'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.
'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.
