldly. "For attending to
such things you are my man; and Simba is my man; and Mali-ya-bwana is
my man; and Jack is my man. Because you have done these things I fine
you six rupees each one."

"Yes, _bwana_," said Cazi Moto submissively.

"These other men--what manner of 'lie' do they tell? Bring them here."

The messengers were produced.

"What is it you tell that my men beat you for telling lies? They must
be bad lies, for it is not the custom of men to beat men for telling
lies."

"We tell no lies, _bwana_" said one of the messengers earnestly. "We
tell the truth."

"What is it you tell?"

"We said what has happened: that across the Serengëtti came white men
from the country of Taveta, and that these white men were many, and had
many _askaris_ with them, and our white men from Nairobi met them, and
fought so that those from Taveta were driven back and some were killed.
And down the N'Gouramani River many of our white men with _Mahindi_[11]
fought with strange white men on a hill below Ol Sambu, but were driven
off. And many _Mahindi_ are coming in to Mombasa, all with guns, and
all the _askaris_ are brought into Nairobi. And we told these safari
men that the white men were making war on the white men, so they cried
out at this, and beat us."

[Footnote 11: Mahindi--East Indians.]

Kingozi had listened attentively.

"Well, Cazi Moto?" he demanded.

"But this is a lie; a bad lie," said Cazi Moto, "to say that white men
make war on white men!"

"Nevertheless it is true," rejoined Kingozi quietly. "These other white
men are the _Duyches_[12], and they make war."

[Footnote 12: Duyches--Germans.]

He turned and walked back to his camp unassisted. He groped for his
chair and sat down. His hand encountered the letter.

"You do not need to read this to me now," he told the Leopard Woman
quietly. "I know what it tells." He thought a moment. "It is clear to
me now. You knew, this war was to be declared."

She did not reply.

"You know about _when_ this war was to be declared," he pursued his
thought. "Yes, it fits."

Her silence continued.

"You should have killed me," he thought aloud. "That alone could have
accomplished your mission properly. You might have known I would make
you go back, too. Or perhaps you thought you could command your own men
in spite of me?"

"Perhaps," she said unexpectedly.

He raised his voice:

"Cazi Moto!"

The chastened headman came running.

"To-morrow," Kingozi told him, "the men go on half _potio_. There will
be plenty of meat but only half _potio_."

"Yes, _bwana_."

"And if any man grumbles, or if any man objects even one word to what I
do or where I go, bring him to me at once. Understand?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"_Bassi_."

"What is it you intend to do now?" asked the Leopard Woman curiously.

"Go back, of course."

"Back--where?"

"To M'tela."

She gasped.

"But you cannot do that! You have not considered; you have not thought."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"But it means blindness; blindness for always!"

"I know my duty."

"But to be blind, to be blind always; never to see the sun, the wide
veldt, the beasts, and the birds! Never to read a book, to see a man's
face, a woman's form; to sit always in darkness waiting--you cannot do
that!"

He winced at her words but did not reply. Her hands fluttered to his
shoulders.

"Please do not do this foolishness," she pleaded softly; "it is not
worth it! See, I have given my word! If you had thought I would go
ahead of you to M'tela, all that danger is past. A fresh start, you
said it yourself. Do you think I would deceive you?"

She was hovering very close to him; he could feel her breath on his
cheek. Firmly but gently he took her two wrists and thrust her away
from him.

"Listen, my dear," he said gently, "this is a time for clear thinking.
My country is at war with Germany; and my whole duty is to her. You are
an Austrian."

"My country, too, is at war," she said unexpectedly.

"Ah, you knew that would happen, too," he said after a startled pause.
"I know only this: that if in times of peace it was important to my
government that M'tela's friendship be gained, it is ten times as
important in time of war. I must go back and do my best."

"But why?" she interjected eagerly. "This savage tribe--it is in the
remote hinterland; it knows nothing of the white man or the white man's
quarrels. What difference can it make?"

"That is not my affair. For one thing, he is on the border."

"But what difference of that? The border means nothing. The fate of
their colonies will be fought in Europe, not here. What happens to this
country depends on who wins there below."

"Can you state positively of your own knowledge that no invasion or
movement of German troops is planned across M'tela's country? On your
sacred word of honour?" propounded Kingozi suddenly.

"On my word of honour," she repeated slowly, "no such movement."

"Do you know what you are talking about?"

She was silent.

"It doesn't sound reasonable--an invasion from that quarter--what could
they gain either on that side or on this?" Kingozi ruminated. A sudden
thought struck him. "And that there is no reason whatever, from my
point of view as a loyal British subject, against my going out at this
time? On your word?"

"Oh!" she cried distressedly, "you ask such questions! How can I
answer----"

He stopped her with grave finality.

"That is sufficient. I go back."

She did not attempt to combat him.

"I have done my duty, too," she said dully. "Mine is not the Viennese
conscience. My parole; I must take that back. From to-morrow I take it
back."

"I understand. I am sorry. To-morrow I place my guard."

"Oh, why cannot you have the sense?" she cried passionately. "I cannot
bear it! That you must be blind! That I must kill you if I can, once
more!"

Kingozi smiled quietly to himself at this confession.

"So you would even kill me?" he queried curiously.

"I must! I must! If it is necessary, I must! I have sworn!"

"Don't you suppose I shall take precautions?"

"Oh, I hope so! I do hope so!" she cried.

Her distress was so genuine, her unconsciousness of the anomaly of her
attitude so naïve that Kingozi forbore even to smile.

"I must go on," he concluded simply.



CHAPTER XXII


THE SECOND MESSENGERS

The return journey began. A remarkable tribute to Kingozi's influence,
not only over his own men, but over those of the new safari, might have
been read from the fact that there was brought for correction not one
grumble, either over the halving of the _potio_ or the apparently
endless counter-marching. As far as the white members were concerned
the journey was one of doggedness and gloom. Kingozi's strong will
managed to keep to the foreground the details of his immediate duty;
but to do so he had to sink all other considerations whatever. The same
effort required to submerge all thought of the darkened years to come
carried down also every recollection of the past. The Leopard Woman
ceased to exist, not because she had lost importance, but because
Kingozi's mind was focussed on a single point.

And she. Perhaps she understood this; perhaps the tearing antagonism of
her own purposes, duties, and desires stunned or occupied her--who
knows? The outward result was the same as in the case of her companion.
They walked apart, ate apart, lived each in his superb isolation, going
forward like sleep-walkers to what the future might hold.

Thus they travelled for ten days. In mid-march, then, Cazi Moto came to
tell Kingozi that two more messengers had arrived.

"They are not people of our country," he added. "They are _shenzis_
such as no man here ever saw before."

"What sort of _shenzis?_"

"Short, square men. Very black. Hair that is long and stands out like a
little tree."

"What do they say?"

"_Bwana_, they speak a language that no man here understands. And this
is strange: that they do not come from the direction of Nairobi."

"Perhaps they are men from M'tela."

"No, _bwana_, that cannot be, for they carry a _barua_. They came from
a white man."

"That is strange, very strange," said Kingozi quickly. "I do not
understand. Is there water near where we stand?"

"There is the water of the place we called _Campi ya Korungu_ when we
passed before."

"Make camp there."

"The sun is at four hours[13], _bwana_."

[Footnote 13: 10:00 o'clock.]

"It makes no difference."

When camp had been pitched Kingozi caused the new messengers to be
brought before him. A few moments' questioning elicited two facts: one,
that there existed no medium of communication known to both parties;
two, that the strangers were from some part of the Congo basin. The
latter conclusion Kingozi gained from catching a few words of a
language root known to him. He stretched his hand for the letter.

It was in a long linen envelope, unsealed, and unembossed.

Not from the government. He unfolded the sheets of paper and ran his
fingers over the pages. Written in pencil; he could feel the
indentations where the writer had borne down. Some private individual
writing him from camp on the Congo side. Who could it be? Kingozi's
Central African acquaintance was wide; he knew most of the gentlemen
adventurers roaming through that land of fascination. A good many were
not averse to ivory poaching; and the happy hunting ground of ivory
poaching was at that time the French Congo. It might be any of them.
But how could they know of his whereabouts in this unknown country? And
how could they know he was in this country at all? These last two
points seemed to him important. Suddenly he threw his head back and
laughed aloud.

"Self-centred egotist!" he addressed himself. "Cazi Moto, tell
Bibi-ya-chui I wish to see her."

Cazi Moto departed to return immediately with the Leopard Woman who, at
this hour, was still in her marching clothes. If she felt any surprise
at this early abandonment of the day's march she did not show it. Two
_askaris_, confided with the task of guarding her, followed a few paces
to the rear. She glanced curiously at the bushy savages.

"Here," said Kingozi, holding out the letter, "is a _barua_ for
you--from your friend Winkleman in the Congo."

The shock of surprise held her speechless for a moment.

"Your blindness is well! You can see!" she cried then.

Kingozi raised his head sharply, for there was a lilt of relief and
gladness in her voice.

"No," he answered, "just ordinary deduction. Am I right?"

He heard her slowly unfolding the paper.

"Yes, you are right," she said in sober tones, after a moment. She
uttered a happy exclamation, then another; then ran to his side and
threw her arms around his neck in an impulsive hug. Kingozi remembered
the waiting men and motioned them away. She was talking rapidly, almost
hysterically, as people talk when relieved of a pressure.

"Yes, it is from Winkleman. He has come in from the Congo side. When
this letter was written he was only ten days' march from M'tela."

"How do you know that?" interjected Kingozi sharply.

"Native information, he says. Oh, I am so glad! so glad! so glad!"

"That was the plan from the start, was it?" said Kingozi. "I don't know
whether it was a good plan or that I have been thick. My head is in
rather a whirl. It was Winkleman right along, was it?"

She laughed excitedly.

"Oh, such a game! Of course it was Winkleman. Did you think me one to
be sent to savage kings?"

"It didn't seem credible," muttered Kingozi. "It is a humiliating
question, but seems inevitable--were you actually sent out by your
officials merely to delay _me?_"

"So that Winkleman might arrive first--surely."

"I see." Kingozi's accent was getting to be more formally polite. "But
why you? Why did not your most efficient employers dispatch an ordinary
assassin? I do not err in assuming that you all knew that this war was
to be declared at this time."

"That is true." Her voice still sang, her high spirits unsubdued by his
veiled sarcasm.

"Then since it is war, why not have me shot and done with it? Why send
a woman?"

"That was arranged, truly. A man of the Germans was following you. He
was as a sportsman, for it would not do to rouse suspicion. Then he had
an accident. I was in Nairobi. I heard of it. I did not know you, and
this German did not know you. It seemed to us very simple. I was to
follow until I came up with you. Then I was to delay you until I had
word that Winkleman had crossed the _n'yika_."

"All very simple and easy," murmured Kingozi.

"It was not simple! It was not easy!" she cried in a sudden flash of
resentment. "You are a strange man. When you go toward a thing, you see
down a narrow lane. What is either side does not exist." Her voice
gradually raised to vehemence. "I am a woman. I am weak and helpless.
Do you assist me, comfort me, sustain me in dreadful situation? No! You
march on, leaving me to follow! I think to myself that you are a pig, a
brute, that you have no chivalry, that you know not the word gentleman;
and I hate you! Then I see that I am wrong. You have chivalry, you are
a true gentleman; but before you is an object and you cannot turn your
eyes away. And I think so to myself that when this object is removed,
is placed one side for a time, then you will come to yourself. Then
will be my chance. For I study you. I look at your eyes and the fire in
them, and the lips, and the wide, proud nostril; and I see that here is
no cold fish creature, but a strong man. So I wait my time. And the
moon rises, and the savage drums throb, throb like hearts of passion,
and the bul-buls sing in the bush--and I know I am beautiful, and I
know men, and almost I think you look one side, and that I win!"

"So all that was a game!" commented Kingozi.

"A game? But yes--then!"

"For the sake of winning your point--would you--would you----"

"For the sake of winning my point did I not command to kill
you--you--my friend?" she commented, her manner falling from vehemence
to sadness. "If I could do that, what else would matter!" She paused;
then went on in a subdued voice: "But even then your glance but
wavered. You are a strong man; and you are a victim of your strength.
When an idea grips hold of you, you know nothing but that. And so I saw
the delaying of you was not so simple, so easy. It was not as a man to
a woman, but as a man to a man. It was war. I did my best," she
concluded wearily.

Kingozi was staring in her direction almost as though he could see.

"Why do you tell me all this?" he asked at length.

"I want you to know. And I am so glad!" The lilt had crept back into
her voice.

"I congratulate you," he replied drily.

"Stupid! Oh, stupid!" she cried. "Do you not see why I am glad? It is
you! Now you shall not sit forever in the darkness. You shall go back
to your doctor, who will arrange your eyes."

"Why?" asked Kingozi.

"Why!" she repeated, astonished. "But it is 'why not!' Listen! Have you
thought? Winkleman is now but a week's march from M'tela. And here,
where we stand, it is perhaps twenty days, perhaps more. Winkleman
would arrive nearly two weeks ahead of you. Tell me, how long would it
take you to win M'tela's friendship so it would not be shaken?"

Kingozi's face lit with a grim smile.

"A week," he promised confidently.

"You see! And Herr Winkleman is equal to you; you have said so
yourself. Is not it so?"

"It's so, all right."

"Then--you see?"

"I see."

"Then we shall go back to the doctor. Oh, do you not see it is for that
I am glad--truly, truly! You must believe me that!"

"I believe you," said Kingozi. "Nevertheless, I do not think I shall go
back."

"But that is madness. You cannot arrive in time. And it is to lose your
eyes all for nothing, for a foolish idea that you do your duty!"

Kingozi shook his head. She wrung her hands in despair.

"Oh, I know that look of you!" she cried. "You see only down your
narrow lane!"



CHAPTER XXIII


THE COUNCIL OF WAR

That evening Kingozi called to him Cazi Moto, Simba, and Mali-ya-bwana.
He commanded them to build a little fire, and when the light from the
leaping flames had penetrated his dull vision, he told them to sit down
before him. Thus they knew that a serious council was intended. They
squatted on their heels below the white man in his chair, and looked up
at him with bright, devoted eyes.

"Listen," he said. "The matter is this: the _Inglishee_ are at war with
the _Duyche_. Over from the Congo comes a _Duyche_ known as _Bwana_
Nyele.[14] It is his business to reach this _shenzi_ king, M'tela, and
persuade M'tela to fight on the side of the _Duyche_. It is our
business to reach M'tela and persuade him to fight on the side of the
_Inglishee_. Is that understood?"

[Footnote 14: _Bwana_ Nyele--the master with the mane, i.e., beard or
hair.]

"It is understood, _bwana_" said they.

