"What are they going to do with you? Why didn't they kill you when they killed the others?"
"They not kill you, they not kill Kwamudi, they not kill these others—yet—all for same reason. Kill by and by."
"Why? What do they want to kill us for?"
"They eat."
"Eh? You don't mean to say they're cannibals!"
"Not like some. Bansuto not eat men all time; not eat all men. Only chiefs, brave men, strong men. Eat brave men, make them brave; eat strong men, make them strong; eat chiefs, make them wise."
"How horrible!" muttered Obroski. "But they can't eat me—I am not a chief—I am not brave—I am a coward," he mumbled.
"What, Bwana?"
"Oh, nothing. When do you suppose they'll do it? Right away?"
Kwamudi shook his head. "Maybe. Maybe not for long time. Witch doctor make medicine, talk to spirits, talk to moon. They tell him when. Maybe soon, maybe long time."
"And will they keep us tied up this way until they kill us? It's mighty uncomfortable. But then you aren't tied, are you?"
"Yes, Kwamudi tied—hands and feet. That why he lean forward across his knees."
"Can you talk their language, Kwamudi?"
"A little."
"Ask them to free our hands, and our feet too if they will."
"No good. Waste talk."
Listen, Kwamudi! They want us to be strong when they eat us, don't they?"
"Yes, Bwana."
"Very well; then get hold of the chief and tell him that if he keeps us tied up like this we'll get weak. He's certainly got brains enough to know that that's true. He's got plenty of warriors to guard us, and I don't see how we could get out of this village anyhow—not with all those harpies and brats hanging around.'"
Kwamudi understood enough of what the white man had said to get the main idea. "First time I get a chance, I tell him," he said.
Darkness fell. The light from the cooking fires was visible through the low doorway of the prison hut. Women were screaming and wailing for the warriors who had fallen in battle that day. Many had painted their bodies from head to feet with ashes, rendering them even more hideous than nature had fashioned them. Others laughed and gossiped.
Obroski was thirsty and hungry, but they brought him neither water nor food. The hours dragged on. The warriors commenced to dance in celebration of their victory. Tomtoms boomed dismally through the night. The wails of the mourners, the screams and war cries of the dancers rose and fell in savage consonance with the savage scene, adding to the depression of the prisoners.
"This is no way to treat people you're going to eat," grumbled Obroski. "You ought to get 'em fat, not starve 'em thin."
"Bansuto do not care about our fat," observed Kwamudi. "They eat our hearts, the palms of our hands, the soles of our feet. They eat the muscles from your arms and legs. They eat my brains."
"You're not very cheering and you're not very complimentary," said Obroski with a wry smile. "But at that there isn't much to choose between our brains, for they've ended up by getting us both into the same hole."
Chapter Nine
Treachery
Orman and Bill West entered the cook tent after supper. "We're going to do the dishes, Rhonda," said the director. "We're so shorthanded now we got to take the K.P.'s off and give 'em to Pat for guard duty. Jimmy and Shorty will stay on cooking and help with the other work."
Rhonda demurred with a shake of her head. "You boys have had a tough day. All we've done is sit in an automobile. Sit down here and smoke and talk to us—we need cheering up. The four of us can take care of the dishes. Isn't that right?" She turned toward Jimmy, Shorty, and Naomi.
"Sure!" said Jimmy and Shorty in unison.
Naomi nodded. "I've washed dishes till after midnight for a lot of Main Street bums many a time. I guess I can wash 'em for you bums, too," she added with a laugh. "But for the love o' Mike, do as Rhonda said—sit down and talk to us, and say something funny. I'm nearly nuts."
There was a moment's awkward silence. They could have been only a little more surprised had they seen Queen Mary turn handsprings across Trafalgar Square.
Then Tom Orman laughed and slapped Naomi on the back. "Atta girl!" he exclaimed.
Here was a new Madison ; they were all sure that they were going to like her better than the old.
"I don't mind sitting down," admitted West. "And I don't mind talking, but I'm damned if I can be funny—I can't forget Clarence and Jerrold and the rest of them."
