The Sign of the Spider Part 20

Half instinctively the unseen spectator put up his piece, then dropped it again. He might shoot the reptile, but what then? All their plans would be upset--the villages would be alarmed, and his own life greatly jeopardized. Too steep a price by far to pay, to save one wretched little black imp from being devoured by a crocodile, he told himself.

The road to wealth did not lie that way; and the cruel sneer that drooped his lips as he lowered his weapon was not good to behold, as he stood up to witness the end of this impromptu hunt, whose quarry was human.

The boys on the bank were shouting and screaming, partly for help, partly in the hope of scaring the hideous saurian. That wily reptile, however, heeded them not one atom. His great jaws opened and closed with a snap--but not on the crunch of human flesh, not on the crackle of human bones. The wretched little native, with incredible dexterity, had swerved and dived, just eluding the hungry jaws by no more than a hair's breadth. But to what avail?

For the smooth surface of the lagoon was now rippling into long furrow-like waves. Dark objects were gliding through the water with noiseless rapidity, converging on the point where the human quarry had now risen to breathe. More of the dreadful reptiles, with which the lagoons were swarming, had found out there was prey, and were bearing down to obtain their share. From his concealment, Laurence could see it all--the glistening of the hideous snouts, the round woolly head and staring, terror-stricken eyeb.a.l.l.s of the miserable little victim. Then, with a wild, piercing, soul-curdling shriek, the latter disappeared, and there arose to the surface a boil of foam, bubbling upon the slimy water in a bright red stain. Below, in the depths, the crocodiles were rending asunder their unexpected prey.

"The moral of that episode," said the concealed spectator to himself, as he turned away, "is that little boys should not play too near the bank.

No, there is yet another--the incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time in which the refined and civilized being can turn into a stony-hearted demon; and the causes which accomplish such transmogrification are twain--the parting with all his illusions, and the parting with all his cash."

These ruminations were cut short in a manner that was violent, not to say alarming. Two spears whizzed past him with a vicious, angry hiss, one burying itself deep in the stem of the tree-fern just behind him, the other flying into empty s.p.a.ce, but grazing his ear by very few inches indeed. Then, in the wild, barking, hoa.r.s.e-throated yell, blood-curdling in its note of hate and fury, Laurence Stanninghame realized that he was in a tight place--a very tight place.

CHAPTER XV.

AN AWAKENING.

Ten or a dozen tall savages were advancing through the somewhat spa.r.s.e scrub. Yielding to a first impulse of self-preservation, Laurence, quick as thought, stepped behind the stem of the tree-fern. Then he peered forth.

His first glance, keen and quick, took in every detail. His a.s.sailants were fine warrior-like men, ferocious looking, in great crested headgear of plumes. Their bodies were adorned with cow-hair circlets, but, save for a short kilt of cat's-tails and hide, they were quite unclad. They carried large shields of the Zulu pattern, and a sheaf of gleaming spears--some light, others heavy and strong with the blade like a cutla.s.s.

Who, what could they be? he wondered. They were too fine and stately of aspect--with their lofty, commanding brows, and clear, full glance--to belong to any of the tribes around. They were not w.a.n.goni--they wore too striking a look to come of even that fine race. Who could they be?

His conjectures on that head, rapid as they were, ceased abruptly, for a perfect volley of spears came whizzing about him, several burying their heads deep within the stem of the tree-fern. Well indeed for him that he had so rapidly placed even that slight rampart between himself and his enemies.

Deeming parley better than fight, under the circ.u.mstances, Laurence began quickly upon them in a mixture of Swahili and Zulu, declaring that he could be no enemy to them or to their race. But a loud mocking laugh drowned his words; and, seeing that the savages had suddenly half crouched behind their shields for a charge, his quick, resourceful brain grasped the situation at once. A puff of smoke, a jet of flame from behind the tree-fern. One of the warriors fell forward on his shield, beating the earth with his great limbs in the throes of death.

They had hardly reckoned upon this. Crouching low, now they glide away among the scrub, keeping well within cover. But that solitary, determined man, flattened there against the tree-fern, draws no hope from this. Their manoeuvre is a simple one enough. They are going to enfilade the position. Surrounded on all sides, and by such foes as these, where will he be? for he has no cover.

But in Laurence Stanninghame's stern eyes there is a lurid battle-glow, a very demon light. His enemies will have his life, but they will purchase it at a long price. A dead silence now reigns, and through it he can hear the stealthy rustle made by his foes in their efforts to surround him. Were he in the comparative security of cover, or behind a rampart of any sort, he might hope, by a superhuman effort of quick firing, to hold them back. As it is, he dare not move from behind his tree, suspecting an intention to draw him thence.