"But this _Duyche, Bwana_ Nyele, is only one week's march from M'tela;
and he undoubtedly has many gifts for M'tela and the Kabilagani. And we
are many days' safari distant, and I am blind and cannot hurry." he
three uttered little clucks of sympathy and interest.

"But for all that we may win. You three men are my eyes and my right
hand. I have a plan, and this is what you must do: Cazi Moto must stay
with me to be headman of safari, and to be my eyes when we come to
M'tela's land. You Simba, and you Mali-ya-bwana, must go with six of
the best men to where _Bwana_ Nyele is marching. These two strange
_shenzis_ will guide you. Then when you are near the safari of _Bwana_
Nyele you must arrange so that these _shenzis_ can have no talk with
any of the safari of _Bwana_ Nyele. That is understood?"

"Yes, _bwana_," said Simba. "Do we kill these _shenzis?_"

"No, do not kill them. Tie them fast."

"Yes, _bwana_, and then?"

"This is the most difficult. You must get hold of _Bwana_ Nyele, and
you must tie him fast also, and keep him from his safari. He is a
_m'zungu_[15], yes--but he is a _Duyche_, and my enemy, and these
things are right, because I command it."

[Footnote 15: _M'zungu_--white man.]

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Then you must keep _Bwana_ Nyele and these two _shenzis_ close in
camp, hidden where their safari cannot find them. And after two weeks
you must send two men to M'tela's to find me, and to tell me where you
are hidden. Now is all that understood? You, Simba, tell me what you
are to do."

"Mali-ya-bwana, myself, six men and these _shenzis_ travel to where the
safari of _Bwana_ Nyele marches. When we are near that safari we tie up
the two _shenzis_. Then we get _Bwana_ Nyele and tie him up in a secret
camp. Then after two weeks we send two men to tell the _bwana_ where we
are. But, _bwana_, how do we get _Bwana_ Nyele?"

"That I will tell you soon. One thing you forgot: you must reach the
_Duyche_ before he gets into M'tela's country. This means travel night
and day--fast travel. Can this be done?"

"We shall pick good men, _bwana_, runners of the Wakamba. We shall do
our best."

"Good. Each man four days' _potio_, and what biltong he can use. Simba,
take my small rifle and fifty cartridges. Take some snuff, beads, and
wire--only a little--to trade for _potio_ if you meet with other
people. Understood?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"Cazi Moto," he directed, "bring me the small box of wood from my
_sandoko_."

He slid the cover off this box when it was delivered into his hands,
fumbled a moment, and held up an object.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It is a bone, _bwana_."

"Yes, it is a bone; but it is more. It is a magic. With this you will
take _Bwana_ Nyele."

He could sense the stir of interest in the three men before him.

"Listen carefully. This is what you must do. When you have come near to
this safari, you must follow it until it has put down its loads and is
just about to make camp. Not a rest period on the road; not after camp
is made--just at the moment when the men begin to untie the loads, when
they begin to pitch the tents. That is the magic time. Understand?"

"Yes, _bwana_," they chorused breathlessly.

"Simba must be ready. He must take off his clothes, and he must oil his
body and paint it, and put on the ornaments of a _shenzi_ of this
country. For that purpose he must take with him the necklace, the
armlets, anklets, and belt that I traded for with the _shenzis_, and
which Cazi Moto will get from my tent. Do you know the style of
painting of these _shenzis_ of the plains, Simba?"

"Yes, _bwana_."

"It is important that you make yourself a _shenzi_. This magic is a bad
magic otherwise. Then at the moment I have named, Simba as a _shenzi_
will take this magic bone and hold it out to _Bwana_ Nyele saying
nothing. _Bwana_ Nyele will say words, perhaps in Swahili which Simba
will understand; perhaps in some other language which he will not
understand. Simba must point thus; and then must start in that
direction. _Bwana_ Nyele will follow a few steps. Then Simba will say:
'Many more, _bwana_, over there only a little distance.'" Kingozi
uttered this last sentence in atrocious Swahili. "You must say it in
just that way, like a _shenzi_. Say it."

Simba repeated the words and accent.

"Yes, that is it. Then say nothing more, no matter what he asks; and do
not let him touch the magic bone. Point. He will follow you; and when
he has followed out of sight of the safari you will all seize him and
tie him fast. The rest is as I have commanded."

"How does _bwana_ know how these things will happen thus?" breathed
Simba in awestricken tones.

"It is a magic," replied Kingozi gravely.

Over and over he drilled them until the details were thoroughly
understood. Then he dismissed them and leaned back with a sigh. The
plan was simple, but ought to work. At the moment of making camp
Winkleman would be less apt than at any other time to take with him an
escort--especially if his interest or cupidity were aroused--for every
one would be exceedingly busy. And no fear about the interest and
cupidity! The "magic" bone Kingozi had confided to Simba was a fragment
of a Pleistocene fossil. Kingozi himself valued it highly, but he hoped
and expected to get it back. It made excellent bait, which no scientist
could resist. Of course there might be a second white man with
Winkleman, but from the reported size of the latter's safari he thought
not. All in all, Kingozi had great reliance in his magic.

At the end of fifteen minutes Simba came to report.

"All is ready, _bwana_," he said, "and we start now. But if _bwana_
could let me take a lantern, which I have in my hand, we could travel
also at night."

The lantern, as Kingozi well knew, was not for the purpose of casting
light in the path, but as some slight measure of protection against
lions.

"Let me have it," he ordered. It was passed into his hands, and proved
to be one of the two oil lanterns kept for emergencies.

But Kingozi sent the headman for one of the candle lanterns in everyday
use, and a half-dozen short candles.

"These are better," he said; "and _qua heri_, Simba. If you do these
things well, large _backsheeshi_ for you all."

"_Qua heri, bwana_" said Simba, and was gone.



CHAPTER XXIV


M'TELA'S COUNTRY

To the bewilderment of the Leopard Woman the pace of the safari now
slackened. Heretofore the marches had been stretched to the limit of
endurance; now the day's journey was as leisurely as that of a
sportsman's caravan. It started at daybreak, to be sure, but it ended
at noon, unless exigencies of water required an hour or two additional.
As a matter of fact, Kingozi knew that he had done everything possible.
If Simba & Co. succeeded, then there was no immediate hurry; if they
failed, hurry would be useless.

Bibi-ya-chui noticed the absence of two such prominent members of the
safari as Simba and Mali-ya-bwana, of course, but readily accepted
Kingozi's explanation that he had sent them "as messengers."

The little safari for the third time crawled its antlike way across the
immensities of the veldt. Cazi Moto managed to keep them supplied with
meat, but at an excessive expenditure of cartridges. As he used the
Leopard Woman's rifle, this did not so much matter, for she was
abundantly supplied. At last the blue ranges rose before them; each
day's journey defined their outlines better. The foothills began to
sketch themselves, to separate from the ranges, finally to surround the
travellers with the low swells of broken country. Running water
replaced the still water-holes. Cazi Moto reported herds of goats in
the distance. One evening several of the goatherds ventured into camp.
They spoke no Swahili, but at the name M'tela they nodded vigorously,
and at the mention of Kabilagani they pointed at their own breasts.

"I wish I had eyes!" cried Kingozi petulantly. "What kind of people are
they?"

The Leopard Woman told him as best she could--tall, well-formed, copper
in hue, of a pleasing expression, clad scantily in goat skins.

"Their ornaments, their arms?" cried Kingozi with impatience.

"They are poor people," replied Bibi-ya-chui. "They have armlets of
iron beaten out, and necklaces of shell fragments or bone. They carry
spears with a short blade, broad like a leaf."

"Their armlets are not of wire? They have no cowrie shells?"

"No, it is beaten iron----"

"Good!" cried Kingozi. "There has been little or no trading here!"

One of the goatherds went with them as guide to M'tela.

"Without doubt," Kingozi surmised, "others have run on to warn M'tela
of our coming."

Their way led on a gentle, steady up grade without steep climbs. The
hills, at first only scattered, low hummocks, became higher, more
numerous, closed in on them; until, before they knew it, they found
themselves walking up the flat bed of a cañon between veritable
mountains. The end of the view, the Leopard Woman said, was shut by a
frowning, unbroken rampart many thousands of feet high.

"Then we are due for a climb," sighed Kingozi. "These native tracks
never hunt for a grade! When they want to go up, why up they go!"

But the head of the cañon, instead of stopping against the wall, bent
sharply to the left. A "saddle" was disclosed.

Toward this the hard-beaten track led. Shortly it began to mount
steeply, and shortly after it entered a high forest growing on the
abrupt slopes. Here it was cool and mysterious, with green shadows, and
the swing of rope vines, and the sudden remoteness of glimpsed skies.
The earth was soft and moist under foot; so the dampness of it rose to
the nostrils. Vines and head-high bracken and feather growths covered
the ground. In every shallow ravine were groves of tree ferns forty
feet tall. A silence dwelt there, a different silence from that of the
veldt at night; compounded of a few simple elements, such as the faint,
incessant drip of hidden waters and occasional loud, hollowly echoing
noises such as the bark of a colobus or the scream of a hyrax. There
were birds, rare, flashing, brilliant, furtive birds, but they said
nothing.

Through this forest on edge the path led steeply upward. Sometimes it
was almost perpendicular; sometimes it took an angle; sometimes--but
rarely--it paused at a little ledge wide enough to rest nearly the
whole safari at once.

For an hour and a half they climbed, then topped the rim of the
escarpment and emerged from the forest at the same time.

Immediately they were a thousand leagues from the Africa they knew. A
gently rolling country stretched out before them with sweeps of green
grass shoulder high, and compact groves of trees as though planted. For
miles it undulated away until the very multitude of its low, peaceful
hills shut in the horizon. Cattle grazed in the wide-flung hollows, and
little herds of game; goats and sheep dotted the hills. The groves of
trees were very green. Everything breathed of peace and plenty. Almost
would one with proper childhood recollections listen for a church-going
bell, search for spires and cottage roofs among the trees. Slim columns
of smoke rose straight into the motionless air. The very sun seemed to
have abated its African fierceness, and to have become mild.

Some of these things Kingozi learned from Cazi Moto; some from the
Leopard Woman; each after his kind.

About a half-mile away a number of warriors in single file walked
across the wide valley and disappeared in the forest to the left. They
carried heavy spears and oval shields painted in various designs. A
fillet bound long ostrich plumes that slanted backward on either side
the head; and as they walked forward in the rather teetery fashion of
the savage dandy these plumes waved up and down in rhythm.

"M'tela," said the _shenzi_ goatherd waving his hand abroad.

They camped at the edge of a pleasant grove near running water. The
donkey that the Leopard Woman rode fell to the tall lush grasses with a
thankfulness beyond all expression. All the safari was in high spirits.
They saw _potio_ in sight again; and, immediately, long grass for beds.

Visitors came in shortly--a dozen armed men, like the warriors seen
earlier in the day, and a dignified older man who spoke a sufficient
Swahili. Kingozi received these in a friendly fashion, did not permit
them to sit, but at once began to cross-question them. The Leopard
Woman emerged from her tent.

"Stay where you are," Kingozi called to her in decided tones. "You must
in this permit me to judge of expediencies. I forbid you to hold any
communication with these people. I hope you will not make it necessary
for me to take measures to see that my wishes are carried out."

She showed no irritation, not even at the "forbid," but smiled quietly,
and without reply returned to her tent.

"Yes," said the old man, "this was M'tela's country, these were
M'tela's people." He disclaimed having been sent by M'tela.

At this point Kingozi, apparently losing all interest, dismissed them
into the hands of Cazi Moto. The latter, previously instructed, took
his guests to his own camp. There he distributed roast meat, one
_balauri_ of coffee to the old man, and many tales, some of them true.
These people had never before laid eyes on a white man, but naturally,
at this late date in African history, all had heard more or less of the
phenomenon. Cazi Moto found that the distinction between _Inglishee_
and _Duyche_ was known. He left a general impression that Kingozi was
the favourite son of the King, come from sheer friendship and curiosity
to see M'tela, whose fame was universal. For two hours the warriors
squatted, or walked about camp examining with carefully concealed
curiosity its various activities and strange belongings. Then all
disappeared. No more people appeared that day.

Kingozi knew well enough that this was a spying party sent directly
from M'tela's court; and that, pending its report, nothing more was to
be done. Cazi Moto's detailed description of what had been said and
done cheered his master wonderfully. By all the signs the simplest of
the white man's wonders were brand new to the visitors; _ergo_
Winkleman could not have arrived. If he were not yet at M'tela's court,
the chances seemed good that Simba and the magic bone had succeeded.

Nothing at present could be done. Kingozi sent Cazi Moto out to kill an
abundance of game. The little headman returned later to report the
extraordinary luck of two zebra to two cartridges (at thirty yards to
be sure!) and that after each kill very many _shenzis_ gathered to
examine the bullet wound, the gun, and the distance. They were
immensely excited, not at all awestricken, entirely friendly. There was
no indication of any desire to rob the hunters. Evidently, Kingozi
reflected, they were familiar with firearms by hearsay, and were deeply
interested at this first hand experience.

The safari remained encamped at this spot all the next day, and the day
succeeding. Natives came into camp, at first only the men,
hesitatingly; then the women. A brisk little trade sprang up for yams,
bananas, _m'wembe_ meal, eggs, and milk. No shrewder bargainer exists
than your African safari man, and these soon discovered that beads and
wire possessed great purchasing power in this unsophisticated country.
The bartering had to be done in sign language, as Swahili seemed to be
unknown; and no man in the safari understood this unknown tongue.
Kingozi sat in state before his tent, smoking his pipe--which he still
enjoyed in spite of his blindness--and awaiting events in that vast
patience so necessary to the successful African traveller. Occasionally
a group of the chatting natives would drift toward his throne, would
fall into awestricken silence, would stare, would drift away again; but
none addressed him. The Leopard Woman, obeying rules that Kingozi had
managed to convey as very strict, held apart. Only in the evening,
after the lion-fearing visitors had all departed, did they sit together
sociably by the fire. The nights at this elevation were cool--cold they
seemed to the heat-seasoned travellers.

There was not much conversation. Kingozi was lost in a deep brooding,
which she respected. The occasion was serious, and both knew it. During
the moment of decision the man's duty and principle had been the most
important matters in the world. Once the decision was irrevocably made,
however, these things fell below the horizon. There loomed only the
thought of perpetual blindness. Kingozi faced it bravely; but such a
fact requires adjustment, and in these hours of waiting the adjustments
were being made.

Only once or twice did Bibi-ya-chui utter the thoughts that continually
possessed her.

"It seems so foolish!" she complained to him. "You are making yourself
blind for always; and you are going to be a prisoner for long! If you
would go back, you would not be captured and held by Winkleman when you
reach M'tela!"

But such expostulations she knew to be vain, even as she uttered them.