"Poor Stanley," said Rhonda. "He won't even get a decent burial."
"He don't deserve one," growled Jimmy, who had served with the Marines; "he deserted under fire."
"Let's not be too hard on him," begged Rhonda. "No one is a coward because he wants to be. It's something one can't help. We ought to pity him." Jimmy grumbled in dissent.
Bill West grunted. "Perhaps we would, if we were all stuck on him."
Rhonda turned and eyed him coolly. "He may have had his faults," she said, "but at least I never heard him say an unkind thing about any one."
"He was never awake long enough," said Jimmy contemptuously.
"I don't know what I'm goin' to do without him," observed Orman. "There isn't anybody in the company I can double for him."
"You don't think you're going on with the picture after what's happened, do you?" asked Naomi.
"That's what we came over here for, and that's what we're goin' to do if it takes a leg," replied Orman.
"But you've lost your leading man and your heavy and your sound man and a lot more, and you haven't any guides, and you haven't any porters. If you think you can go on with a picture like that, you're just plain cuckoo, Tom."
"I never saw a good director who wasn't cuckoo," said Bill West.
Pat O'Grady stuck his head inside the tent. "The Chief here?" he asked. "Oh, there you are! Say, Tom, Atewy says old Ghrennem will stand all the guard with his men from 12 to 6 if we'll take care of it from now to midnight. He wants to know if that's all right with you. Atewy says the Arabs can do better together than workin' with Americans that they can't understand."
"O.K." replied Orman. "That's sort of decent of 'em takin' that shift. It'll give our boys a chance to rest up before we shove off in the morning, and God knows they need it. Tell 'em we'll call 'em at midnight."
Exhausted by the physical and nervous strains of the day, those members of the company that were not on guard were soon asleep. For the latter it was a long stretch to midnight, a tour of duty rendered still more trying by the deadly monotony of the almost unbroken silence of the jungle. Only faintly from great distances came the usual sounds to which they had become accustomed. It was as though they had been abandoned by even the beasts of the forest. But at last midnight came, and O'Grady awoke the Arabs. Tired men stumbled through the darkness to their blankets, and within fifteen minutes every American in the camp was deep in the sleep of utter exhaustion.
Even the unwonted activity of the Arabs could not arouse them; though, to be sure, the swart sons of the desert moved as silently as the work they were engaged upon permitted—rather unusual work it seemed for those whose sole duty it was to guard the camp.
It was full daylight before an American stirred—several hours later than it was customary for the life of the camp to begin.
Gordon Z. Marcus was the first to be up, for old age is prone to awaken earlier than youth. He had dressed hurriedly, for he had noted the daylight and the silence of the camp. Even before he came into the open he sensed that something was amiss. He looked quickly about. The camp seemed deserted. The fires had died to smoldering embers. No sentry stood on guard.
Marcus hastened to the tent occupied by Orman and O'Grady, and without formality burst into the interior. "Mr. Orman! Mr. Orman!" he shouted.
Orman and O'Grady, startled out of deep sleep by the excited voice of the old character man, threw aside their mosquito bars and leaped from their cots.
"What's wrong?" demanded Orman.
<
br /> "The Arabs!" exclaimed Marcus. "They've gone! Their tents, their horses, everything!"
Neither of the other men spoke as they quickly slipped into their clothes and stepped out into the open. Orman looked quickly about the camp.
"They must have been gone for hours," he said; "the fires are out." Then he shrugged. "We'll have to get along without them, but that doesn't mean that we got to stop eating. Where are the cooks? Wake the girls, Marcus, please, and rout out Jimmy and Shorty."
"I thought those fellows were getting mighty considerate all of a sudden when they offered to stand guard after midnight last night," remarked O'Grady.
"I might have known there was something phoney about it," growled Orman. "They played me for a sucker. I'm nothin' but a damn boob."
"Here comes Marcus again," said O'Grady. "I wonder what's eatin' him now—he looks fussed."
