The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ her, not the least of these being his ever-present fear for her safety, and the knowledge that she did not know as much about native people as she thought she knew — which was the gravest risk.

      One day he received a letter from her asking permission to visit the Village of Irons.

      Sanders groaned.

      He was not proud of the village — it advertised the lawlessness of a section of his people, and he was absurdly sensitive on this point. Moreover, he was, as he knew, a gauche showman.

      With some ill-grace, he replied that he would be ready to show her the village at any time that was convenient, except — here followed a maddening list of forbidden dates.

      In the compilation of this list Sanders showed more than usual guile. He racked his brain for exceptions. On such a date she could not visit the village because of “quarterly inspection,” on another because of “medical inspection”; yet another forbidden day was the “inspection of equipment.”

      With great ingenuity he concocted thirty-five periods in the year, varying from one to seven days, when the convict establishment was not visible; and he hoped most earnestly that she would be sufficiently annoyed to give up the visit altogether.

      To his despair, she replied immediately, choosing a day that was sandwiched between a spurious “appeal day” and a “mending week” — both of which occasions were the products of Sanders’ fertile imagination.

      She came down stream in her canoe, paddled by twenty men, and Sanders met her halfway and transferred her to his steamer.

      Sanders in dazzling white, but a little stiff and very formal.

      “If you don’t mind my saying so,” he said, “I’d much rather you hadn’t attempted this little jaunt.”

      “It is hardly a jaunt, Mr. Sanders,” she replied coldly. “I have a duty to these people — you admit that they are seldom seen by missionaries — and I should feel that I had tailed in that duty if I did not take the opportunity which you so kindly offer me” (Sanders swore to himself at her brazen effrontery) “of visiting them.”

      From under the shade of his big helmet Sanders glanced at her.

      “I shouldn’t like you to go through life under the impression that I wanted you to come,” he said bluntly — and Ruth Glandynne’s nose rose ever so slightly, for if she was a missionary she was also a woman.

      They reached the Village of Irons at eight o’clock one blazing morning.

      “Now what the devil does this mean?” said Sanders. For there were only two Houssas on the beach — one of them on sentry duty and the other his relief.

      “Lord!” said this man when Sanders stepped ashore. “The men of the company have journeyed down stream to a Place of Palms.”

      “By whose orders?” asked Sanders.

      “It was revealed them, lord,” said the man, “they being of the Sufi sect, that the blessed son of the Prophet would appear to them in this place and show them many miracles.”

      A light dawned on the Commissioner, and he half smiled, though in his heart he raged.

      “It seems that M’dali the Dreamer still dreams,” he said. “There will be some whipping here tomorrow.”

      His first impulse was to send the girl straight back; he had no fear that the temporary withdrawal of the guard would lead to any serious consequence — that thought never for one moment entered his head — but he was a cautious man, and his instinct was against taking risk of any kind.

      He was halfway back to the boat when he decided that, as the girl was here and had, moreover, come a long way, he had better get the thing over.

      “You had best confine yourself to the women’s quarters,” he said. “I will send Abiboo with you — for myself, I have a little palaver with one M’dali.”

      He unlocked the steel gate that led to the women’s compound, and stood watching the slim white figure of the girl as she moved up the tiny street — the straight, broad-shouldered Houssa at her elbow.

      Then he crossed the lane which separated the men from the women, opened the gate, and entered, double-locking it behind him.

      None came to speak to him, which was strange. Usually they clamoured to him for a hearing, goodnaturedly calling him by his familiar name — which in English is “The-Little-Butcher-Bird-Who-Flies-by-Night.”

      Now they sat before their huts, chins on knees, watching him silently, fearfully.

      “I don’t like this,” said Sanders.

      He slipped his hand carelessly in his pocket and pushed down the safety catch of his Browning.

      His second finger searched carefully for the butt of the pistol to feel if the magazine was pushed home.

      He stood on a bare patch of well-swept roadway, and had an uninterrupted view of the street.

      One quick glance he gave to the right. He could see Ruth talking to some native women — a group of three who squatted at her feet.

      Behind her, clear of the group, was Abiboo, his Winchester carbine — a gift of Sanders — in the crook of his arm.

      As the Commissioner looked he saw the Houssa furtively bring the lever back.

      “Abiboo is loading,” said something in Sanders’ brain.

      His eyes came back to the men’s village. There was no move. The convicts sat before their huts, silent and expectant. A thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. He glanced again at Abiboo. He had unostentatiously withdrawn still further from the women and now he was holding the rifle with both hands — the right gripping the butt, the left supporting the barrel.

      Then he turned his head slightly and nodded, and Sanders knew the signal was for him.

      Sanders turned swiftly. Whatever danger there was lay in the women’s village. He walked quickly back the way he came. Four men who had sat quietly rose and came out to meet him, showing no sign of haste.

      “Lord, we have a petition,” began one.

      “Go back to your hut, Tembeli!” said Sanders steadily. “I will come again for your petition.”

      “Crack!”

      Abiboo was firing into a hut, and the girl was flying along the street towards the gate.

      All this Sanders saw as he turned his head, and then the four men were upon him.

      A great hand covered his face, a cruel thumb fumbled for his eye. Tembeli went down shot through the heart, and Sanders tore himself free. He raced for the gate, taking out the key as he went.

      He turned and shot at two of his pursuers, but they had no heart for the fight.

      His steady hand unlocked the gate and closed it behind him. He saw Abiboo on the ground in the midst of a swaying СКАЧАТЬ