At about nine o'clock of the third day Cazi Moto reported a file of
warriors, many warriors--"like the leaves of grass!" armed with spears
and shields, wearing black ostrich plumes, debouching from the grove a
mile across the way. At the same instant the Leopard Woman, her alarm
causing her to violate her instructions, came to Kingozi's camp.

"They attack us!" she cried. "They come in thousands! How can we resist
so many--and you blind! Tell me what I shall do!"

"There is no danger," Kingozi reassured her. "This is undoubtedly an
escort. No natives ever attack at this hour of the day. Their time is
just at first dawn."

She sighed with relief. Then a new thought struck her.

"But if they had wished to attack--at dawn--we have had no extra
guards--we have not fortified! What would prevent their killing us all?"

"Not a thing," replied Kingozi calmly. "We are too weak for resistance.
That is a chance we had to take. Now please go back to your tent. Cazi
Moto, strike camp, and get ready to safari."

The warriors of M'tela debouched on the open plain, seemingly without
end. The sun glinted from their upraised, polished spears; their
ostrich plumes swayed gently as though a wind ruffled a field of sombre
grain tassels; the anklets and leg bracelets clashed softly together to
produce in the aggregate a rhythmic marching cadence. Their front was
nearly a quarter of a mile in width. Rank after rank in succession
appeared: literally thousands. Drums roared and throbbed; and the
blowing of innumerable trumpets, fashioned mostly from the horns of
oryx and sing-sing, added to the martial ensemble.

The members of the safari were gathered in little knots, staring, wide
eyed with apprehension. Upon them descended zealous Cazi Moto. Even his
_kiboko_ had difficulty in breaking up the groups, in setting the men
at the commonplace occupations of breaking camp. Yet that must be done,
in all decent dignity; and at length it was done.

The first ranks were now fairly at the outskirts of camp; the last had
but just left the woods. The plains were literally covered with
spearmen. A magnificent sight! They came to a halt, raised their spears
horizontally above their heads; the horns and drums redoubled their
din; a mighty, concerted shout rent the air. Then abruptly fell dead
silence.

From the front rank a tall, impressive savage stepped forward, pacing
with dignified stride. He walked directly to Kingozi's chair.

"_Jambo, bwana!_" He uttered his greeting in deep chest tones that
rumbled like distant thunder.

"_Jambo, n'ympara_," responded Kingozi in a mild tone. By his use of
the word _n'ympara_--headman--he indicated his perfect understanding of
the fact that this man, for all his magnificence, for all the strength
of his escort, was not M'tela himself, but only one of M'tela's
ministers.

"_Jambo, bwana m'kubwa!_" rolled the latter.

"_Jambo_" replied Kingozi.

"_Jambo, bwana m'kubwa-sana!_"

"_Jambo_."

"_Jambo, bwana m'kubwa-sana!_"

"_Jambo_."

Having thus climbed by easy steps to the superlative greeting, the
minister uttered his real message. As befitted his undoubted position
in court, he spoke excellent Swahili.

"I am come to take you to the _manyatta_ of M'tela," he announced.

"That is well," replied Kingozi calmly. "In one hour we shall go."



CHAPTER XXV


M'TELA

They set off through the beautiful country in their usual order of
march. The warriors of M'tela accompanied them, walking ahead, behind,
and on either flank. The drums roared incessantly, the trumpets of horn
sounded. It was a triumphal procession, but rather awe-inspiring. The
safari men did their best to imitate Kingozi's attitude of
indifference; and succeeded fairly well, but their eyes rolled in their
heads.

The Leopard Woman sat her donkey, and surveyed it all with appreciative
eyes. In spite of Kingozi's reassuring words, the impression of savage
power as the warriors debouched from the wood had been vivid enough to
give emphasis to a strong feeling of relief when their intentions
proved peaceful. The revulsion accentuated her enjoyment of the
picturesque aspects of the scene. The shining, naked bodies, the waving
ostrich plumes, the glitter of spears, the glint of polished iron, the
wild, savage expression of the men, the throb of barbaric music
appealed to her artistic sense. In a way her mind was at rest. At least
the striving was over. Kingozi had made his decision; it was no use to
struggle against it longer. She had no doubt that now they were
virtually prisoners, that they were being conducted in this impressive
manner to a chieftain already won over by Winkleman. The latter had had
more than the time necessary to carry out his purpose. Kingozi's
persistence was maddeningly futile; but it was part of the man, and she
could not but acquiesce.

They marched across the open grassy plain, and into the woods beyond. A
wide, beaten track took them through, as though they walked in a lofty
tunnel with green walls through which one could look, but beyond which
one might not pass. Then out into the sunlight again, skirting a swamp
of plumed papyrus with many waterfowl, and swarms of insects, and birds
wheeling swiftly catching the insects, and other larger birds soaring
grandly above on the watch-out for what might chance. This swamp was
like a green river flowing bank high between the hills. It twisted out
of sight around wooded promontories. And the hills, constantly rising
in height, crowned with ever-thickening forests, extended as far as the
eye could reach.

At the end of the straight vista they turned sharp to the right and
climbed a tongue of land--what would be called a "hog's-back" in the
West. It was grown sparsely with trees, and commanded a wide outlook.
Now the sinuous course of the papyrus swamp could be followed for miles
in its vivid green; and the tops of the forest trees lay spread like a
mantle. The top of the "hog's-back" had been flattened, and on it stood
M'tela's palace.

The Leopard Woman stared curiously. There was not much to be seen. A
high stockade of posts and wattle shut off the view, but over it could
be distinguished a thatched roof. It was rectangular instead of
circular and appeared to be at least forty feet long--a true, royal
palace. Smaller roofs surrounded it. Outside the gate stood several
more of the gorgeous spearmen, rigidly at attention. Not another soul
was in sight.

But whatever seemed to lack either in the cordiality or curiosity of
the inhabitants was more than made up for by the escort. With admirable
military precision, a precision that Kingozi would have appreciated
could he have seen it, they deployed across the wide open space at the
front of the plateau. The drums lined up before them. In the echoing
enclosure of the forest walls the noise was prodigious. And then
abruptly, as before, it fell. In the silence the voice of the old
headman was heard:

"Here will be found the way to the guest houses," he urged gently.

The ragged safari, carrying its loads, plunged again into a forest
path, walking single file, a tatterdemalion crew. And yet a philosophic
observer might have caught a certain nonchalance, a faint superiority
of bearing on the part of these scarecrows; ridiculous when considered
against the overwhelming numbers, the military spruceness, the savage
formidability of the wild hordes that surrounded them. And if he had
been an experienced as well as a philosophic observer he could have
named the quality that informed them. Even in these truly terrifying,
untried conditions it persisted--the white man's _prestige_.

The forest path, wide and well-trodden, led them a scant quarter mile
to a cleared wide space on the very edge of the hill, which here fell
abruptly away. A large circular guest house occupied the centre point,
and other smaller houses surrounded it at a respectful distance. To the
right hand were the tops of trees on a lower elevation; to the left and
at the rear the solid wall of forest; immediately in front a wide
outlook over the papyrus swamp and the partly clothed hills beyond.

Their guides--for there were several--indicated the guest houses, and
silently disappeared. The safari was alone with its own devices.

Kingozi's practical voice broke the slight awe that all this savage
magnificence had imposed.

"Cazi Moto!" he commanded, "tell me what is here."

He listened attentively while the wizen-faced little headman gave a
detailed account, not only of the present dispositions, but also of
what had been seen during the short march to M'tela's stronghold. At
the conclusion of this recital he called to the Leopard Woman.

"I am here, near you," she answered.

"You must be my eyes for this," he told her. "Look into the large guest
house. Is it clean? Is it fairly new?"

She reported favourably as to these points.

"I am sorry, but I must take it over for myself," he said. "Matter not
of comfort, but of prestige. You would do best to pitch your tent
somewhere near. Cazi Moto, let the men make camp as usual."

"Very well," she agreed to her part of this program. Her manner was
very gentle; and she looked on him, could he have known it, with eyes
of a tender compassion. His was a brave heart, but Winkleman must long
since have arrived----

She moved slowly away to superintend the placing of her tent,
reflecting on these matters. It was decent of Winkleman to keep himself
in the background just at first. Time enough to convince poor blind
Kingozi that the game was up when he had to some extent recovered from
the strain and fatigue of the long journey. But Winkleman was a good
sort. She knew him: a big, hearty, bearded Bavarian, polyglot,
intensely scientific, with a rolling deep voice. He must have had ten
days--a week anyway--to use his acknowledged arts and influence on the
savage king. Kingozi had said a week would be enough--and Kingozi knew!
She sighed deeply as she thought of the doom to which his own obstinacy
had condemned that remarkable man. Her eyes wandered to where he sat in
his canvas chair, superintending through the ever-efficient Cazi Moto
the details of the camp. His shoulders were sagging forward wearily,
and his face in repose fell into lines of infinite sadness. Her heart
melted within her; and in a sudden revulsion she flamed against
Winkleman and all his diabolical efficiency. After all, this little
corner of an unknown land could not mean so much to the general result,
and it would be so glorious a consolation to a brave man's blindness!
Then she became ashamed of herself as a traitor. Her tent was now
ready; so she entered it, bathed, clad herself in her silks, and hung
the jewel on her forehead. Once more the serene mistress of herself,
she came forth to view the sights.

It was by now near the setting of the sun. The forest shadows were
rising. Colobus were calling, and birds. Up a steep trail from the
swamp came a long procession of women and little girls. They were all
stark naked, and each carried on her head an earthen vessel or a
greater or lesser gourd according to her strength. They passed near the
large guest house, and there poured the water from their vessels into a
series of big jars. Thus every drop of water had to be transported up
the hill, not only for the guest camp, but for all M'tela's thousands
somewhere back in the mysterious forest. These women were of every age
and degree of attractiveness; but all were slender, and each possessed
a fine-textured skin of red bronze. Except the very old, whose breasts
had fallen, they were finely shaped. The rays of the sun outlined them.
They seemed quite unaware of their nakedness. Their faces were
good-humoured; and some of them even smiled shyly at the white woman
standing by her tent. Having poured out the water, they disappeared
down the forest path.

Thence shortly appeared other women with huge burdens of firewood
carried by means of a strap, after the fashion of the Canadian
tump-line; and still others with _m'wembe_, bananas, yams, eggs,
_n'jugu_ nuts, and gourds of smoked milk. Evidently M'tela did not do
things by halves.

The customary routine of the camp went on. Supper was served as usual;
and as usual the Leopard Woman joined Kingozi for the meal. The
occasion was constrained on her side, easy on his. He asked her various
questions as to details of the surroundings which she answered
accurately but a little absently. She spoke from the surface of her
mind. Within herself she was listening and waiting--listening for the
first sound of shod feet, wailing for the moment when Winkleman should
see fit to declare himself and end the suspense.

So high was this inner tension that she fairly jumped from her chair as
a demoniac shrieking wail burst from the forest near at hand. It was
answered farther away. Other voices took up the cry. It was as though a
thousand devils in shuddering pain were giving tongue.

"Tree hyraxes," Kingozi reassured her.

"Those tiny beasts!" she cried incredulously.

"Just so. Sweet voices, haven't they? Some of these people must be
wearing hyrax robes."

And indeed she remembered seeing some of the soft, beautiful karosses.

But now from the direction of M'tela's palaces arose a confused murmur
that swelled as a multitude drew near. The drums began again. Soon, the
Leopard Woman described, torches began to flash through the trees. At
the same moment Cazi Moto came to report.

"Build up a big fire," commanded Kingozi. He turned to the Leopard
Woman.

"This is likely to be an all-night session," he said resignedly. "If
you want to get out of it, I advise you to go now. Not that you'll be
able to get any sleep. But if you stay, you must stick it out. It would
never do to leave in the middle of the performance. Some of it you
won't like."

"What is it to be?"

"Ceremonial dances, I fancy."

"I think I shall stay," she said slowly.

In her heart she thought it extremely unlikely that the performance
would last all night. Indeed her own opinion was that Kingozi would be
a prisoner within an hour.

Kingozi settled himself stolidly in his chair before the fire that was
now beginning to eat its way through an immense pile of fuel, where,
during all subsequent events, he remained in the same attitude.

The Leopard Woman, on the contrary looked with all her eyes. The
torches came nearer. People began to pour out from the woods. There
were warriors in full panoply; lithe, naked men carrying only wands
peeled fresh to the white; women hung heavily with cowries; other women
with neither garment nor ornament, their bodies oiled and glistening. A
deep, rolling chant arose from hundreds of throats, punctuated and
carried by a sort of shrill, intermittent ululation. The drums were
there, but for the moment they were not being beaten in cadence, only
rubbed until they roared in undertone to the men's chanting.

All these people divided to right and left in the clearing of the guest
camp, and took their stations. More and more appeared. The space
filled, filled solidly, until at last there was no break in the mass of
humanity except for a circle forty feet in diameter about the fire.

Suddenly a group of fifteen or twenty men detached themselves from the
main body and leaped into this cleared space. The great chant still
rolled on; but now a varied theme was introduced by a chorus of the
nearby women. The dancers were oiled to a high state of polish, naked
except for a single plume apiece and a sort of tasselled tail hung to a
string belt. They clustered in a close group near the fire, facing a
common centre. In deep chest tones they pronounced the word _goom_, at
the same time half crouching; then in sharp staccato head tones the
word _zup_, at the same time rising swiftly up and toward their common
centre. It was like the ebb and surge of a wave, the alternate smooth
crouch and spring over and over again--_goom, zup! goom, zup! goom,
zup!_--and behind it the twinkle of torches, the gleam of eyes, the
roll of the deep-voiced chanting.

Endlessly they repeated this performance. The Leopard Woman, watching,
at last had to close her eyes in order to escape the hypnotic quality
of it. In spite of herself her senses swam in the rhythmic monotony.
All outside the focus of the dancers turned gray--_goom, zup! goom,
zup!_--was it never to end? And then it seemed to her that it never
would end, that thus it would go on forever, and that so it was just
and right. The men were tireless. The sweat glistened on their bodies,
but their eyes gleamed fanatically. She floated off on a tide of
irrelevant thoughts.

Hours later, as it seemed to her, she came to herself suddenly. Kingozi
still sat stolidly in his chair. The dancers were retiring step by
step, still with unabated vigour, continuing their performance. They
melted into the crowd.

Now a pellmell of bizarre figures broke out. They were bedecked
fantastically: some of them were painted with white clay; one was clad
in the skins of beasts. There was no rhythm or order to their entrance;
but immediately they began to dash here and there shouting.

"It is the Lion Dance, _memsahib_," Cazi Moto told her in a low voice.
"That one is the lion; and they hunt him with spears in the long grass."

