danger in the very air. He sensed it without knowing the reason for it; and he knew that a bold front, along, might release him from a serious situation.
'I have come for the white girl,' he said.
Gato Mgungu's eyes shifted. 'What white girl?' he demanded.
'Do not lie to me with questions,'' snapped Old Timer. 'The white girl is here. For two days I have followed those who stole her from my camp. Give her to me. I wish to return to my people who wait for me in the forest.'
'There is no white girl in my village,' growled Gato Mgungu, 'nor do I take orders from white men. I am Gato Mgungu, the chief. I give orders.'
'You'll take orders from me, you old scoundrel,' threatened the other, 'or I'll have a force down on your village that'll wipe it off the map.'
Gato Mgungu sneered. 'I know you, white man. There are two of you and six natives in your safari. You have few guns. You are poor. You steal ivory. You do not dare go where the white rulers are. They would put you in jail. You come with big words, but big words do not frighten Gato Mgungu; and now you are my prisoner.'
'Well, what of it?' demanded Old Timer. 'What do you think you're going to do with me?'
'Kill you,' replied Gato Mgungu.
The white man laughed. 'No you won't; not if you know what's good for you. The government would burn your village and hang you when they found it out.'
'They will not find it out,' retorted the chief. 'Take him away. See that he does not escape.'
Old Timer looked quickly around at the evil, scowling faces surrounding him. It was then that he recognized the chief, Bobolo, with whom he had long been upon good terms. Two warriors laid heavy hands upon him to drag him away. 'Wait!' he exclaimed, thrusting them aside. 'Let me speak to Bobolo. He certainly has sense enough to stop this foolishness.'
'Take him away!' shouted Gato Mgungu.
Again the warriors seized him, and as Bobolo made no move to intercede in his behalf the white man accompanied his guard without further demonstration. After disarming him they took him to a small hut, filthy beyond description, and, tying him securely, left him under guard of a single sentry who squatted on the ground outside the low doorway; but they neglected to remove the pocket knife from a pocket in his breeches.
Old Timer was very uncomfortable. His bonds hurt his wrists and ankles. The dirt floor of the hut was uneven and hard. The place was alive with crawling, biting things. It was putrid with foul stenches. In addition to these physical discomforts the outlook was mentally distressing. He began to question the wisdom of his quixotic venture and to upbraid himself for not listening to the council of his two followers.
But presently thoughts of the girl and the horrid situation in which she must be, if she still lived, convinced him that even though he had failed he could not have done otherwise than he had. He recalled to his mind a vivid picture of her as he had last seen her, he recounted her perfections of face and figure, and he knew that if chance permitted him to escape from the village of Gato Mgungu he would face even greater perils to effect her rescue.
His mind was still occupied with thoughts of her when he heard someone in conversation with his guard, and a moment later a figure entered the hut. It was now night; the only light was that reflected from the cooking fires burning about the village and a few torches set in the ground before the hut of the chief. The interior of his prison was in almost total darkness. The features of his visitor were quite invisible. He wondered if he might be the executioner, come to inflict the death penalty pronounced by the chief; but at the first words he recognized the voice of Bobolo.
'Perhaps I can help you,' said his visitor. 'You would like to get out of here?'
'Of course. Old Mgungu must have gone crazy. What's the matter with the old fool, anyway?'
'He does not like white men. I am their friend. I will help you.'
'Good for you, Bobolo,' exclaimed Old Timer. 'You'll never regret it.'
'It cannot be done for nothing,' suggested Bobolo.
'Name your price.'
'It is not my price,' the black hastened to assure him; 'it is what I shall have to pay to others.'
'Well, how much?'
'Ten tusks of ivory.'
Old Timer whistled. 'Wouldn't you like a steam yacht and a Rolls Royce, too?'
'Yes,' agreed Bobolo, willing to accept anything whether or not he knew what it was.
'Well, you don't get them; and, furthermore, ten tusks are too many.'
Bobolo shrugged. 'You know best, white man, what your life is worth.' He arose to go.
'Wait!' exclaimed Old Timer. 'You know it is hard to get any ivory these days.'
'I should have asked for a hundred tusks; but you are a friend, and so I asked only ten.'
'Get me out of here and I will bring the tusks to you when I get them. It may take time, but I will bring them.'
Bobolo shook his head. 'I must have the tusks first. Send word to your white friend to send me the tusks; then you will be freed.'
'How can I send word to him? My men are not here.'
'I will send a messenger.'
'All right, you old horse-thief,' consented the white. 'Untie my wrists and I'll write a note to him.'
'That will not do. I would not know what the paper that talks said. It might say things that would bring trouble to Bobolo.'
'You're darn right it would,' soliloquized Old Timer. 'If I could get the notebook and pencil out of my pocket The Kid would get a message that would land you in jail and hang Gato Mgungu into the bargain.' But aloud he said, 'How will he know that the message is from me?'
'Send something by the messenger that he will know is yours. You are wearing a ring. I saw it today.'
'How do I know you will send the right message?' demurred Old Timer. 'You might demand a hundred tusks.'
'I am your friend. I am very honest. Also, there is no other way. Shall I take the ring?'
'Very well; take it.'
The Negro stepped behind Old Timer and removed the ring from his finger. 'When the ivory comes you will be set free,' he said as he stooped, and passed out of the hut.
'I don't take any stock in the old fraud,' thought the white man, 'but a drowning man clutches at a straw.'
Bobolo grinned as he examined the ring by the light of a fire. 'I am a bright man,' he muttered to himself. 'I shall have a ring as well as the ivory.' As for freeing Old Timer, that was beyond his power; nor had he any intention of even attempting it. He was well contented with himself when he joined the other chiefs who were sitting in council with Gato Mgungu.
They were discussing, among other things, the method of dispatching the white prisoner. Some wished to have him slain and butchered in the village that they might not have to divide the flesh with the priests and the Leopard God at the temple. Others insisted that he be taken forthwith to the high priest that his flesh might be utilized in the ceremonies accompanying the induction of the new white high priestess. There was a great deal of oratory, most of which was in apropos; but that is ever the way of men in conferences. Black or white they like to hear their own voices.
Gato Mgungu was in the midst of a description of heroic acts that he had performed in a battle that had been fought twenty years previously when he was silenced by a terrifying interruption. There was a rustling of the leaves in the tree that overhung his hut; a heavy object hurtled down into the center of the circle formed by the squatting councilors, and as one man they leaped to their feet in consternation. Expressions of surprise, awe, or terror were registered upon every countenance. They turned affrighted glances upward into the tree, but nothing was visible there among the dark shadows; then they looked down at the thing lying at their feet. It was the corpse of a man, its wrists and ankles bound, its throat cut from ear to ear.
'It is Lupingu, the Utenga,' whispered Gato Mgungu. 'He brought me word of the coming of the son of Lobongo and his warriors.'
'It is an ill omen,' whispered one.
