As he could get no satisfactory reply he brought the fellow to Wrenshaw,
who asked who he was.
"One of Nanzela's men, Morena."
"Nanzela the Barushu?"
"He is."
"Where is he now?"
"On the river bank."
"With his people?"
"With his people."
"What are you doing here?"
"I was on my way to join him when you arrived. I was afraid, and hid
myself."
"You may go to Nanzela and give him a message. Say that I have come.
That I come because I hear Nanzela boasts. He says he will not pay the
Government tax. That he asks for war. Tell him that if by sunrise
to-morrow he does not come to me with tax-money in his hands, I shall
come to him with a gun in mine."
Whilst Wrenshaw had been speaking the native's eyes had wandered. He was
making a mental note of the white man's forces. There was the white man
himself--an unknown quantity--an alien black man in clothes who
interpreted the white man's words, a native of a neighbouring tribe
attending to two horses, and a half-caste busy with some cooking-pots at
the fire. So far as he could see there were no more than these. He
looked again at the white man and wondered what his real strength might
be. However, it didn't matter, as by this time Nanzela had posted scouts
on every path, and the police camp, some miles away, was being watched.
The white man, too, would be watched.
The sun had set, and it was now quite dark save for the camp fire which
the cook had made. A mile away, on the high ground by the river, little
points of light appeared. The Barushu were lighting their fires and
preparing for the night. Judging by the distance on either hand to which
these fires extended, the natives had assembled in some force.
Presently the sound of a drum, then of another, then of many, reached
the white man's ear.
"What is that sound?"
"I do not know, Morena."
"Are they not drums?"
"They are drums."
"War drums?"
"I do not know."
"What is their message?"
"I do not know."
The man, of course, lied; he could read their message as well as any
other native of his tribe within earshot.
"Go, give my message to Nanzela."
The man turned to go, bidding the white man rest in peace.
"Go safely," was the reply.
Presently the cook announced "Dinner ready, sir," and Wrenshaw moved to
the small camp table. The moment he sat down he felt he could not eat.
He had decided on his lonely journey in the heat of the moment--of the
midday sun, as it were; now that it was dark and cold, he wished he had
brought one of his assistants with him.
On second thoughts he was very glad he had come alone. If there was
going to be trouble--and it looked uncommonly like it--a life might have
been needlessly sacrificed.