The chase went forward with some verisimilitude, and yet with a
symbolic syncopation that indicated the Lion Dance was a very ancient
and conventional ceremony. These dancers gave way to a chorus of
singers. For interminable hours, so it seemed, they chanted a high,
shrill recitative, carried in fugue by deeper voices. The burden of the
song was evidently an impromptu. Occasionally some peculiarly apt or
pleasing phrase was caught up for endless repetition. And in the
background, against the farther background of the undistinguished
masses, those who had formerly carried on their performances in the
full glare of front-row publicity and the campfire, now continued their
efforts almost unabated. The impressive utterers of the _goom-zup_
shibboleth, the slayers of the symbolical lion, carried on still.
Indeed as the night wore on, and one group of dancers succeeded
another, the homogeneous crowd began to break into varied activity.
Each took his turn as principal, then fell back to form part of the
variegated background. Each dance was different. Warriors fully armed
clashed shield and spear; witch doctors crouched and sprang; women
stamped in rhythm; the elephant was hunted, the crops sown and
gathered, all the activities of community and individual life were
danced, the frankness of some saved from obscenity only by the
unconscious earnestness of their exposition and the evidence of their
symbolism that they were not the expression of the moment but very
ancient customs.

The Leopard Woman watched it all with shining eyes. The emotion of the
picturesque, the call of savage wildness, the contagion of a mounting
community excitement caused the blood to race through her veins. The
drums throbbed against her heart as the pulse throbbed against her
temples. She resisted an actual impulse to rise from her chair, to
throw herself with abandon into an orgy of rhythm and motion. Perfectly
she understood those who, having reached the breaking point, dashed
madly through the fire scattering embers and coals, or who darted
forward to kiss ecstatically the white man's feet, or who reached a
wild paroxysm of nerves to collapse the next instant into exhaustion.
She was brought to herself by Kingozi's calm voice.

"Sweet riot, isn't it?" he remarked. "They're working themselves up to
a high pitch. It's always that way. You would think they'd drop from
sheer weariness."

"How long will they keep it up?" she asked, drawing a deep breath, and
trying to speak naturally.

"So it got you, too, a little, did it?" he said curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"The excitement. It's contagious unless you are accustomed to it. I've
seen safe and sane youngsters go quite off their heads at these shows,
and dash down and caper around like the maddest _shenzi_ of them all.
Felt it myself at first. It draws you; like wanting to jump off when
you look down from a high place." He was talking evenly and carelessly.
"Enough of this sort of thing will make a crowd see anything.
Devil-worshippers for instance, they see red devils, after they work up
to it, not a doubt of it."

"Thank you," she answered his evident purpose of bringing her to
herself.

"All right now, eh?"

"Yes."

"Well, to answer your question; I've known dances to last two days."

"Heaven!" she cried, dismayed.

"But this is to prepare a suitable entrance for his majesty. We'll hear
from him along toward daylight." He held out his wrist watch toward
her. "What time now?"

Somehow the simple action seemed to her pathetic. Her eyes filled, and
she stooped as though to kiss the outstretched hand. Never again would
the worn old wrist watch serve its owner, except thus, vicariously!

"It is ten minutes past the twelve," she answered in a stifled voice.

"We must settle down to it. If you want tea or something to eat, tell
Cazi Moto."

He resumed his stolid demeanour.

The dancing continued. Every once in a while women threw armfuls of
fuel on the blaze. The tree hyraxes, out-screeched and outnumbered,
fell into silence or withdrew. Above the stars shone serenely; and all
about stood the trees of the ancient forest. Outside the hot, leaping
red light they drew back aloof and still. They had seen many dances,
many ebbs and flows of men's passions; for they were very old.

The Leopard Woman's vision blurred after a time. She was getting
drowsy. Her thoughts strayed. But always they circled back to the same
point. She found herself wondering whether Winkleman would appear
to-night.

A few hours earlier than Kingozi had predicted, in fact not far after
two o'clock, the wild dancing died to absolute immobility and absolute
silence, and M'tela arrived.

He appeared walking casually as though out for a stroll, emerging from
the end of the wide forest path. Central African natives are never
obese--comic papers to the contrary notwithstanding. Nevertheless,
M'tela was a large man, amply built, his muscles overlaid by smoother,
softer flesh. He possessed dignity without aloofness, a rare
combination, and one that invariably indicates a true feeling of
superiority. As he moved forward he glanced lazily and good-humouredly
to right and left at his people, in the manner of a genial grown-up
among small children. He wore a piece of cotton cloth dyed black, so
draped as to leave one arm and shoulder bare, a polished bone armlet,
and a tarboush that must have been traded through many hands.

"The _sultani, bwana_," murmured the ever-alert Cazi Moto.

M'tela wandered to where Kingozi sat. The white man did not move, but
appeared to stare absently straight before him. At ten paces M'tela
stopped and deliberately inspected his visitor for a full half-minute.
Then he advanced and dropped to the stool an obsequious and zealous
slave placed for him.

"_Jambo_, papa," he said casually.

His manner was perfect. The thousand or so human beings who crowded the
clearing might not have existed. Himself and Kingozi, two equals, were
settling themselves for an informal little chat in the midst of
solitudes. His large intelligent eye passed over the Leopard Woman, but
if her appearance aroused in him any curiosity or other interest no
flicker of expression betrayed the fact.

As he heard the form of address a brief gleam of satisfaction crossed
Kingozi's face. Whether it has been transferred from the English, or
has been adopted more directly from the babbling of infants, "papa" is
perfectly good Swahili. When M'tela addressed Kingozi as "papa" he not
only acknowledged him as a guest, but he admitted the white man to the
intimacy that exists between equals in rank.

M'tela was friendly.



CHAPTER XXVI


WAITING

Two days passed. By the end of that time it had been borne in on the
Leopard Woman that Winkleman had not yet arrived. Kingozi and M'tela
circled each other warily, like two strange dogs, though all the time
with an appearance of easy and intimate cordiality. As yet Kingozi had
neither confided to the savage the fact of his blindness nor visited
the royal palace. The latter ceremony he had evaded under one plea or
another; and the infliction he had managed to conceal by the simple
expedient of remaining in his canvas chair. Later would be time enough
to acknowledge so great a weakness; later when the subtle and
specialized diplomacy he so assiduously applied would have had time to
do its work.

For M'tela was initially friendly. This was a great satisfaction to
Kingozi, though none knew better than he how any chance gust of
influence or passion could veer the wind. Still it was something to
start on; and something more or less unexpected and unhoped for. M'tela
himself supplied the reason in the course of one of their interminable
conversations.

"I am pleased to see the white man," he said. "Never has the white man
come to my country before; but always I knew he would come. One time
long ago my brother who is king of the people near the Great Water said
these words to me: 'My brother, some day white men will come to you.
They will be few, and they will come with a small safari, and their
wealth will look small to you. But make no mistake. Where these few
white men who look poor come from are many more--like the leaves of the
grass--and their wealth is great and their wonders many; and for each
white man that is speared ten more come, without end, like water
flowing down a hill. I know this to be so, for I am an old man, and I
have fought, and of all those who fought the white man in my youth only
I remain.' So I remembered these words of my brother always."

"You are a wise man, oh, King," said Kingozi, "for those words are
true."

Hourly Kingozi cursed his eyes. With this man so well-disposed a day--a
single hour--of the white man's miracles would have cemented his
friendship. But Kingozi was deprived at a stroke of the great
advantages to be gained by cutting out paper dolls, making coins
disappear and appear again, and all the rest of the bag of tricks. He
had not even the alternative advantage of a store of rich gifts with
which to buy the chief's favour. This crude alternative to subtle
diplomacy he had scorned when making out a small safari for a long
journey.

To be sure he was not doing badly. A box of matches and instructions in
the use thereof went far as an evidence of munificence. Sparingly he
doled out his few treasures--the gaudy blankets; coils of brass,
copper, and iron wires; beads; snuff; knives, and the like. They were
received with every mark of appreciation. In return firewood, water,
and food of all sorts came in abundantly. But these, Kingozi well knew,
were only temporizing evidences of good feeling. Time would come when
M'tela would ceremoniously bring in his real present--assuredly
magnificent as beseeming his power. Then, Kingozi knew, he should be
able to reciprocate in degree. He could not do so; he could not use his
accustomed methods; he could not even exhibit his trump card--the
deadly wonder of the weapon that could kill at a distance.

Nevertheless he would have awaited the outcome with serene indifference
could he have been certain of a dear field. The arrival of Winkleman
would, he secretly admitted, upset him completely. Winkleman--another
white man, possessed of powers he did not possess, of wonders he did
not own, of knowledge equal to his--would have no difficulty in taking
the lead from him. Certainly Winkleman had not yet arrived, and he was
long overdue. On the other hand, neither had Simba nor Mali-ya-bwana
reported; and they were equally overdue. These were ticklish times; and
Kingozi had great difficulty in sitting calmly in his canvas chair
listening to the endless inconsequences of a savage.

The Leopard Woman could not understand how he did it. Her inner nervous
tension, due as much to a conflict as to suspense, drove her nearly
frantic. She knew that Winkleman's appearance spelled defeat for
Kingozi; she knew that she should hope for that appearance--and deep in
her heart she knew that she dreaded it! But as time went on without
tangible results, she began to long for it as a relief. At least it
would be over then. And Kingozi--oh, brave heart! oh, pathetic
figure--if anything could make it up to him----!

The morning of the third day came. Usual camp activities carried them
on until nine o'clock. Kingozi was settled in his chair awaiting what
the day would bring forth. The Leopard Woman coming across from her
tent to the guest house stopped short at what she saw.

Across the way, a half or three-quarters of a mile distant, beyond the
green papyrus swamp, on the slope from the edge of the forest, appeared
a long file of men bearing burdens on their heads. Even at this
distance she made out the colour of occasional garments of khaki cloth,
or the green of canvas on the packs.

She arrived at Kingozi's side simultaneously with Cazi Moto.

"A safari comes, _bwana_," said the latter. "It is across the swamp."

Kingozi's figure stiffened.

"What kind of a safari?" he asked quietly.

The Leopard Woman answered him. There was no note of jubilation in her
voice.

"It is a white man's safari," she told him. "I can see khaki--and they
are marching as a white man's safari marches."

"Get my glasses," he told Cazi Moto. Then to her, his voice vibrating
with emotion too long controlled: "Look and tell me, fairly. I must
know. Whatever the outcome you must tell me truth. It will not matter.
I can do nothing."

"I will tell you the truth," she promised, raising the glasses.

For some moments she looked intently.

"It is Winkleman's safari," she announced sadly. "I have been able to
see. It is a very large safari with many loads," she added.

Kingozi's face turned gray. He dropped his face into his hands. Gently
she laid her hand on his bowed head. Thus they waited, while the
safari, evidently under local guidance, plunged into some hidden path
through the papyrus, and so disappeared.



CHAPTER XXVII


THE MAGIC BONE

Let us now follow Simba, Mali-ya-bwana, and their six men and the two
strange _shenzis_ who were to act as guides.

They started off across the veldt at about four o'clock of the
afternoon and travelled rapidly until dark. The gait they took was not
a run, but it got them over the ground at four and a half to five miles
an hour. Shortly after sundown they stopped for an hour, ate, drank,
and lay flat on their backs. Then they arose, lighted a candle end in
the mica lantern, and resumed their journey. Thus they travelled day
and night for three days. There seemed to be neither plan nor
regularity to their journeying. Whenever they became tired enough to
sleep, they lay down and slept for a little while; whenever they became
hungry, they ate; and whenever they thirsted, they drank, paying no
attention whatever to the time of day, the state of their larder, or
the distance to more water. No ideas of conservation hampered them in
the least. If the water gave out, they argued, they would be thirsty;
but it was as well to be thirsty later from lack of water than to be
thirsty now from some silly idea of abstention. No white man could have
travelled successfully under that system. Nevertheless, the little band
held together and arrived in the fringe of hills fit and comparatively
fresh.

Here they encountered people belonging to M'tela's tribes; but their
guides seemed to vouch for them, and they passed without trouble.
Indeed they were here enabled to get more food, and to waste no time
hunting. At noon of another day, surmounting a ridge, they looked down
on a marching safari. The two _shenzi_ guides pointed and grinned, much
pleased with themselves. Their pleasure was short lived; for they were
promptly seized, disarmed, and tied together. The grieved astonishment
of their expressions almost immediately faded into fatalistic
stolidity. So many things happen in Africa!

Mali-ya-bwana and one of the other men proceeded rapidly ahead on the
general line of march. The rest paralleled the safari below. After an
hour the scouts returned with news of a water-hole where, undoubtedly,
the strange safari would camp. All then hurried on.

Concealed in a thicket Simba proceeded with great zest to make himself
over into a _shenzi_. In every savage is a good deal of the small boy;
so this disguising himself pleased him immensely. Taking the spear in
one hand and the "sacred bone" reverently in the other, he set out to
intercept the safari.

It came within the hour. Simba almost unremarked regarded it curiously.
There were over a hundred men, all of tribes unknown to him with the
exception of a dozen who evidently performed the higher offices. The
common porters were indeed _shenzis_--wild men--picked up from jungle
and veldt as they were needed; and not at all of the professional
porter class to be had at Mombasa; Nairobi, Dar-es-salaam, or Zanzibar.
Simba's eyes passed over them contemptuously, but rested with more
interest on the smaller body of _askaris_, headmen, and gun bearers.
These also were of tribes strange to him; but of East African types
with which he was familiar. They were all dressed in a sort of uniform
of khaki, wore caps with a curtain hanging behind, and arm bands gayly
emblazoned with imperial eagles. All this was very impressive. Simba
conceived a respect for this white man's importance. Evidently he was a
_bwana m'kubwa_. The supposed savage experienced a growing excitement
over the task he had undertaken. All his training had taught him to
respect the white man, as such; and now he was called upon to abduct
forcibly one of the sacred breed--and such a specimen! Only Simba's
undoubted force of character, and the veneration his long association
with Kingozi had inculcated, sustained him.

For Winkleman was a big man in every way: tall, broad, thick, with a
massive head, large features, and such a tremendous black beard! Well
had he deserved his native name of _Bwana_ Nyele--the master with the
mane.

Simba awaited the moment of greatest confusion in the placing and
pitching of the camp, and then advanced timidly, holding out the bone
Kingozi had given him. His courage and faith were very low. They
revived instantly as he saw the immediate effect. It was just as
Kingozi had told him it would be; and as there was nothing on earth in
a bit of dry bone that could accomplish such an effect except magic,
Simba thenceforward went on with his adventure in completed confidence.

For at sight of the bone _Bwana_ Nyele's eyes lit up, he uttered an
astonishing bellow of delight, and sprang forward with such agility for
so large a man that he almost succeeded in snatching the talisman from
Simba's hands. Acting precisely on his instructions the latter backed
away, pointing over the hill.

"Where did you get that?" Winkleman demanded.

Simba continued to point.

"Give it me."

