The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ the middle of the night Abiboo, who, in addition to being Sanders’ servant, was a sergeant of the Houssas, came to Sanders’ tent, and the Commissioner jumped out of bed and mechanically reached for his Express.

      “Leopards?” he asked briefly.

      “Master,” said Sergeant Abiboo, “it is the woman M’Lino — she is a witch.”

      “Sergeant,” said the exasperated Sanders, “if you wake me up in the middle of the night with that sort of talk, I will break your infernal head.”

      “Be that as it may, master,” said the sergeant stolidly, “she is a witch, for she has talked with my men and done many wonderful things — such as causing them to behold their children and faraway scenes.”

      “Have I an escort of babies?” asked Sanders despairingly. “I wish,” he went on, with quiet savageness, “I had chosen Kroomen or Bushmen—” the sergeant winced— “or the mad people of the Isisi River, before I took a half-company of the King’s Houssas.” The sergeant gulped down the insult, saying nothing.

      “Bring the woman to me,” said Sanders. He scrambled into his clothing, and lit his tent lantern.

      After a while he heard the pattering of bare feet, and the girl came into his tent, and regarded him quietly.

      “M’Lino,” said Sanders, “I told you that you were not to speak with my men.”

      “Lord,” she said, “they spoke with me first.”

      “Is this true?” The sergeant at the tent door nodded. “Tembeli, the son of Sekambano, spoke with her, thus disobeying orders, and the other men followed,” he said.

      “Bushmen by gad!” fumed Sanders. “You will take Tembeli, the son of Sekambano, tie him to a tree, and give him twenty lashes.” The sergeant saluted, produced a tawdry little notebook, all brass binding and gold edges, and made a laborious note.

      “As for you,” said Sanders to the woman, “you drop your damned bush mesmerism, or I’ll treat you in the same way — alaki?”

      “Yes, lord,” she said meekly, and departed.

      Two Houssas tied Tembeli to a tree, and the sergeant gave him twenty-one with a pliable hippo-hide — the extra one being the sergeant’s perquisite. In the morning the sergeant reported that Tembeli had died in the night, and Sanders worried horribly.

      “It isn’t the flogging,” he said; “he has had the chicalle before.”

      “It is the woman,” said the sergeant wisely. “She is a witch; I foresaw this when she joined the column.” They buried Tembeli, the son of Sekambano, and Sanders wrote three reports of the circumstances of the death, each of which he tore up. Then he marched on.

      That night the column halted near a village, and Sanders sent the woman, under escort, to the chief, with orders to see her safely to the Sangar River. In half an hour she returned, with the escort, and Sergeant Abiboo explained the circumstances.

      “The chief will not take her in, being afraid.”

      “Afraid?” Sanders spluttered in his wrath; “Afraid? What is he afraid of?”

      “Her devilry,” said the sergeant; “the la-kali has told him the story of Tebeki, and he will not have her.” Sanders swore volubly for five minutes; then he went off to interview the chief of the village.

      The interview was short and to the point. Sanders knew this native very well, and made no mistakes.

      “Chief,” he said at the end of the palaver, “two things I may do; one is to punish you for your disobedience, and the other is to go on my way.”

      “Master,” said the other earnestly, “if you give my village to the fire, yet I would not take the woman M’Lino.”

      “So much I realize,” said Sanders; “therefore I will go on my way.” He marched at dawn on the following day, the woman a little ahead of the column, and under his eye. Halting for a “chop” and rest at midday, a man of the Houssas came to him and said there was a dead man hanging from a tree in the wood. Sanders went immediately with the man to the place of the hanging, for he was responsible for the peace of the district.

      “Where?” he asked, and the man pointed to a straight gum-tree that stood by itself in a clearing.

      “Where?” asked Sanders again, for there was no evidence of tragedy. The man still pointed at the tree, and Sanders frowned.

      “Go forward and touch his foot,” said the Commissioner, and, after a little hesitation, the soldier walked slowly to the tree and put out his hand. But he touched nothing but air, as far as Sanders could see.

      “You are mad,” he said, and whistled for the sergeant.

      “What do you see there?” asked Sanders, and the sergeant replied instantly; “Beyond the hanging man—”

      “There is no hanging man,” said Sanders coolly — for he began to appreciate the need for calm reasoning— “nothing but a tree and some shadows.”

      The Houssa looked puzzled, and turned a grave face to his. “Master, there is a man hanging,” he said.

      “That is so,” said Sanders quietly, “we must investigate this matter.” And he signed for the party to return to the camp.

      On the way he asked carelessly if the sergeant had spoken with the woman M’Lino.

      “I saw her; but she did not speak, except with her eyes.”

      Sanders nodded. “Tell me,” he said, “where did you bury Tembeli, the son of Sekambano?”

      “Master, we left him, in accordance with our custom, on the ground at the foot of a tree.” Sanders nodded again, for this is not the custom of the Houssas.

      “We will go back on our tracks to the camping place where the woman came to us,” he said.

      They marched until sundown, and whilst two men pitched his tent Sanders strolled round the little camp. The men were sitting about their cooking-pots, but the woman M’Lino sat apart, her elbows on her knees, her face between her hands.

      “M’Lino,” he said to her, halting suddenly before her, “how many men have you killed in your life?”

      She looked at him long and fixedly, and he returned the stare; then she dropped her eyes. “Many men,” she said.

      “So I think,” said Sanders.

      He was eating his dinner when Abiboo came slowly toward him.

      “Master, the man has died,” he said.

      Sanders looked at him narrowly.

      “Which man?”

      “The man you chicotted with your own hand,” said Abiboo.

      Now, the Commissioner had neither СКАЧАТЬ