And Gordon Z. Marcus was fussed. Before he reached the two men he called aloud to them. "The girls aren't there," he shouted, "and their tent's a mess."
Orman turned and started on a run for the cook tent. "They're probably getting breakfast," he explained. But there was no one in the cook tent.
Every one was astir now; and a thorough search of the camp was made, but there was no sign of either Naomi Madison or Rhonda Terry. Bill West searched the same places again and again, unwilling to believe the abhorrent evidence of his own eyes. Orman was making a small pack of food, blankets, and ammunition.
"Why do you suppose they took them?" asked Marcus.
"For ransom, most likely," suggested O'Grady.
"I wish I was sure of that," said Orman; "but there is still a safe market for girls in Africa and Asia."
"I wonder why they tore everything to pieces so in the tent," mused Marcus. "It looks like a cyclone had struck it."
"There wasn't any fight," said O'Grady. "It would have waked some of us up if there had been."
"The Arabs were probably looking for loot," suggested Jimmy.
Bill West had been watching Orman. Now he too was making a pack. The director noticed it.
"What do you think you're goin' to do?" he asked.
"I'm goin' with you," replied West.
Orman shook his head. "Nothing doing! This is my funeral."
West continued his preparations without reply.
"If you fellows are going out to look for the girls, I'm goin' with you," announced O'Grady.
"Same here," said another.
The whole company volunteered.
"I'm goin' alone," announced Orman. "One man on foot can travel faster than this motorcade and faster than men on horseback who will have to stop and cut trail in places."
"But what in hell can one man do after he catches up with those rats?" demanded O'Grady. "He'll just get himself killed. He can't fight 'em all."
"I don't intend to fight," replied Orman. "I got the girls into this mess by not using my head; I'm going to use it to get them out. Those Arabs will do anything for money, and I can offer them more for the girls than they can hope to get from any one else."
O'Grady scratched his head. "I guess you're right, Tom."
"Sure I'm right. You are in charge of the outfit while I'm away. Get it to the Omwamwi Falls, and wait there for me. You'll be able to hire natives there. Send a runner back to Jinja by the southern route with a message for the studio telling what's happened and asking for orders if I don't show up again in thirty days."
"You're not going without breakfast!" demanded Marcus.
"No, I'll eat first," replied Orman.
"How about grub?" shouted O'Grady.
"Comin' right up!" yelled back Shorty from the cook tent.
Orman ate hurriedly, giving final instructions to O'Grady between mouthfuls. When he had finished he got up, shouldered his pack, and picked up his rifle.
"So long, boys!" he said.
They crowded up to shake his hand and wish him luck. Bill West was adjusting the straps of a pack that he had slung to his back. Orman eyed him.
"You can't come, Bill," he said. "This is my job."
"I'm coming along," replied West.
"I won't let you."
"You and who else?" demanded West, and then added in a voice that he tried hard to control, "Rhonda's out there somewhere."
The hard lines of grim stubbornness on Orman's face softened. "Come on then," he said; "I hadn't thought of it that way, Bill."
The two men crossed the camp and picked up the plain trail of the horsemen moving northward.
Chapter Ten
Torture
Stanley Obroski had never before welcomed a dawn with such enthusiasm. The new day might bring him death, but almost anything would be preferable to the hideous discomforts of the long night that had finally dragged its pain-racked length into the past.
His bonds had hurt him; his joints ached from long inaction and from cold; he was hungry, but he suffered more from thirst; vermin crawled over him at will and bit him; they and the cold and the hideous noises of the mourners and the dancers and the drums had combined to deny him sleep.
All these things had sapped his strength, both physical and nervous, leaving him exhausted. He felt like a little child who was afraid and wanted to cry. The urge to cry was almost irresistible. It seemed to offer relief from the maddening tension.
A vague half-conviction forced its way into the muddy chaos of his numb brain—crying would be a sign of fear, and fear meant cowardice! Obroski did not cry. Instead, he found partial relief in swearing. He had never been given to profanity, but even though he lacked practice he acquitted himself nobly.
