He found them in a trampled arena. Mahmud lay on the ground, breathing heavily. Across the other side Gordon was bending over a still form with a queerly twisted head. As Mark approached, he straightened up.
'Damn,' he muttered, 'we might have learned something. What did you want to kill him for?'
'His neck or mine,' panted the Arab.
'There was another,' Mark said, sitting down wearily.
'The devil there was. Where is he?'
Mark explained.
'Damnation. You couldn't tell who he was?'
'I'd never seen him before.'
'Wish I'd seen him—blast it! Sure to have been one of Miguel's lot—this chap is. That means that we've got to get busy. Come on, Mahmud.'
The Arab rose unsteadily, still breathing hard.
'Come on,' Gordon repeated to Mark.
They followed him back to the fringe of the plantation. Gordon, without hesitation, went up to the wall and inserted all his fingers in an irregular crack. He leaned back, and slightly to the right, with all his weight. A rocky slab before him followed, pivoting slowly. He hustled the two through the space behind it and laid hold of the edge to drag it back into place.
Mark found himself in a chamber which contained nine or ten men. Among them he recognised one of the party who had visited Smith, and also the Negro, Zickle; the rest were strangers. A small globe in the roof shone dimly, but enough to show in the opposite wall, the beginning of a narrow passage leading upward at a severe angle. Gordon wasted no time.
'Miguel's on to us,' he said.
The Negro bared his teeth unpleasantly, otherwise the response was disappointing.
'Well, what about it?' asked one of the men. 'He can't do much, and we can croak him if he gets rough.'
'Not so simple,' said Gordon. 'Go on, Mahmud; tell them about it.'
Mahmud gave once more his report of Miguel's pact with the pygmies.
Some of ihe faces in the group began to look serious; others, including that of the one who had suggested 'croaking' Miguel, remained unimpressed. From the lat-ter's next remark, it became obvious that he had not grasped the situation.
'There aren't sotaiany pygmy prisoners. They can't give us much trouble.'
Mahmud explained afresh:
'It's not only the prisoners—he's made a pact with the pygmies in the outer caves.'
'How? They never come in here.'
'I don't know how the pact was made—I only know that it was. If he helps them to stop our tunnelling, he gets the run of the outer caves. Don't you see?'
'But how are they going to stop us. They never come-'
'Damn it, man,' Gordon broke in. 'Use your brains. I know we've never seen the pygmies in here except as prisoners—but they can invade us any time they like. We're not strong—a hundred and fifty at most. They'll have Miguel and his lot, most of the pgymy prisoners and the "natives" with them. The rest of the prisoners we can't be sure about. They may join up for the sake of a bit of excitement, but I think most of them will be neutral. Anyhow, we'd better be ready for them. Where's Smith?'
The other tilted his head towards the back of the cave.
'Up the tunnel.'
'At the end?'
'No. He hasn't been gone long.'
'Well, somebody go and fetch him—tell him it's urgent.'
One of the younger men scrambled to his feet and made for the entrance. Gordon looked over the group again.
'You, Zickle, get all our men you can find, and tell them to come here quick.' As the Negro rose, he added, 'And look out for Miguel—he might try an ambush.'
'Sure,' said Zickle. He seemed not unpleased by the prospect.
The stone door swung back after him, and the rest of the men faced Gordon expectantly. He started to speak, and then shook his head.
'No, better wait for Smith. This is more in his line.'
CHAPTER V
During the enforced wait a change crept over the group. Some of that lethargy which, despite all their efforts, had touched every one of them in greater or less degree, sloughed away. Time began to mean something. Even those who were sceptical of the real seriousness of Gordon's warning became more alert. Whether the danger were actual or not, here was an occurrence to create a moment of interest in the monotony. Apathy was broken by a fidgeting and shuffling which told of increasing tension. A few discussed the situation as far as they knew it. Their eyes brightened. The flaccidity of planless dreaming which had dulled each face disappeared as expressions became active. Mark marvelled at the change much as a short time ago Gordon had marvelled at a similar change in him.
He let his gaze roam round the stone chamber. It was a bare place, furnished only with benches and seats of hewn rock, and a few bowls containing water or fungus spirit. In one corner lay a few makeshift chisels, hammers, and other tools, among which he recognised long, thin French bayonets ground down by use. He wondered idly how the heavier tools had been acquired; iron and steel must be precious and rare in the caves. The accumulation of years, he supposed, collected from incoming prisoners. A problem occurred to him: how was the rubbish and detritus disposed of? Of the many tons of rock gouged out year after year, there was no sign, yet enough must have been removed to form a small mountain. He put the question to Gordon, who explained:
'Every now and then we come across fissures and faults into which the rubbish can be tipped. Some of them are narrow and not very deep, so that they are quickly filled up; others seem practically bottomless, and have to be bridged. We get across and continue the tunnel, sending the rubbish back to be dropped down the cleft behind until we strike another fault, then the same thing happens again.
'But in the beginning? when they made this place, for instance?'
Gordon shrugged.
'I suppose they had to cany it all away until the first fissure was struck. It must have been heavy work for the poor devils. I'm glad-'
A sudden scraping of the stone door interrupted him. He jumped up and seized a jagged piece of stone. The rest followed his example, standing with arms drawn back, ready to let fly. The door continued to turn ponderously upon its stone hinges. A streak of light from the fungus cavern appeared. The arms of the waiting men grew tense. A tousled, bearded head appeared; its owner grinned broadly at the sight of them.
'O.K. You can can your phoney pineapples,' he remarked cryptically. 'It's me and the boys.'
The threatening arms were lowered, and the held breaths released. The door swung wide enough to admit a man's body. The speaker entered, followed by ten or more companions of assorted races and nationalities.
'What's the big idea?' he demanded. 'That crazy nigger, Zickle's talkin' like the Day of Judgment's comin'. He gone nuts?'
'No, he's all right. We sent him. It's Miguel that's the trouble-'
'Trouble? What, that lousy wop? Gees, you ain't gotta get a whole bunch o' guys jest to beat him up. He's yeller; his whole gang's yeller. What's he been pullin', anyway?'
Gordon began to explain once more. Before he was halfway through, Smith came clattering out of the tunnel, demanding information. Mahmud was required to tell his tale for the third time.
Smith looked serious, and listened in silence. He frowned when Gordon completed the report by telling of the spies in the fungus caves.
'You're right,' he admitted. 'We've got to get busy. Mahmud's yarn mightn't have meant a lot by itself, nor might a couple of guys snoopin' around here. But the two together ... Well, it just means things are moving.' He turned to the latest comer. 'Is Zickle getting the rest, Ed?'
Ed looked doubtful, and scratched his beard.