Simba started away, still pointing. Winkleman followed a few steps.

"There is more?" he asked. "Do you speak Swahili?"

"Many more, _bwana_," Simba replied in the atrocious Swahili Kingozi
had ordered. "Over there only a little distance."

Everything turned out as Kingozi had promised. Bwana Nyele asked
several more questions, received no replies, finally bellowed:

"But lead me there, _m'buzi!_ I would see!"

Simba guided him up the hill. At the appointed spot they fell upon him
and bore him to the earth in spite of his strength, and bound his hands
behind his back. Then Simba wrapped the magic bone reverently in its
cloth. Certainly it was wonderful magic.

Winkleman put up a good fight, but once he felt himself definitely
overpowered he ceased his struggles. He was helped to his feet. A
glance at his captors taught him that these were safari men and not
savages of the country; and, with full knowledge of the general
situation, he was not long in guessing out his present plight. But now
was not the time for talk.

A half-hour's walk took the party to a second water-hole, the
indications for which Simba had already noted on his little scouting
tour. There they proceeded to make camp. The six porters began with
their swordlike _pangas_ to cut poles and wattles, to peel off long
strips of inner bark from the thorn trees which would serve as withes.
Then they began the construction of a _banda_, one of the quickly built
little thatched sheds, open at both ends. At sight of this Winkleman
swore deeply. He was fairly trapped, and knew it; but the _banda_
indicated that he was to be held prisoner in this one spot for at least
some days. However, wise man in native ways, he said nothing and made
no objection. But his keen wide eyes took in every detail.

When the _banda_ was finished and a big pile of the dried hay had been
spread as a couch Simba approached respectfully but firmly, took
_Bwana_ Nyele's helmet from his head, his spine-pad from his back, and
his shoes from his feet. In this strategy Winkleman with reluctance
admired the white man's hands. Without head and spine covering of some
sort he could not travel a mile under the tropic sun; without foot
covering or a light he would be helpless at night. Of course these
things could be improvised; but not easily. He stretched himself on the
hay and awaited events.

The men built a fire and gathered around it. They were cooking, but at
the same time the two whom Winkleman recognized as leaders conferred
earnestly and at great length. Had he been at their elbows he would
have heard the following:

"The magic of this bone is a very great magic," Simba was saying. "All
happened exactly as _Bwana_ Kingozi told us. Now is the fifth day.
There remain now nine days to wait until we must bring this _m'zungu_
to _Bwana_ Kingozi at the _manyatta_ of M'tela."

"It is indeed great magic," agreed Mali-ya-bwana. "How many days is the
_manyatta?_"

"I do not know. These _shenzis_ should know; but they talk only monkey
talk. Here, let us try." He drew one of the prisoners one side.
"M'tela," he enunciated slowly.

The savage nodded, and pointed the direction with his protruded lower
lip.

Simba indicated the sun, and swept his hand across the arc of the
heavens. Then he looked inquiringly at the other and held up in rapid
success first one, then two, then three fingers. The savage was
puzzled. Simba went through the movements of a man walking, pronounced
the name of M'tela, pointed out the direction, and then repeated his
previous pantomime. A light broke on the _shenzi_. He held up four
fingers.

Simba next called to Mali-ya-bwana to interrogate the other prisoner
apart. As the latter also reported M'tela four days distant--when he
understood--this was accepted as the truth.

"Then we remain in camp five days," they concluded, after working out
the subtraction.

"But," intervened one of the porters, "we have no more _potio_."

"I have the _bwana's_ gun," Simba pointed out, "and also the gun of
this _m'zungu_. There is here plenty of game."

"To eat meat always is not well," grumbled the porter.

"To eat _kiboko_ (whip) is always possible," replied Simba grimly.

"Nevertheless," said Mali-ya-bwana, who as co-leader was privileged to
more open speech, "_potio_ and meat are better than meat only."

Simba looked at him inquiringly.

"You have a thought?"

Mali-ya-bwana leaned forward.

"It is this: If the bone has such great magic that thus we can take
prisoner a mighty _bwana_ like this, surely it is powerful enough to
fight also against safari men."

Simba pondered this.

"Every one knows that a white man is a great Lord," urged
Mali-ya-bwana, "and that it is useless for the black man to fight
against him. This is true always. Every man knows this."

"Black men have killed white men," Simba objected.

"Only when the numbers were many. Even then many more black men also
have died, so that the painting for mourning went through many tribes.
Never before have men like us taken a white man thus easily."

"That is true."

"Then since this magic bone can subdue for us a great lord of a
_m'zungu_, surely it will also subdue for us a safari of black men like
ourselves, a safari that the _m'zungu_ has held in his hand."

"That is true."

"And that safari must have much _potio_"

"That also is true."

"Let you--or me, it does not matter--take the magic bone, and with it
take also this safari and its _potio_."

"I will do it," assented Simba after a moment. "You will stay here to
carry out the _bwana's_ orders."



CHAPTER XXVIII


SIMBA'S ADVENTURE

In the course of the evening Winkleman, conceiving that the right
moment had come, set himself seriously to establishing a dominance over
these members of an inferior race. He was a skilled man at this, none
more so; nevertheless he failed. For in the persons of Simba and
Mali-ya-bwana he was dealing not with natives, but with another white
man as shrewd and experienced as himself. Kingozi had from the
abundance of his knowledge foreseen exactly what methods and arguments
the Bavarian would use, and in his final instructions he had dramatized
almost exactly the scene that was now taking place. Simba had his
replies ready made for him. When an unexpected argument caught him
unaware, he merely fingered surreptitiously his magic bone, and
remained serenely silent. Winkleman might as well have talked at a
stone wall. He soon recognized this, as also that the man had been
coached minutely.

"Who is your _bwana?_" he asked at length.

"He is a very great _bwana_," Simba replied.

"His name?"

"He has many names among many people."

"What name do you call him?"

"I call him _bwana m'kubwa_ (great master)," replied Simba blandly.

Winkleman gave up this tack and tried another.

"What is his business? What does he do here?"

"His business is to fight."

"Ah!" ejaculated Winkleman. "To fight!"

"Yes. His business is to fight the elephant."

Winkleman swore. He could get at nothing this way. He must give his
mind to escape.

Early the next morning Simba started. He took with him, of course, his
magic bone; but, like a canny general, he carried also the rifle.
Mali-ya-bwana was left sufficiently armed by Winkleman's weapon and the
sixteen cartridges captured on his person.

By the water-hole Simba found the safari encamped. At sight of his
khaki-clad figure several men ran to meet him. Their countenances were
of a cast unfamiliar to Simba. He looked at them calmly.

"Does some one speak Swahili?" he inquired.

"_N'dio!_" they assented in chorus.

Simba looked about him. This was indeed a great safari, and a rich
_bwana_. The tent, of green canvas, was what is known as a "four-man
tent"; that is, it took four men to carry it. The pile of loads in the
centre of the cleared space was high. There were three tin boxes and
many chop boxes among them.

The group moved slowly across the open space, stared at by curious
eyes, and came to a halt before a drill tent slightly larger than the
little kennels assigned to the ordinary porters. Here over a fire
bubbled a _sufuria_, the African cooking pot, tended by a naked small
boy. A clean mat woven in bright colours carpeted the ground; on this
all seated themselves.

It would be tedious to relate each step of the ensuing negotiations.
These simple Africans would have needed no instruction from
civilization to carry on the most long-winded submarine controversy in
the most approved and circuitous manner. At the end of one solid hour
of grave and polite exchange it developed that the white man was not at
present in camp. Somewhat later Simba permitted it to be understood
that his own white man was not in the immediate neighbourhood. These
gems of knowledge were separated by much leisurely chatter, and
occasional and liberal dippings into the _sufuria_. And thus was the
beginning and the end of the first day.

At noon of the second day, after a refreshing night's sleep, Simba
moved up his forces.

"Your white man is known to me," said he.

Some one remarked appropriately.

"He is a prisoner in my camp."

"In the camp of your white man."

"In my camp. I myself have taken him prisoner," insisted Simba.

"You are telling lies," said the headman of the safari.

Simba took this calmly. In Africa to call a man a liar is no insult.

"It is the truth," said he. "With my own hands I took him; and he lies
bound in my camp."

"These are lies," persisted the headman. "How can such things be? That
you took a white man, a great _bwana?_ That is foolishness. That has
never been and could never be. How could you accomplish such a feat?"

"I have a magic."

"Ho!" cried the headman derisively. "Everybody knows that a magic is
not good against the white man. That has been tried many times!"

"This is a white man's magic."

The statement made a visible impression.

"Let us see it," they demanded.

But Simba refused. He was entirely at ease. In his ordinary habit he
would have become excited over being doubted, he would have wrangled,
have shouted--in short, would have been but one unit among many equals.
But the possession of the magic bone gave him a confidence from outside
himself. For the time being he slipped genuinely into the attitude of
the white man; became a super-Simba, as it were. This dignity and
sureness commenced to have its effect. Almost they began to believe
that Simba's words might be true!

At three o'clock the battle closed in.

"My men need _potio_" said Simba. "Let ten loads be put aside, and let
ten of these _shenzis_ be told to carry them where I shall say."

But the headman leaped to his feet.

"Who are you to give orders?" he cried. "These things belong to my
white man."

"Your white man is my property," replied Simba superbly; and with no
further parley he shot the headman dead.

Here indeed showed the super-Simba. The dispute might in the ordinary
course of events have come to shooting; but only after hours of excited
wrangling, and as a climax worked up to in a crescendo of emotion. This
expeditious nipping in the bud was a thoroughly white-manly proceeding.

The headman whirled about under the impact of the high-power bullet at
so close a range, and collapsed face down. Simba sat calmly in his
place. He did not even trouble to place himself in a better defensive
attitude against possible attack. His confidence in his magic bone was
growing to sublimity as he noted how efficiently it carried him through
every crisis. All over the camp the porters, startled, leaped to their
feet. But at the headmen's fire no one moved. They would ordinarily
have been afraid neither of Simba nor Simba's weapons. Firearms were
familiar to them. The usual sequence to Simba's deed would have been an
immediately defunct Simba. But his serene confidence in his magic
caught their credulity.

The white man's _prestige_ and privileges were invested in him.

"Yours is undoubtedly a great magic," said Winkleman's gun bearer
politely. "Let us talk."

They talked at great length, without bothering to remove the dead
headman. The result was finally a continued respect for Simba, his
magic bone, and his ready rifle; but a lingering though polite
incredulity as to the matter of Winkleman--_Bwana_ Nyele. It was
possible that Simba had killed the latter, of course. But to have taken
him alive--and to be holding him prisoner----

It was suggested that the various upper men of this safari accompany
Simba to the place of incarceration. Declined for obvious reasons.
Proposition modified to exclude all visitors but one. Still declined.

The debate summarized in the above short paragraph consumed six hours.
What is time in the face of an African eternity? And in Africa, as
every one knows, the feeling of eternity is an accompaniment of
every-day life.

After some refreshments the sitting rose. Simba did not spend the night
in camp. That did not seem to him wise. Instead he withdrew to a place
he had already marked, deftly built himself a withe platform in the
spread of an acacia, and slept soundly above the danger line.

Next morning the discussion was resumed. It was all on an amicable
basis. A bystander would have seen merely a group of lazy native
servants gossiping idly. And, indeed, for one word of relevance were a
dozen of sheer chatter. That is the African way.

Since it was impossible to visit _Bwana_ Nyele, why could not _Bwana_
Nyele be brought to within sight? Simba considered this; but finally
rejected it. The risk was too great, magic bone or no magic bone.

"It is probable you speak lies," said the gun bearer at last. "You say
you want _potio_ and that you hold _Bwana_ Nyele prisoner. But you do
not bring us orders from _Bwana_ Nyele for _potio_. Nor do you give us
proof. We must have proof before we believe or before we obey."

"I will bring you _Bwana_ Nyele's gun; or his coat; or anything that is
his that you may see that I hold him prisoner."

"Those things prove nothing," the gun bearer pointed out. "They might
have been taken from a dead man."

They negotiated further. One gifted with the power of seeing only
essential things would have found here a strange parallel. For these
two men, talking cautiously, clinging with tenacity to single points,
yielding grudgingly, would have been the same to him as two shrewd
business men coming together on the phrases of a contract, or two
diplomats framing the terms of a treaty.

Thus well into the third day. By that time an agreement had been
reached. It was very simple and direct and practical, when one thinks
of it; covered the situation fully; involved few compromises; and
gained each man his point.

Simba demanded _potio_ and obedience because he held the mighty
_m'zungu_ prisoner. The gun bearer wanted indubitable proof not only
that Simba held the white man, but that he held him alive.

It was agreed that Simba was to return to his own camp, was to procure
the proof agreed upon, and was promptly to return. The said proof was
to be one of _Bwana_ Nyele's fingers, which all agreed would be easily
recognizable both as to identity and freshness!

The divulgence of this simple little plan by a Simba quite in earnest
dissipated Winkleman's last hope of doing anything by means of
persuasion. He knew his African well enough to realize that this
fantastic method of identification seemed quite a matter of course. In
fact, Simba was at the moment sharpening his hunting knife in
preparation. Winkleman swore heartily and fluently, then grinned. He
was at heart a good soul, Winkleman, with a sense of amusement if not
of humour, and a philosophy of life denied most of his inexperienced
and theoretical countrymen. And also he realized that he had his work
cut out to prevent the program being carried through. The African is
slow to come to a definite conclusion, but once it is arrived at it is
apt to look to him like a permanent structure. It was a wonderful
tribute to Winkleman that it took him only four hours to persuade Simba
that there might be another way; and two hours more to convince him
that there might even be a better way. When Simba reluctantly and a
little doubtfully sheathed his knife, the big Bavarian wiped his brow
with genuine thankfulness.

The reader need not be wearied by a detailed report of the interminable
conferences that led up to the substitute plan. It would be a picture
of a big bearded man smoking slowly--for until affairs were decided he
could get no more of his own tobacco--leaning on his elbow beneath the
roof of the _banda_. Before him squatted on their heels in the posture
white men find so trying Mali-ya-bwana and Simba, entirely respectful,
their shining black eyes fixed on the white man. The open ends of the
_banda_ gave out on a dry boulder-strewn wash and the parched side of a
hill. All else was sky. Morning coolness was succeeded by the blaze of
midday, when the very surface of the ground danced in the shimmer; then
slowly the shadows crept out, the veils of mirage sank to earth, a
coolness wandered in from some blessed region; darkness came suddenly;
over the parched hill--now looming mysterious in black garments--the
tropic stars blazed out. Then outside some one lighted a fire. The
flames cast lights and shadows within the _banda_ where still the white
man leaned on his elbow, the black men squatted on their heels, and the
murmur of talk went on and on.