His efforts awoke Kwamudi who had slept peacefully in this familiar environment. The two men conversed haltingly—mostly about their hunger and thirst.
"Yell for water and food," suggested Obroski, "and keep on yelling until they bring it."
Kwamudi thought that might be a good plan, and put It into execution. After five minutes it brought results. One of the guards outside the hut was awakened. He came in saying things.
In the meantime both the other prisoners had awakened and were sitting up. One of these was nearer the hut doorway than his fellows. He therefore chanced to be the first in the path of the guard, who commenced to belabor him over the head and shoulders with the haft of his spear.
"If you make any more noise like that," said the guard, "I'll cut out the tongues of all of you." Then he went outside and fell asleep again.
"That idea," observed Obroski, "was not so hot."
"What, Bwana?" inquired Kwamudi.
The morning dragged on until almost noon, and still the village slept. It was sleeping off the effects of the previous night's orgy. But at last the women commenced to move about, making preparations for breakfast.
Fully an hour later warriors came to the hut. They dragged and kicked the prisoners into the open and jerked them to their feet after removing the bonds from their ankles; then they led them to a large hut near the center of the village. It was the hut of Rungula, chief of the Bansutos.
Rungula sat on a low stool before the doorway. Behind him were ranged the more important subchiefs; and on the flanks, forming a wide semicircle, were grouped the remainder of the warriors—a thousand savage fighting men from many a far-flung Bansuto village.
From the doorway of the chief's hut several of his wives watched the proceedings, while a brood of children spewed out between their feet into the open sunshine.
Rungula eyed the white prisoner with scowling brows; then he spoke to him.
"What is he saying, Kwamudi?" asked Obroski.
"He is asking what you were doing in his country."
"Tell him that we were only passing through—that we are friends—that he must let us go."
When Kwamudi interpreted Obroski's speech Rungula laughed. "Tell the white man that only a chief who is greater than Rungula can say must to Rungula and that there is no chief greater than Rungula.
"The white man will be killed and so will all his people
. He would have been killed yesterday had he not been so big and strong."
"He will not stay strong if he does not have food and water," replied Kwamudi. "None of us will do you any good if you starve us and keep us tied up."
Rungula thought this over and discussed it with some of his lieutenants; then he stood up and approached Obroski. He fingered the white man's shirt, jabbering incessantly. He appeared much impressed also by Obroski's breeches and boots.
"He says for you to take off your clothes, Bwana," said Kwamudi; "he wants them."
"All of them?" inquired Obroski.
"All of them, Bwana."
Exhausted by sleeplessness, discomfort, and terror, Obroski had felt that nothing but torture and death could add to his misery, but now the thought of nakedness awoke him to new horrors. To the civilized man clothing imparts a self-confidence that is stripped away with his garments. But Obroski dared not refuse.
"Tell him I can't take my clothes off with my hands tied behind my back."
When Kwamudi had interpreted this last, Rungula directed that Obroski's hands be released.
The white man removed his shirt and tossed it to Rungula. Then the chief pointed at his boots. Slowly Obroski unlaced and removed them, sitting on the ground to do so. Rungula became intrigued by the white man's socks and jerked these off, himself.
Obroski rose and waited. Rungula felt of his great muscles and jabbered some more with his fellows. Then he called his tallest warrior and stood him beside the prisoner. Obroski towered above the man. The blacks jabbered excitedly.
Rungula touched Obroski's breeches and grunted.
"He want them," said Kwamudi.
"Oh, for Pete's sake, tell him to have a heart," exclaimed Obroski. "Tell him I got to have something to wear."
Kwamudi and the chief spoke together briefly, with many gesticulations.
"Take them off, Bwana," said the former. "There is nothing else you can do. He says he will give you something to wear."
As he unbuttoned his breeches and slipped them off, Obroski was painfully aware of giggling girls and women in the background. But the worst was yet to come—Rungula was greatly delighted by the gay silk shorts that the removal of the breeches revealed.
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