He and White were on foot with the advance guard, both men constantly alert for any sign of danger. There was still considerable constraint in their manner, and they spoke to one another only as necessity required.
The noon-day stop for lunch passed and the column took up its snakelike way through the forest once more. The ring of axes against wood ahead was accompanied by song and laughter. Already the primitive minds of the porters had cast off the fears that had assailed them earlier in the day.
Suddenly, without warning, a dozen feathered missiles sped from the apparently deserted forest around them. Two natives fell. Major White, walking beside Orman, clutched at a feathered shaft protruding from his breast and fell at Orman's feet. The askaris and the Arabs fired blindly into the forest, The column came to a sudden halt.
"Again!" whispered Rhonda Terry.
Naomi Madison screamed and slipped to the floor of the car. Rhonda opened the door and stepped out onto the ground.
"Get back in, Rhonda!" cried Baine. "Get under cover."
The girl shook her head as though the suggestion irritated her. "Where is Bill?" she asked. "Is he up in front?"
"Not way up," replied Baine; "only a few cars ahead of us."
The men all along the line of cars slipped to the ground with their rifles and stood searching the forest to right and left for some sign of an enemy.
A man was crawling under a truck.
"What the hell are you doing, Obroski?" demanded Noice.
"I—I'm going to lie in the shade until we start again."
Noice made a vulgar sound with his lips and tongue.
In the rear of the column Pat O'Grady stopped whistling. He dropped back with the askaris guarding the rear. They had faced about and were nervously peering into the forest. A man from the last truck joined them and stood beside O'Grady.
"Wish we could get a look at 'em once," he said.
"It's tough tryin' to fight a bunch of guys you don't ever see," said O'Grady.
"It sort of gets a guy's nanny," offered the other. "I wonder who they got up in front this time."
O'Grady shook his head.
"It'll be our turn next; it was yesterday," said the man.
O'Grady looked at him. He saw that he was not afraid—he was merely stating what he believed to be a fact. "Can't ever tell," he said. "If it's a guy's time, he'll get it; if it isn't, he won't."
"Do you believe that? I wish I did."
"Sure—why not? It's pleasanter. I don't like worryin'."
"I don't know," said the other dubiously. "I ain't superstitious." He paused and lighted a cigarette.
"Neither am I," said O'Grady.
"I got one of my socks on wrong side out this morning," the man volunteered thoughtfully.
"You didn't take it off again, did you?" inquired O'Grady.
"No."
"That's right; you shouldn't."
Word was passed back along the line that Major White and two askaris had been killed. O'Grady cursed. "The major was a swell guy," he said. "He was worth all the lousy savages in Africa. I hope I get a chance to get some of 'em for this."
The porters were nervous, frightened, sullen. Kwamudi came up to O'Grady. "My people not go on," he said. "They turn back—go home."
"They better stick with us," O'Grady told him. "If they turn back they'll all be killed; they won't have a lot of us guys with rifles to fight for 'em. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this Bansuto country. You better advise 'em to stick, Kwamudi."
Kwamudi grumbled and walked away.
"That was just a bluff," O'Grady confided to the other white. "I don't believe they'd turn back through this Bansuto country alone."
Presently the column got under way again, and Kwamudi and his men marched with it.
Up in front they had laid the bodies of Major White and the two natives on top of one of the loads to give them decent burial at the next camp. Orman marched well in advance with set, haggard face. The askaris were nervous and held back. The party of Negroes clearing the road for the leading truck was on the verge of mutiny. The Arabs lagged behind. They had all had confidence in White, and his death had taken the heart out of them. They remembered Orman's lash and his cursing tongue; they would not have followed him at all had it not been for his courage. That was so evident that it commanded their respect.
He didn't curse them now. He talked to them as he should have from the first. "We've got to go on," he said. "If we turn back we'll be worse off. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this."
He used violence only when persuasion failed. An axe man refused to work and started for the rear. Orman knocked him down and then kicked him back onto the job. That was something they could all understand. It was right because it was just. Orman knew that the lives of two hundred people depended upon every man sticking to his job, and he meant to see that they stuck.
The rear of the column was not attacked that day, but just before they reached a camping place another volley of arrows took its toll from the head of the column. This time three men died, and an arrow knocked Orman's sun helmet from Ms head.
It was a gloomy company that made camp late that afternoon. The death of Major White had brought their own personal danger closer to the white members of the party. Before this they had felt a certain subconscious sense of immunity, as though the poisoned arrows of the Bansutos could deal death only to black men. Now they were quick to the horror of their own situation. Who would be next? How many of them were asking themselves this question!
Chapter Six
Remorse
Atewy, the Arab, taking advantage of his knowledge of English, often circulated among the Americans, asking questions, gossiping. They had become so accustomed to him that they thought nothing of his presence among them; nor did his awkward attempts at joviality suggest to them that he might be playing a part for the purpose of concealing ulterior motives, though it must have been apparent to the least observing that by nature Atewy was far from jovial.
He was, however, cunning; so he hid the fact that Ms greatest interest lay in the two girl members of the company. Nor did he ever approach them unless men of their own race were with them.
This afternoon Rhonda Terry was writing at a little camp table in front of her tent, for it was not yet dark. Gordon Z, Marcus had stopped to chat with her. Atewy from the corners of his eyes noted this and strolled casually closer. "Turning literary, Rhonda?" inquired Marcus. The girl looked up and smiled. "Trying to bring my diary up to date."
"I fear that it will prove a most lugubrious document."
"Whatever that is. Oh, by the way!" She picked up a folded paper. "I just found this map in my portfolio. In the last scene we shot they were taking close-ups of me examining it. I wonder if they want it again—I'd like to swipe it for a souvenir."
As she unfolded the paper Atewy moved closer, a new light burning in his eyes.
"Keep it," suggested Marcus, "until they ask you for It. Perhaps they're through with it. It's a most authentic looking thing, isn't it? I wonder if they made it in the studio."
"No. Bill says that Joe found it between the leaves of a book he bought in a secondhand book store. When he was commissioned to write this story it occurred to him to write it around this old map. It is intriguing, isn't it? Almost makes one believe that it would be easy to find a valley of diamonds." She folded the map and replaced it in her portfolio. Hawklike, the swarthy Atewy watched her.
Marcus regarded her with his kindly eyes. "You were speaking of Bill," he said. "What's wrong with you two children? He used to be with you so much."