But Winkleman got his way. At an appointed hour and at an appointed
place Winkleman, Mali-ya-bwana, and two of the carriers met Simba
conducting the gun bearer from the other camp. The interview was very
short. Indeed it had all been carefully rehearsed. Winkleman said only
what he had agreed to say; and thereby earned his finger.

"This man holds me prisoner," he told the gun bearer. "What he says is
true. Do what he asks you to do. It is my command."

"Yes, _bwana_," agreed the gun bearer.

Then they parted. The immediate result was five loads of _potio_
brought by safari men to "somewhere in Africa," and thence transported
by Simba's men to Simba's camp. As game was thereabout abundant and
undisturbed everybody was happy.

Thus passed a week, which brought time forward to the moment when
Simba, following his instructions, was to report to Kingozi at the
village of M'tela. Therefore Simba set forth, taking with him,
according to African custom, one of the porters as companion. He
carried Kingozi's rifle, but left that belonging to Winkleman with
Mali-ya-bwana.

Winkleman watched Simba go with considerable satisfaction.
Mali-ya-bwana was a man much above average African intelligence, but he
had not the experience, the initiative, the _flaire_ of Simba. Nor had
he Simba's magic bone. Simba took that with him. Winkleman knew nothing
of the supposed virtues of that property; and in consequence
entertained a respect for qualities of Simba that were not entirely
inherent in that individual. He began to flatter Mali-ya-bwana; to
fraternize just enough; to assume complete resignation to his
plight--in short, to use just those tactics a clever man would use to
lull the alertness of any bright child. Naturally he succeeded. At
sundown of the second day he began to complain of the irksomeness of
his bonds.

"This is foolishness, so to treat a _m'zungu_," said he. "Nothing is
gained. I cannot sleep; and the skin of my wrists is sore. He who
watches has only to keep the fire bright. I cannot go like smoke."

To Mali-ya-bwana, in his flattered and unsuspicious mood, this seemed
reasonable. He was no such fool as to turn Winkleman loose to his own
devices; but he compromised by untying the Bavarian's wrists, and
doubling the thongs by which the latter's ankles were hitched to the
larger timbers of the _banda_. Also he instructed the sentinel to keep
the fire bright, to watch _Bwana_ Nyele, and to stop instantly any and
all movements of the hands toward the feet.

The early watches passed quietly. A second sentinel replaced the first.
Up to this time Winkleman had slept quietly. Now he began to shift
position often, to twist and turn, finally to groan softly. The
sentinel came to the end of the _banda_ and looked in. To him _Bwana_
Nyele raised a face so ghastly that even the half-savage porter was
startled. The man's eyes seemed to have sunk into his head, deep seams
to have creased his brow and jaws. Apparently Winkleman was on the
point of dissolution.

"_Magi! nataka magi!_"[16] he gasped.

[Footnote 16: Water! I want water!]

The sentinel took the canteen from the peg where it hung and bent over
the dying man. Instantly his throat was clasped by a pair of heavy and
powerful hands.

Two minutes later Winkleman rose to his feet free. The porter's knife
in his hand, he looked down on that unfortunate securely bound and
gagged. Treading softly Winkleman stepped through the sleeping camp
into the clear. He drew a deep breath. Then unconsciously wiping from
his face the mixture of grease and ashes that had constituted his
"make-up," he strode grimly away toward his own safari.



CHAPTER XXIX


WINKLEMAN'S SAFARI ARRIVES

The Leopard Woman watched the safari file down the distant hill and
lose itself beneath the green plumes of the papyrus swamp. By all right
she should have rejoiced. Against every probability she had succeeded.
The stars had worked for her. Though the prearranged plan had not
carried in any of its details, nevertheless the sought-for result had
been gained. She had herself done little to detain Kingozi; yet he had
been detained; and here was Winkleman, belated but in time, to carry
out triumphantly the wishes of the Imperial Government. But her heart
was like lead.

After the first droop Kingozi had straightened beneath the blow, and
now sat bolt upright, staring straight before him, as a king might have
sat alone on his throne. Whatever was coming, he would front it
serenely.

The head of the safari appeared at the foot of the slope. It seemed a
trifle uncertain as to where to go next, but catching sight of
Kingozi's tents, it turned up the hill. Cazi Moto's keen eyes were
searching out every detail; those of the Leopard Woman had suddenly
become suffused with tears.

"It is a rich safari, _bwana_," Cazi Moto reported; "many loads." His
voice sharpened with surprise, but he did not raise his tones. "Simba
is there," said he.

"Simba! So they caught him," muttered Kingozi. "Well, that play failed.
Do you see the white man?" he asked.

"No, _bwana_. The white man has not yet come. But Simba now sees us,
and is coming."

"He is guarded?"

"No, _bwana_; he is alone."

"_Jambo, bwana_," said Simba's voice a moment later.

Something in his tone caught Kingozi's ear.

"Yes, Simba?" was all he replied.

"All has been done as you ordered, _bwana_. This is the fourteenth day,
and I am here to tell you."

Kingozi caught his breath sharply.

"_Bwana_ Nyele was captured?"

"Mali-ya-bwana holds him prisoner at a certain water."

"There was no trouble?"

"None, _bwana_. All happened as you told. This magic is a very great
magic," said Simba piously.

Kingozi paused.

"The safari," he suggested at last. "I am told of a safari; indeed, I
can hear it. What of that? No orders were given as to a safari."

"That is true, _bwana_," explained Simba earnestly, "but this is a very
great safari. It has tents and _potio_, and _chakula_[17], and blankets
and beads and wire and many other things to a quantity impossible to
say. And it came to my mind that _shenzis_ like these things, as do all
men, and that in this _shenzi_ country my _bwana_ might make use of
them; so I brought them with me for your use, _bwana_."

[Footnote 17: _Chakula_--white man's food.]

"You had no trouble bringing this great safari?" asked Kingozi.

"I used again the magic bone," replied Simba.

"Simba, you jewel!" cried Kingozi in English, "you've saved the day! I
should think _shenzis_ did like these things! And oh, haven't I needed
them! You old tar-baby, you!"

And Simba replied as usual to this incomprehensible gibberish with his
own full stock of English:

"Yes, suh!"

"You have done well, very well," Kingozi shifted to Swahili. "I am
pleased with you. For this work you shall have much _backsheeshi_--a
month's wages extra, and twenty goats for your farm, and any other
thing that you want most. What is it?"

Simba appeared to hesitate and boggle.

"Speak up! I am Very pleased."

"This is a very great thing I would ask," said Simba in a low voice.

"It is a great thing you have done."

"_Bwana_," cried Simba earnestly. "It is this: I would have the magic
bone for my own. For it is a very great magic," he added wistfully.

Kingozi choked back an impulse to shout aloud.

"It is yours," he said gravely.

"Oh, _bwana! bwana!_" choked Simba. "_Assanti! assanti sana!_"

His sob was echoed at Kingozi's elbow.

"Oh," cried the Leopard Woman, "I know I should be sorry that this has
come this way! But I'm not; I am glad!"



CHAPTER XXX


WINKLEMAN APPEARS

With the riches thus unexpectedly placed at his disposal, and
legitimately his by the fortunes of war, Kingozi was enabled to proceed
to the final grand exchange of gifts that assured his friendship with
M'tela and sealed the alliance. He was spurred to his best efforts in
this by the news, brought in by an alarmed Mali-ya-bwana, that
Winkleman had escaped. However, by dint of rich presents, supplementing
the careful diplomatic negotiations that had gone before, he arrived at
an understanding.

"And now, oh, King, I must tell you this," he said boldly. "Of white
men there is not merely one but many kinds, just as among the African
peoples. There are strong men and weak men, good men and bad men, and
men of different tribes. Of the tribes are the _Inglishee_ to which I
belong, which is the most powerful of all--like your own people of the
Kabilagani in this land--and also another tribe called the _Duyche_,
only a little less powerful. These two tribes are now at war."

"A-a-a-a," observed M'tela interestedly.

"One of the _Duyche_ is in your country, oh, King. I have met him and
defeated him by my magic. Some of these people you see here were his
people; and of his goods I have everything."

"But it may be," suggested M'tela with a slight cooling of cordiality,
"that many more _Duyche_ will follow this one."

"They cannot prevail against my magic. Talk with Simba, with my men,
and know what virtue is in my magic. But beyond that, oh, King, have
you not heard of the wars of the Wakamba? of Lobengula? of the Matabele
and the Basuto? has not news come to you from the north of the battles
of the Sudan? Have you not heard of Lenani, the king of all Masai, and
of his advice to his people? All these wars were won by _Inglishee_;
Lenani's words of wisdom spoke of _Inglishee_. Have you ever heard of
the victories of the _Duyche?_ No. There were no such victories!"[18]

[Footnote 18: Kingozi here took shrewd advantage of the fact that
German East Africa was peacefully occupied without necessity of the
spectacular tribal wars of Matabeland, Zululand, Basutoland, and the
Wakamba district of British East Africa. Lenani's advice to his people
was given at the close of the Wakamba war. Said he: "There is no doubt
that the Masai are a greater people than the Wakamba, and in case of
war we could fight the white man harder than the Wakamba fought him.
Undoubtedly, too, my people could kill a great many of the English. But
this I have noticed: that when a Wakamba is dead, he remains dead; but
when a white man is dead ten more come to take his place." In
consequence of this advice the Masai--one of the most warlike of all
the tribes--negotiated with the English, and today remain both at peace
and unconquered.]

After an hour's elaboration of this theme Kingozi judged the moment
propitious to return to the original subject. M'tela offered the
opportunity.

"This _Duyche_ whom you have conquered--you killed him?"

"He escaped."

"A-a-a-a."

"He is still alive and in your land. Let order be given to search him
out."

"That shall be done," said M'tela after a moment's thought.

Mali-ya-bwana and Simba set out with a posse of M'tela's men. They had
no great difficulty in getting track of the missing Bavarian. Winkleman
had arrived to find the camping site deserted. He had, indomitably, set
out on the track of his safari. To eat he was forced at last to beg of
the wild herdsmen. M'tela's dread name elicited from these last
definite information. The search party found Winkleman, very dirty,
quite hungry, profoundly chagrined, but still good humoured, seated in
a smoky hut eating soured smoky milk. He wore sandals improvised from
goatskin, a hat and spine-pad made from banana leaves ingeniously woven.

[Illustration: "The search party found Winkleman, very dirty, quite
hungry, profoundly chagrined"]

"_Ach!_" he cried, recognizing Kingozi's two men. "So it is you! What
have you done with my safari?"

"I led it to my _bwana_," replied Simba.

"Where you may now lead me," said Winkleman resignedly. "By what means
have you thought of these things, N'ympara?" "By the magic of this,"
replied Simba with becoming modesty, producing the precious bone.

"_Ach_ the _saurian!_" cried Winkleman. "I remember. It had gone from
my mind. It is a curious type; I do not quite recognize. Let me see it."

But Simba was replacing carefully the talisman in its wrappings. He had
no mind to deliver the magic into other hands--perhaps to be used
against himself!

They led Winkleman directly to Kingozi's camp. Winkleman followed,
looking always curiously about him. His was the true scientific mind.
He was quite capable of forgetting his plight--and did so--in the
interest of new fauna and flora, or of ethnological eccentricities.
Once or twice he insisted on a halt for examination of something that
caught his notice, and insisted so peremptorily when the savages would
have forced him on, that they yielded to his wish.

It was early in the morning. Kingozi, as ever, sat in his canvas chair
atop the hill. He was alone, for the Leopard Woman, always on the alert
and always staring through her glasses, had caught sight of the little
group before it plunged into the papyrus; and had retired to her tent.
Winkleman plowed up the hill blowing out his cheeks in a full-blooded
hearty fashion.

"Oho!" he cried in his great voice when he had drawn near. "This is not
so bad! It is Culbertson!"

"I am sorry about this," said Kingozi briefly--"a man of your
eminence--very disagreeable."

Winkleman dropped heavily to the ground.

"That is nothing," he waved aside the half-apology, "though it would
not be bad to have the bath and change these clothes. But fortunes of
war--it is but the fortunes of war--I would have done worse to you. How
long is it that you have arrived?"

"Long enough," replied Kingozi briefly. "Oh, Cazi Moto, bring tea! I
have had your tent pitched, Doctor Winkleman; and you must bathe and
change and rest. But before you go we must understand each other. This
is war time, and you are my prisoner. You must give me your parole
neither to try to escape nor to tamper with my men, with M'tela, or any
of his people. If you feel you cannot do this I shall be compelled to
hold you closely guarded."

Winkleman laughed one of his great gusty laughs.

"I give it willingly. What foolishness otherwise. What foolishness
anyway, all this. War is nonsense. It destroys. It interferes.
Consider, my dear Culbertson, here was I safely in the Congo forests,
and for two, three months I have lived there, like a native quietly;
and of all the world there is to amuse me only the fauna and the
flora--which I know like my hand. But I discover a new species--a
_papilio_. But all the time I live quiet, and I wait. And at last the
people, the little forest people, little by little they get confidence;
they come to the edge of the forest, they venture to camp, slow.
Suppose I wave my hand like that--pouf! They have run away. But I wait;
and they come forth. So I camp by myself in the forest--for I leave my
safari away that it may not frighten this people. And by and by we
talk. I am beginning to learn their language. Culbertson, I find these
people speak the true click language, but also I find it true
sex-denoting language most resembling in that respect the ancient Fula!"

"Where was this? Impossible!" cried Kingozi, interested and excited.

"Ah!" roared Winkleman with satisfaction. "I thought I would your
interest catch! But it is true; and in the central Congo."

"But that would throw the prehistoric Libyan and Hamitic migrations
farther to the west than----"

"Pre-cisely!" interrupted Winkleman.

"What sort of people were they? Did they show Hamitic characteristics
particularly? or did they incline to the typical prognathous,
short-legged, stealopygous type of the Bushmen?"

But Winkleman reverted abruptly to his narrative.

"That is a long discussion to make. It will wait. But just as I get
these people where I can put them beneath my observation, so, there
comes an ober-lieutenant with foolishness in the way of guns and
uniform and _askaris_ and that nonsense; and my little people run into
the forest and are no more to be seen."

"Hard luck!" commented Kingozi feelingly.

"Is it not so? This ober-lieutenant is a fool. He knows nothing.
_Dumkopf!_ All he knows is to give me a letter from the _Kaiserliche
dumkopf_ at Dar-es-salaam. I read it. It tells me I must come here, to
this place, with speed, and get the military aid of this M'tela and so
forth with many details. It was another foolishness. I know this type
of people well. There is nothing new to be learned. They are of the
usual types. It is foolishness to come here. But it is an order, so I
come, and I do my best. But now I am a prisoner, while I might be with
the little people in the Congo. I talk much."

"I fancy we are going to have a good deal to talk about," interjected
Kingozi.