The sun flames blood-red upon the lagoon and upon a flight of flamingoes winnowing above the mirror-like surface, and, as though the situation were not deadly and desperate enough, the shimmer of light and water has, even in that brief glance, brought a spot in front of his eyes, at the moment when, if ever, his sight should be at its clearest and quickest. The odds against him are indeed terrible. He can hardly hope to come through; yet to his a.s.sailants it well may prove the dearest victory they have ever won.

A dark body, creeping among the scrub--just a glimpse and nothing more.

His piece is at his shoulder, and the trigger is pressed. He has not missed--of that he is sure. But the echoes of his shot are swallowed up, drowned in a hundred other echoes reverberating upon the dim silence of the scrub.

Echoes? No. The screech and tear of missiles very near to his own head, the smoke, the jets of flame from half a hundred different points--all this is sufficient to show that these are no echoes. His own people have come up. He is rescued, but only just in the nick of time.

"Look out," he shouts in stentorian tones. "Don't fire this way.

Hazon--Holmes, I'm here! Keep the fools in hand. They are blazing at me."

But the crash of the volley drowns his voice, and the scrub is alive with swarming natives armed with firelocks of every description. Yet, above the volley and the savage shouts, Laurence can hear the hoa.r.s.e, barking yell, can descry the forms of his late enemies--such as are left of them--as they flee, leaping and bounding, zigzagging with incredible velocity and address, to avoid the hail of bullets which is poured after them.

He can realize something more--something which sends through his whole being a cold shudder of dismay and despair. Not his own people are these otherwise so opportune arrivals. Not his own people, but--the inhabitants of the villages his own people are on their way to raid--fierce and savage cannibals by habit, but with physique which will furnish excellent slaves. He has literally fallen from the frying-pan into the fire.

How he curses his raw folly in making his presence known! But for this he might have slipped away unnoticed during the scrimmage. Now they come crowding up, brandishing their weapons and yelling hideously. Although inferior both in aspect and stature to those they have just defeated, these barbarians are formidable enough; terror-striking their wildly ferocious mien. Many of them, too, have filed teeth, which imparts to their hideous countenances the most fiend-like appearance.

Is it that in the apparently fearless att.i.tude, the stern, even commanding glance of this solitary white man, there is something that overawes them? It may be so, for they stop short in their hostile demonstrations and commence a parley. Yet not altogether does Laurence Stanninghame feel relieved, for a sudden thought surges through his brain which causes a shade of paleness to sweep over his firm, bronzed countenance. What if this were but a scheme to get him into their power?

What if he were not suffered to die fighting, to fall into their hands alive? Why, then, his fate was certain--certain and inexpressibly horrible. He would be butchered like a calf--butchered and eaten--by these repulsive wretches. Such would be his end. Now, however, to make the best of the situation!

But little can he make of their tongue. Then he tries them in Swahili.

Ah! several of them have a smattering of that. They have come to his aid at a critical moment, he puts it--he is willing therefore to call them friends. Yet it was a pity they had. He had already killed two of his a.s.sailants and was prepared to kill them all, one after another. It was only a question of time. After all, if anything, the new arrivals had rather spoiled his sport.

These stared. The tone was one of patronage, of condescension. This white man was but one; he was alone, and in their power, yet he spoke to them as a great chief might speak. Yet, was he but one? Was he alone or were many others not far off? Perceptibly their own replies took on a respectful air.

The while, Laurence kept every sense on the alert, indeed even to its uttermost tension. Was this parley designed to keep him preoccupied while others stole up treacherously to strike him down from behind? To guard against this idea he stepped boldly forth from the tree-fern and advanced towards the half-threatening crowd.

"Where are those we have slain?" he said. "Let us examine them."

"Yonder," answered some in a wandering tone, while others on the outskirts of the crowd scowled and muttered.

Leisurely, and now moving actually among these people, did Laurence fare forth to look upon the bodies of his late a.s.sailants. The thoroughly bold and fearless line he had adopted had told, as he was all but sure it would. These wild barbarians, armed to the teeth, had only to stretch forth a hand and slay him, yet somehow they refrained.

The slain warriors were lying as they fell, and even in death Laurence could not but admire their n.o.ble proportions, and the set and martial expression of their countenances. Six lay dead, while another, sorely wounded, was promptly beheaded by the new arrivals. These, their savage instincts all afire, set to work to hack the heads off each corpse; then, tying gra.s.s ropes around the ankles, the trunks were dragged away to the village.