"_Ach!_ that is true! That is what I said--that I am glad this is
Culbertson who catches me. Yes! We must talk!"

Cazi Moto glided to them.

"Bath is ready, _bwana_," said he.

Winkleman puffed out his chest and protruded his great beard.

"This war--foolishness!" he mumbled.

"Yes, we have much to talk about. Nevertheless," said Kingozi with
slight embarrassment, "it is necessary that I do my duty according to
my orders. And my orders were much like yours--to get the alliance of
this M'tela. But I have told him that you are my enemy; and he sent his
men with mine to find you; and now, as you can well comprehend, I
must----"

But Winkleman's quick comprehension leaped ahead of Kingozi's speech.

"I must play the prisoner, is it not?" he cried with one of his big
laughs. "But so! Of course! That is comprehend. How could it be
otherwise? I know my native! I know what he expects. I shall be humble,
the slave, your foot upon my neck. Of course! Do you suppose I do not
know?"

"That is well," said Kingozi, much relieved, "I shall tell him that you
are a man of much wisdom and great magic; and that I have saved your
life to serve me."

"So!" cried Winkleman delightedly; and departed to his tent and the
waiting bath. A few moments later he could be heard robustly splashing
in the tent. A roar summoned Cazi Moto.

"Tell your _bwana_ I want _n'dowa_--medicine--understand? Need some
boric acid," he yelled at Kingozi. "Eyes in bad shape."

Kingozi ordered Cazi Moto to take over the entire medicine chest; then
sent a messenger for M'tela, who shortly appeared.

"This enemy of mine is taken, thanks to your men, oh, King. I have him
here in the tent, well guarded."

"How shall we kill him, papa?" inquired M'tela.

"That has not yet been decided," replied Kingozi carelessly. "He must,
of course, be taken to the great King of all _Inglishee_."

M'tela looked disappointed.

"In the meantime," pursued Kingozi, "as he has much knowledge, and
great magic, I shall talk much with him, and get that magic for the
benefit of us both, oh, King. He cannot escape, for my magic is greater
than his."

This M'tela well believed, for the reports industriously circulated by
Simba anent his magic bone had reached the King, and had not lost in
transit.

So when Winkleman came swashbuckling up the hill M'tela was prepared.
The blue-black beard and hearty, deep-chested carriage of the Bavarian
impressed him greatly.

"But this is a great _bwana_, papa," he said to Kingozi. "Like you and
me."

"This is the prisoner of which I spoke to you," said Kingozi in a loud
voice.

Winkleman, a twinkle in his wide eyes, but with his countenance
composed to gravity, stepped forward, salaamed, and placed his forehead
beneath Kingozi's hand in token of submission. Thus proper relations
were established. Winkleman seated himself humbly on the sod, and kept
silence, while high converse went forward. At length M'tela departed.
Winkleman immediately plunged into the conversational gap around which,
mentally, he had been, impatiently hovering for an hour.

"But this articulation of the _saurus_" he broke out. "What of it?"

"The magic bone," chuckled Kingozi.

"Pouf! Pouf! It resembled much the _cinoliosaurus_, but that could not
be."

"Why not?" demanded Kingozi quickly.

"It has been found only in the lias formations of the Jurassic," stated
Winkleman dogmatically, "and that type of Jurassic is not here. It is
of England, yes; of Germany, yes; of the Americas, yes. Of central
Africa, no!"

"Nevertheless----" interposed Kingozi.

"But the _cryptoclidus_--that greatly resembles the
_cinoliosaurus_--perhaps. Or even a subspecies of the
_plesiosaurus_----"

"Simba," called Kingozi.

"Suh!"

"Bring here the magic bone. The _bwana_ wishes to look at it. No; it is
all right. I myself tell you; no harm can come."

Reluctantly Simba produced the bone, now fittingly wrapped in clean
_mericani_ cloth, and still more reluctantly undid it and handed it to
Winkleman. The latter seized it and began minutely to examine it,
muttering short, disconnected sentences to himself in German.

"Now here is what I have said," he spoke aloud. "See. By this curve----"

He broke off, staring curiously into Kingozi's face. The latter sat
apparently looking out across the hills, paying no attention to the
fact that Winkleman had thrust the bone fairly under his nose. The
pause that ensued became noticeable. Kingozi stirred uneasily, turning
his eyes in the direction of the scientist.

"Glaucoma!" ejaculated Winkleman.

Kingozi smiled wearily.

"Yes. I wondered when you would find it out."

"You are all blind?"

"I can distinguish light." Kingozi straightened his back, and his voice
became incisive. "But I can still see through eyes that are faithful to
me! Make no mistakes there."

"My dear friend; have I not given my parole?" gently asked the Bavarian.

"Beg your pardon. Of course."

"It is serious. You should have a surgeon. But why have you not used
the temporary remedy? Of course you know the effect of drugs?"

"I know that atropin is ruin, right enough," said Kingozi grimly.

"But the pilocarpin----"

"Of course. I only wish I had some."

"But you have!" came Winkleman's astonished voice. "There is of it a
large vial!"

Kingozi gripped the arm of his chair for a full minute. Then he spoke
to Cazi Moto in a vibrating voice.

"Bring me the chest of medicines. Now," he went on to Winkleman, when
this command had been executed, "kindly read to me the labels on all
these bottles; begin at the left. All, please."

He listened attentively while Winkleman obeyed. The pilocarpin was
present; the atropin was gone.

"You have not deceived me?" he cried sharply. "No--why should
you--wait----"

He thought for some moments. When he raised his face it was gray.

"One of the bottles was broken. I had reason to believe it the
pilocarpin," he said quietly. "Can I trespass on your good nature to
make the proper solution for my eyes?"

"It is but a temporary expedient," warned Winkleman. "It is surgery
here demanded. I know the operation, but I cannot perform. One makes a
transverse incision above the cornea----"

"I know, I know," interrupted Kingozi. "But the pilocarpin will give me
my sight. Let us get at it."



CHAPTER XXXI


LIGHT AGAIN

Three hours later Kingozi stepped into the open, his vision cleared.
Such is often the marvellous--though temporary--effect of the proper
remedies in this disease. He looked about him with a thankfulness not
to be understood save by one whose sight has been thus unexpectedly
restored. Winkleman followed him full of deep sympathy.

"But I understand," he repeated over and over, "but it is like water on
a weary march, _nicht wahr_. But this is bad, very bad! You say it has
been going on for a month? And a month back! Too late. _Ach,
schrecklich!_ It is so much a pity! You have, the youth, the strength,
the knowledge! You could so far go! But you must learn the dictation;
the great book, the _magnum opus_, it is there. Cheer up, my boy! Work,
much work! That is what will cure your sick courage even if it cannot
cure your sick eyes. Now, while we have the sight--see--the bone--this
curve clearly indicates to me----"

Winkleman produced the saurian bone. And for the first time Kingozi
noticed Simba hovering anxiously near. Request and blandishments had
proved of no avail in getting the magic bone from _Bwana_ Nyele.

"It is all right," Kingozi reassured him. "We but use the magic for a
little while. See; it has given me back my eyes."

"A-a-a-a!" ejaculated Simba, deeply astonished.

"We will use it but a little while longer," Kingozi concluded. "Then
you shall have it again."

"But to give this specimen to a gun bearer!" cried Winkleman in
English. "That is craziness! It is a museum piece."

"It belongs to him; and I have promised," said Kingozi.

Winkleman subsided with deep rumblings. After a moment he renewed his
discussion.

Kingozi only half heard him. His mind was occupied by another, more
human problem. The discovery that the atropin and not the pilocarpin
had been destroyed agitated him profoundly; not, as might be believed,
because it enabled him at a critical time to regain the use of his
sight, but because it threw before him an insistent question. Did, or
did not, Bibi-ya-chui know? He recalled the incident in all its little
details--himself in his chair and Cazi Moto squatting before the three
bottles set up before them, carefully tracing in the sand with a stick
the characters on the labels; the Leopard Woman's sudden dash forward;
the tinkle of smashed glass, and her voice panting with excitement: "I
will read your labels for you now--the bottle you hold in your hand! It
is atropin, atropin"--and her wild laugh.

Did she know, or was she guessing or bluffing?

It hurt him, hurt him inconceivably to think that she might have
deceived him thus; might have broken the wrong bottle, and then
deliberately have kept him in darkness with the very remedy at hand.
That would seem the refinement of cruelty.

But he must be fair. She was then fighting, fighting with all her power
against odds, for her sworn duty. Deceit was her natural weapon. And at
that time such deceit seemed very likely to win for her her point. No,
he could not blame her there; he could not consistently even feel hurt.
The few moments' reasoning brought him to the point where he did not
feel hurt. After a little he even admired the quickness of wit.

The instinctive depression vanished before this reasoning. He suddenly
became light-hearted.

But immediately the dark mood returned. Granted all this; how about the
last two days? Before that it might well be that her sense of duty to
her country, her firmness of spirit, her honour itself would impel her
to cling to the last hope of gaining her end. Until his influence over
M'tela was quite assured, Winkleman's arrival would probably turn the
scale. She had not prevented Kingozi's arriving before the Bavarian;
but she might hold the Englishman comparatively powerless. That was
understandable. Kingozi felt he might even love her the more for this
evidence of a faithful spirit. But the last few days! It must have
become evident to her that her cause was lost; that M'tela's friendship
had been gained for the English. If she had cared for him the least in
the world would not she have hastened to produce the pilocarpin for his
relief? What could she hope to gain by concealing it? And then the
other words insisted on his recollection, bitter words--when, first
blinded, he had asked her to read the labels on the bottle that would
have given him sight. "Why should I do this for you? You have treated
me as a man treats his dog, his horse, his servant, his child--not as a
man treats a woman!" What real reason--besides his hopes--had he for
thinking she did not still hate him, or at least remain indifferent to
him? So indifferent that even after her chance had passed she still
neglected to inform him that the pilocarpin was not destroyed after all.

Winkleman talked on and on about his saurian. Would he never stop and
go away?

"I agree with you; you are probably right," said Kingozi at last,
driven by sheer desperation to the endorsement of he knew not what
scientific heresy. Winkleman snorted heavily in triumph, and returned
the bone to a vastly relieved Simba. Kingozi interposed in haste before
the introduction of a new topic.

"Undoubtedly you will wish to see the palace of M'tela," said he with
deep wile. "Of course you are supposed to be my prisoner, so I must
send you under guard. You might take a small present to M'tela from me.
I have not yet visited his place of course. This might be considered a
preliminary to my first visit. Does it appeal to you?"

"But yes! And I shall behave. I have given my parole. I shall be the
good boy!"

"Of course. I understand that. Do you eat at noon? No? Well, good luck.
Cazi Moto, take Mali-ya-bwana and two _askari_ guns, and go with
_Bwana_ Nyele to the palace of M'tela."

Scarcely had the group disappeared down the forest path when Kingozi
was at the tent door of the Leopard Woman.

"_Hodie?_" he pronounced the native word of one desiring entrance.

"Who is there?" she asked in Swahili.

"I--Culbertson."

A slight pause; then her voice:

"Come."

He drew aside the tent flaps and entered. She was half reclining on the
cot, her back raised by pillows stuffed with sweet grass. Her silk
garment, carelessly arranged, had fallen partly open, so that the gleam
of her flesh showed tantalizingly here and there. The blood leaped to
Kingozi's forehead. She did not alter her pose. Suddenly he realized:
of course, she thought him blind!

The embarrassment met his sterner mood in a head-on collision, so that
for a moment the impulsive speech failed him. She spoke first.

"That was Winkleman, I suppose," she said. "I did not want to appear.
What is decided?"

"Decided?" he stammered, not knowing where to look, but unable to keep
his eyes from straying.

"Yes. Is it too late? Can he prevail with this M'tela after all?"

"He is my prisoner; he has given his parole."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, raising herself on her elbow in excitement. The
abrupt movement dropped the robe from her shoulder. "You can see!" she
cried; and huddled the garment about her in a panic. "You can see!" she
repeated amazedly. "How is that? What has happened?"

The words brought him to himself and to his need for definite knowledge.

"Winkleman read the labels on my bottles," he said sternly. "I have
simply used the pilocarpin."

"The pilocarpin! But that was destroyed!"

So unmistakably genuine was her cry of amazement that Kingozi's heart
leaped with joy. She had not known! He took a step toward the couch.

But at this moment a wild hullabaloo broke out in the camp. Men yelled
and shouted. Some one began to blow a horn. There came the sound of
many running to and fro. "Damn!" ejaculated Kingozi fervently; and ran
out of the tent.



CHAPTER XXXII


THE COLOURS

The whole camp was gathered about a number of M'tela's people, who were
all talking at once. The din was something prodigious. Kingozi pushed
his way rather angrily to the centre of disturbance.

"Here, what is this?" he demanded to know.

But a dead, astonished silence fell upon them all. They stared at him
gaping.

"What is it?" repeated Kingozi impatiently.

"But _bwana!_" cried Cazi Moto. "You see!"

"That is a magic," replied Kingozi curtly. "Now what is all this
_kalele_ about?"

"Bwana, these people say that messengers have come in telling of many
white men and _askaris_ marching in this direction."

"From where? But that does not matter--are they _Inglishee_ or
_Duyche?_"

"These _shenzis_ do not know the difference."

"That is true. How far away are they?"

"Very near, _bwana_."

"Get my gun. Have Simba follow me. Here, you lead the way." They
marched rapidly through the forest path and past the palace of M'tela,
which Kingozi had never seen. The savage king came out, and Winkleman
and his bodyguard soon followed.

"Oh, King," said Kingozi. "Now is the time to show to me that your
friendship is true. As you know, other white men are coming, with
warriors. I do not know yet whether these are _Inglishee_, who are my
friends--and yours--or _Duyche_, who are my enemies. If they are
_Duyche_ they must be attacked and killed or captured, for we are at
war."

He watched M'tela carefully while he spoke, and felt satisfaction at
what he saw.

"Have no fear, papa," replied M'tela easily. "I will cause the great
drums to be beaten. My warriors are as the leaves of the grass; and
these are few."

"Nevertheless they will kill many of yours," said Kingozi with great
earnestness; "for they have guns that kill many times and at a long
distance. When your warriors hear the great noise they make, and see
the dead men, they will run." "You do not know the warriors of M'tela,"
replied the king with dignity. "Should the half of them fall, the other
half will give these to the hyenas. Yes, even if they had the thunder
itself as weapon!"

"How many are there, oh, King?" asked Kingozi, greatly relieved.

"My men report thirty-one white men and many black men."

"I go now," advised Kingozi, "to look upon these men. Give me guides,
and a messenger to send back with news of what I find."

M'tela issued the orders. A moment later Kingozi started on. Winkleman,
who had spoken no word, waved him a friendly good-bye. Before they had
reached the forest edge the great war drums began to roar.

The guides took them swiftly down the forest path and across the
rolling country with the groves. Kingozi looked at it all with
curiosity and delight. It seemed to him that never in all his
wanderings had he seen so beautiful and variegated a prospect. His
blindness had overtaken him, it must be remembered, out on the open dry
veldt, between the Great and the Little Rains. It was as though he had
awakened from a sleep to find himself in this watered, green, and
wooded paradise.

At the top of a hill the guide stopped and pointed. Kingozi gathered
that through the distant cleft he indicated the strangers must come.
All sat down and waited.

[Illustration: "At the top of the hill the guide stopped and pointed.
Kingozi gathered that through the distant cleft he indicated the
strangers must come"]

An hour passed. Simba uttered an exclamation. Kingozi raised his
glasses. Tiny figures on foot were debouching from the forest. They
spread in all directions, advancing in fan-formation. Evidently the
scouts. Then more tiny figures, figures on horseback. Kingozi counted
them. There were, as M'tela had said, just thirty-one; a gallant little
band, but at this distance indistinguishable. They rode out some
distance. And at last the first files of the black troops appeared.
Kingozi dropped his glasses to the end of its thong with a cheer.
Drooping in the still air the colours were nevertheless easily
recognized. The flag was of England.

"_Inglishee! Inglishee!_" he repeated to M'tela's messengers, and made
a motion back toward the palace. The men departed at a lope. Kingozi
and Simba took the other direction.

They met the newcomers halfway across the long, shallow dish between
the wooded hills. On catching sight of them the mounted white men
spurred forward. A confusion of greetings stormed them.

"It's Culbertson!" "Where did _you_ rain down from?" "We've been
looking for you without end! Isn't this a lark, old man!"

In the meantime, in the personal attendants of these white men, Simba
had discovered acquaintances; among them the two messengers Kingozi had
despatched back in quest of Doctor McCloud.

Kingozi stood in the middle of the group, his heart overflowing. It was
good to see so many white faces again; it was good to see the faces of
friends; it was good to know that his labours had not been in vain, and
that the border was assured. And underneath it was a great exaltation.
He walked on air. For she had not known! The blank astonishment of her
face had proved that to him beyond a doubt. She really thought that she
had destroyed the pilocarpin; she had not deliberately held from him
the light of day!

His high spirits expressed themselves in an animation and volubility so
unlike the taciturn Culbertson that many of his acquaintances stared.

"Seems quite bucked up," commented one to another. "Must have had a
deuce of a time back here."

"What is this arm of His Majesty's Service, anyway?" Kingozi was asking
in general. "I mean the mounted and disreputable portion, not the
decent infantry."

"This, my son, is the Settlers' Own Irregulars; and we've come out for
to hunt the shy and elusive German."

"Good heads scarce up this way," rejoined Kingozi. "I've caught one
specimen myself, however."

"Specimen of what?"

"German. Ever hear of Winkleman?"

"Rather! The native _fundi?_[19] You don't mean to say you've got him!"

[Footnote 19: Fundi--expert.]

"I've got him. He's the only specimen in these parts. But I can show
you several thousand of the best fighting men in Africa--all loyal
British allies."

"Good man!" cried a grizzled old settler. "I told 'em you'd do it!"

"But the war?" demanded Kingozi eagerly. "What of the war? Tell me? I
know nothing whatever."

One of the younger men dismounted and insisted on delivering his animal
to Kingozi.

"Do me good to stretch my legs," said he. "And you've walked your
share."

Riding in a little group of the officers Kingozi listened attentively
to an account of affairs as far as they were known. The Marne, and the
Retreat from Mons straightened him in his saddle. It was worth it; he
had done his bit! Whatever the price, it was worth it!

The account finished, Captain Walsh began questioning in his turn.

"Excellent!" he greeted Kingozi's account. "Couldn't be better! We have
reasons to believe that the water-holes on this route are mapped by the
Germans."

"They are," interrupted Kingozi.

"And that the plan contemplated coming through here, gathering the
tribes as they advanced, and finally cutting in on us with a big force
from the rear."

"They'll run against a stone wall hereabouts," said Kingozi with
satisfaction.

"Lucky for us. I've only four companies--and these settlers. We are
really only a reconnaissance."

"How did you happen to follow my route?"

"Ran against the messengers you sent back to get Doctor McCloud. They
guided us. By the way, what is it? Must have been serious. You're not a
man to run to panics. You look fit enough now."

"Eyes," explained Kingozi. His heart sank, for the failure of his
messengers to go on after McCloud took away the last small hope of
saving his eyesight.

"Fancy it will be all right," said Captain Walsh vaguely. He was
thinking, quite properly, of ways and means and dispositions. "About
this sultan, now; what do you advise----"

They rode forward slowly through the high, aromatic grasses, discussing
earnestly every angle of policy to be assumed in regard to M'tela. At
its close all the white men were called together and given
instructions. Even the youngest and most flippant knew natives well
enough to realize the value of the structure Kingozi had built, and to
listen attentively.

These alternate marches and halts had permitted the foot troops to
close up. Kingozi turned in his saddle to look at them. Fine,
upstanding black men they were, marching straight and soldierly, neat
in their uniforms of khaki, with the dull red tarboush, the blue
leggings, the bare knees and feet. They were picked troops from the
Sudan, these, fighting men by birth, whose chief tradition was that in
case his colonel was killed no man must come back to his woman short of
wiping out the last of the enemy. In spite of a long march they walked
jauntily. Two mounted white men brought up the rear.

Now they entered the cool forest trail. The sound of distant drums
became audible. Men straightened in their saddles. Captain Walsh gave
crisp orders. They entered the cleared space before M'tela's palace
with colours flying and snare drums tapping briskly.

The full force of M'tela's power seemed to have been gathered, gorgeous
in the panoply of war. The forest threw back the roar of drums, of
horns, of people chanting or shouting. Straight to the middle of the
square marched the Sudanese, wheeled smartly into line. At a command
they raised their rifles and fired a volley, the first gunfire ever
heard in this ancient forest.



CHAPTER XXXIII


CURTAIN

The sun was setting. In a few minutes more the swift darkness would
fall. After delivering the astonishing volley the troops wheeled and
under Kingozi's guidance proceeded down the forest path to the great
clearing. It was the close of a long, hard day, but under the
scrutinizing eyes of these thousands of proud _shenzis_ the Sudanese
stepped forth jauntily. Camping places were designated. All was
activity as the tents were raised.

But now rode in the two white men who had closed the rear of the
column, not only of the fighting men, but of the burden bearers as
well. They were covered with dust and apparently very glad to arrive.
One of them rode directly to the group of officers and dismounted
stiffly.

"McCloud!" cried Kingozi.

"The same," replied that efficient surgeon. "And now let's see the
eyes. I have your scrawl." He stumped forward, looking keenly for what
he wanted. "Sit here in this chair. Boy!" he bawled. "_Lete taa_--bring
the lantern. And my case of knives. No, my lad, I'm not going to
operate on you instanter, but I do want my reflector. Hold the light
just here. Now, don't any of you move. Tip your head back a bit, that's
a good chap." He went methodically forward with his examination as
though he were at home in his white office. "H'm. How long this been
going on? Five weeks, eh! Been blind? Oh--why didn't you use that
pilocarpin I gave you--I see." The officers and other white men stood
about in a compact and silent group. A sudden grave realization of the
situation had descended upon them, sobering their careless or laughing
countenances. No one knew exactly what it was all about, but some had
caught the word "blindness" and repeated it to others. Some one yelled
"_kalale_" savagely at the chattering men. Almost a dead stillness fell
on the clearing, so that in the falling twilight the tree hyraxes took
heart and began to utter their demoniac screams. The darkness came down
softly. Soon the group in the centre turned to silhouettes against the
light of the two lanterns held head high on either side the patient.

Absorbedly Doctor McCloud proceeded. Kingozi sat quietly, turning his
head to either side, raising or lowering his chin as he was requested
to do so. At last McCloud straightened his back.

"It is glaucoma right enough," said he; "fairly advanced. The
pilocarpin has been a palliative. An operation is called
for--iridectomy."

He paused, wiping his mirror. Nobody dared ask the question that
Kingozi himself at last propounded.

"Can you do it--have you the necessary instruments?'"

"Fine spade scalpel, small tweezers, scissors--_and_ a lot of
experience. I've got all the former."

"And the latter?"

"I've done the operation before," said McCloud dryly.

"Will it restore my sight permanently."

"If successful the job will be permanent."

"What chance of success?"

"Fair--fair," rejoined McCloud with a touch of impatience. "How can I
tell? But I'll just inform you of this, my lad, without the operation
you're stone blind for the rest of your days, and it must be done now
or not at all. So there's your Hobson's choice; and we'll get at it
comfortably in the morning."

He turned away and stopped with a frank stare of astonishment. The
other men followed his gaze, and also stared.

The Leopard Woman stood just within the circle of illumination. So
intent was she on the examination and on Kingozi that she seemed
utterly unconscious of the men standing over opposite. Her soft silk
robe fell about her body in classic folds; the single jewel on its
chain fillet blazed on her forehead; her hair fell in its braid to her
hips, and her wide, gray-green eyes were fixed on the seated man. A
more startlingly exotic figure for the wilds of Central Africa could
not be imagined. The expressions on the faces of the newcomers were
varied enough, to be sure, but all had a common groundwork of fair
imbecility.

[Illustration: "So intent was the Leopard Woman on the examination that
she seemed utterly unconscious of the men standing over opposite."]

She seemed to be unaware of even their presence. When McCloud had
pronounced his opinion, she glided forward and laid her hand on
Kingozi's shoulder.

"I am glad--but I am afraid," she said softly. Kingozi covered her hand
with one of his own. His eyes twinkled with quiet amusement as he
looked about him at the stricken faces of his friends. She whirled on
the gaping McCloud. "But you must have a care!" she cried at him
vehemently. "You must save his eyes. I wish it!"

McCloud, recovering himself, bowed.

"Madam," said he with a faint, amused irony. "It shall be my pleasure
to do my best in fulfilling your commands."

"It must be," she repeated; and turned to face the rest. "He is a great
man; he must be saved. All this is folly. I have fought him to my best,
for long, and I have used all means--good and bad. He conquered me as
one who--what you call--subdues a child. And he is generous, and brave,
and when the darkness comes to him he does not sit and weep. He is a
great soul, and all things must be done!"

She was superb, her head thrown back. Captain Walsh was the first to
recover from the stunned condition in which all found themselves. He
bowed.

"Madam," said he, "in what you say we heartily concur. We add our
urgence to yours. You must forgive our stupidity to the surprise of
your appearance. Even yet my astonishment has not abated." He turned
easily to Kingozi: "I hope you will afford me the pleasure of naming me
to madam."

Kingozi arose to his feet.

"I do not know your name," he muttered to her.

"I am the Leopard Woman," she smiled back on him enigmatically.

Kingozi paused, embarrassed as to what to do. He could not use that
name in an introduction to these men. She was looking at him
mischievously.

"Captain Walsh--and gentlemen," said Kingozi suddenly, "I want the
pleasure of presenting you to--my future wife!"

Her gasp of astonishment was lost in the chorus of congratulatory
cries. It was all mysterious, profoundly astonishing. Much was to be
explained. But for the moment each man was ready to believe the
evidences of his own senses--that no matter how incongruous the fact of
her presence might be, there she was, beautiful as the night. And every
man facing her had seen the glory that shone from within when Kingozi
had pronounced his introduction. Captain Walsh was speaking.

"This is an occasion," he said, "and the King's African Rifles cannot
have it otherwise than that you become their guests. I see our camp is
in preparation. We have nothing beyond the ordinary stores, but you
must all dine with us." He paused, considering. "Say in an hour," he
continued. "It must be early, for I do not doubt we must receive his
royal highness this evening."

"You're right," said Kingozi, "and unless I miss my guess it will be an
all-night job."

The travel-wearied men groaned.

"No help for it," said Captain Walsh cheerfully.

They pressed forward to shake the hands of this strange couple. The
Leopard Woman carried herself with the ease and poise of one accustomed
to receiving homage. She had drawn near Kingozi again, and managed to
reach out and press his arm.

"Ye'll be married soon, I'm thinking," surmised McCloud.

"Depends," replied Kingozi, his brow darkening. "Part of it's up to
you, you know," he added briefly. "A blind man is a poor man."

"We shall be married soon--now, if there is a priest among you!" cried
the Leopard Woman vehemently, "As for poor man--pouf!" She turned to
Walsh with an engaging smile. "And you, where you came, did you pass
the people who live in the mountains back there, with a _sultani_ who
dressed in black----"

"I know," supplemented Captain Walsh, "very well."

"The _sultani_ whose place has a fortified gate."

"Really? We did not get to his village; too much of a hurry."

The Leopard Woman shot a glance at Kingozi. He saw the triumph in it,
and understood. The ivory stockade was unknown to any but themselves;
still remained there in all its wealth awaiting the first trader. And
that trader should be himself!

"Poor, indeed!" she whispered to him.

At this moment a roar of astonishment came up to them from down the
slope. All turned to see Winkleman, the forgotten Winkleman, standing
at the door of his tent. He was in pajamas, and his thick hair was
tousled about.

"But how I have slept!" he cried, "and the English, they have come!
Well, well!" He came out, stretching his great arms lazily over his
head. They stiffened in surprise as he caught sight of the Leopard
Woman. For a second he stared; then dropped his arms with one of his
big, gusty laughs.

"_Kolossal!_" he roared. "The Countess Miklos! I was wondering! So he
has captured you, too, has he!"

With a simple and unembarrassed gesture she laid her arm across
Kingozi's shoulders.

"But yes," she repeated softly. "He has captured me, too."

At the tiny fire burning before the tent reserved for the headmen of
the camp sat Simba, Cazi Moto, and Mali-ya-bwana. The bone of the
_saurian_ lay before Simba, who was bragging.

"Great is the magic of this bone, which is mine. It has brought us a
long journey; it has won us the friendship of the great chief; it has
revealed to us much riches in the teeth of _tembo_, the elephant,
though that must not be spoken aside from us three; it has restored the
light to _Bwana_ Kingozi, our master; it has captured for us a great
_bwana_ and a rich safari; it has brought to us _Bwana_ Bunduki[20] and
many _bwanas_ and _askaris_; it has brought to our master a woman for
his own--though to be sure there are many women. Great is this magic;
and it is mine. With it I shall be lucky always."

[Footnote 20: The Master of the Rifle--Captain Walsh.]

"A-a-a-a!" agreed Cazi Moto and Mali-ya-bwana respectfully.

From the darkened mysterious forest the tree hyraxes, excited by the
numerous fires and the voices of so large an encampment, were wailing
and shrieking.

"The dead are restless tonight," said Simba, poking the fire.





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