To the latter now they invited Laurence. To hesitate might be an act of weakness sufficient to cause his slaughter. To acquiesce, on the other hand, was it not an act of unexampled foolhardiness thus to place himself more absolutely within the power of these savage cannibals? His policy of boldness had availed so far; it would not do to break down at the last moment. So he accepted without a shade of hesitation.

"How is your tribe named?" he asked, as they proceeded along.

"Wajalu," replied the man who had done chief spokesman, rather a good-looking native, with almost a Zulu cast of countenance.

"And the head man of yonder village, who is he?"

"I am he. I--Mgara," was the reply, with a satisfied smile.

"And those we have slain, they seemed fine fighters. Of what race were they?"

"Ba-gcatya."

Laurence looked grave, but said nothing. Strange rumours, mysterious and vague, had reached him already--rumours relating to an immensely powerful tribe inhabiting the dark and unexplored country away to the north, whose raids were extending more and more, whose wrath fell alike upon all--upon Arab slave-hunter and the prey sought by the latter--a Zulu-speaking tribe said to have taken its origin in some hardly recorded exodus in the days of Tshaka--Zulu alike in its habits and customs, and in the despotism of its ruler. This nation was known as the Abagcatya or Ba-gcatya, "The People of the Spider." Hazon, too, believed in its existence, and Hazon was a first-cla.s.s authority on such subjects. And now the warriors who had attacked him, and upon whom the tables were so strangely turned, were Zulu in aspect, and bore Zulu shields. The thing began to look serious. What if that handful of warriors was the outpost of a huge _impi_? Would not the vengeance of the latter be fearful and complete?

And, indeed, time was when Laurence Stanninghame's blood would have boiled with rage and disgust at the indignities offered to the remains of these n.o.ble-looking warriors. The trunks dragged along by the heels seemed nothing now but a bleeding ma.s.s. The heads, too, stuck upon spear points, were borne aloft above the rabble. To them were all sorts of mockeries addressed.

Now, however, it was different. The hardening process had been, if anything, all too complete. A man had his hands full even if occupied solely in taking care of himself--this had become the sum total of his creed.

As they drew near the village, the Wajalu set up the most hideously discordant war-song he had ever heard in his life. They were met in the gate by a crowd of women howling and blowing horns, and otherwise adding to the horrific tumult. These, on beholding the stranger, imagined him a prisoner, and began clamouring for his death, pointing to the bloodstained place of slaughter where such were wont to be immolated.

And then once more, hearing the shout of demoniacal laughter which arose from some of the fighting men, noting a ferociously sardonic grin upon not a few faces, Laurence felt his former misgivings all return.

Accustomed as he was to perilous situations, to horrifying sights, the strain upon his nerves was becoming painfully intense. Fortunate, indeed, for him that those nerves were now hardened to the cold consistency of cast steel by almost daily trial.

"Men of the Wajalu," he began, in a decisive, commanding voice, "well is it for all here that I am among you this day as a friend and guest, for, but for that, this village was doomed. You know not who I am, but you shall know in time. Then you will know that but for my presence here to-day the spear and the slave-yoke would have been your portion, that of your village the flames. Now I give you your lives."

The words, hurriedly rendered to those who could not understand by those who could, perhaps more the haughty indifference of his tone, his bearing, his appearance in general, hard and determined, overawed the crowd. No further voice was raised against him. Their advances of hospitality became even profuse.

He was shown to the best hut. But before he entered it he could not avoid seeing the bodies of his late a.s.sailants in process of dismemberment as though they had been slaughtered cattle, and, inured as he was to horrible and sickening sights, never had he been conscious of so overpowering a feeling of repulsion as now. The cannibal atrocities of these human beasts, the glowering heads stuck all over the stockade,--the latest addition thereto being those of the slain Ba-gcatya,--the all-pervading influence of death brooding over this demoniacal haunt, even as the ever-present circlings of carrion birds high in mid-air--all this weighed upon his mind until he could have blown out his own brains for sheer horror and loathing.

But upon this dark, enshrouding shadow, piercing, partly dispelling it, came a ray of searching light--sweet, golden, penetrating. The vision of his midday slumbers--Lilith. But a few hours had gone by since that dream, and within them he had fought fiercely for his life; and now, in this h.e.l.l-haunt, the sweet entrancement of it came back to charm away, as with a hallowed spell, the black horrors that hung over his soul as though on vulture wing.