Produced by Suzanne Shell, Richard Prairie, Tonya Allen,
and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
THE LEOPARD WOMAN
BY
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
Illustrated by W. H. D. Koerner
1916
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. The March
II. The Camp
III. The Rhinoceros
IV. The Stranger
V. The Encounter
VI. The Leopard Woman
VII. The Water Hole
VIII. The Thirst
IX. On the Plateau
X. The _Suliani_
XI. The Ivory Stockade
XII. The Pilocarpin
XIII. The Tropic Moon
XIV. Over the Ranges
XV. The Sharpening of the Spear
XVI. The Murder
XVII. The Darkness
XVIII. The Leopard Woman Changes Her Spots
XIX. The Trial
XX. Kingozi's Ultimatum
XXI. The Messengers
XXII. The Second Messengers
XXIII. The Council of War
XXIV. M'tela's Country
XXV. M'tela
XXVI. Waiting
XXVII. The Magic Bone
XXVIII. Simba's Adventure
XXIX. Winkleman's Safari Arrives
XXX. Winkleman Appears
XXXI. Light Again
XXXII. The Colours
XXXIII. Curtain
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Go, I say!' cried the Leopard Woman. 'And hold up your head. If this
is suspected of you, you will surely die'" ... _Frontispiece_
"'If you _will_ ride in a hammock, you ought to teach your men to
shoot,' was Kingozi's greeting"
"After the flat crack of the rifle a hollow _plunk_ indicated that the
bullet had told"
"Their eyes were large with curiosity as to this man and woman of a new
species ... Kingozi touched his lips to the _tembo_"
"'Cazi Moto, take this stick and make on the ground marks exactly like
those on the _barua_. Make them deep, so that I may feel them with my
hands'"
"The search party found Winkleman, very dirty, quite hungry, profoundly
chagrined"
"At the top of the hill the guide stopped and pointed. Kingozi gathered
that through the distant cleft he indicated the strangers must come"
"So intent was the Leopard Woman on the examination and on Kingozi that
she seemed utterly unconscious of the men standing over opposite ... A
more startlingly exotic figure for the wilds of Central Africa could
not be imagined"
THE LEOPARD WOMAN
CHAPTER I
THE MARCH
It was the close of the day. Over the baked veldt of Equatorial Africa
a safari marched. The men, in single file, were reduced to the
unimportance of moving black dots by the tremendous sweep of the dry
country stretching away to a horizon infinitely remote, beyond which
lay single mountains, like ships becalmed hull-down at sea. The
immensities filled the world--the simple immensities of sky and land.
Only by an effort, a wrench of the mind, would a bystander on the
advantage, say, of one of the little rocky, outcropping hills have been
able to narrow his vision to details.
And yet details were interesting. The vast shallow cup to the horizon
became a plain sparsely grown with flat-topped thorn trees. It was not
a forest, yet neither was it open country. The eye penetrated the thin
screen of tree trunks to the distance of half a mile or more, but was
brought to a stop at last. Underfoot was hard-baked earth, covered by
irregular patches of shale that tinkled when stepped on. Well-defined
paths, innumerable, trodden deep and hard, cut into the iron soil. They
nearly all ran in a northwesterly direction. The few traversing paths
took a long slant. These paths, so exactly like those crossing a
village green, had in all probability never been trodden by human foot.
They had been made by the game animals, the swarming multitudinous game
of Central Africa.
The safari was using one of the game trails. It was a compact little
safari, comprising not over thirty men all told. The single white man
walked fifty yards or so ahead of the main body. He was evidently
tired, for his shoulders drooped, and his shuffling, slow-swinging gait
would anywhere have been recognized by children of the wilderness as
that which gets the greatest result from the least effort. Dressed in
the brown cork helmet, the brown flannel shirt with spine-pad, the
khaki trousers, and the light boots of the African traveller little was
to be made of either his face or figure. The former was fully bearded,
the latter powerful across the shoulders. His belt was heavy with
little leather pockets; a pair of prismatic field-glasses, suspended
from a strap around his neck, swung across his chest; in the crook of
his left arm he carried a light rifle.
Immediately at his heels followed a native. This man's face was in
conformation that of the typical negro; but there the resemblance
ceased. Behind the features glowed a proud, fierce spirit that
transformed them. His head was high but his eyes roved from right to
left restlessly, never still save when they paused for a flickering
instant to examine some gazelle, some distant herd of zebra or
wildebeeste standing in the vista of the flat-topped trees. His
nostrils slowly expanded and contracted with his breathing, as do those
of a spirited horse. In contrast to the gait of the white man he
stepped vigorously and proudly as though the long day had not touched
his strength. He wore a battered old felt hat, a tattered flannel
shirt, a ragged pair of shorts, and the blue puttees issued by the
British to their native troops. The straps of two canteens crossed on
his breast; a full cartridge belt encircled his waist; he carried
lightly and easily one of those twelve-pound double cordite rifles that
constitute the only African life insurance.
Fifty yards in the rear marched the carriers. They were a straight,
strong lot, dressed according to their fancy or opportunity in the
cast-off garments of the coast; comical in the ensemble, perhaps, but
worthy of respect in that all day each had carried a seventy-pound load
under a tropical sun, and that they were coming in strong.
And finally, bringing up the rear, marched a small, lively, wizened
little fellow, dressed as nearly as possible like the white man, and
carrying as the badge of his office a bulging cotton umbrella and the
_kiboko_--the slender, limber, stinging rhinoceros-hide whip.
It was the end of a long march. This could be guessed by the hour, by
the wearied slouch of the white man, above all by the conduct of the
safari. The men were walking one on the heels of the other. Their
burdens, carried on their heads, held them erect. They stepped out
freely. But against the wooden chop boxes, the bags of cornmeal
_potio_, the bundles of canvas that made up some of the loads, the long
safari sticks went _tap, tap, tap_, in rhythm. This tapping was a
steady undertone to the volume of noise that arose from thirty throats.
Every man was singing or shouting at the full strength of his lungs. A
little file of Wakamba sung in unison one of the weird wavering minor
chants peculiar to savage peoples everywhere; some Kavirondos simply
howled in staccato barks like beasts. Between the extremes were many
variations; but every man contributed to the uproar, and tapped his
load rhythmically with his long stick. By this the experienced
traveller would have known that the men were very tired, tired to the
point of exhaustion; for the more wearied the Central African native,
or the steeper the hill he, laden, must surmount, the louder he sings
or yells.
"_Maji hapana m'bale, bwana_," observed the gun bearer to the white
man. "Water is not far, master."
The white man merely nodded. These two had been together many years,
and explanations were not necessary between them. He, as well as Simba,
had noticed the gradual convergence of the game trails, the presence of
small grass birds that flushed under their feet, the sing-sing buck
behind the aloes, the increasing numbers of game animals that stared or
fled at the sight and sound of the safari.
Nothing more was said. The way led to the top of one of those low
transverse swells that conceal the middle distance without actually
breaking the surface of the veldt. In the corresponding depression
beyond now could be discerned a wandering slender line of green.
"_Maji huko!_" murmured Simba. "There is the water."
Suddenly he stooped low, uttering a peculiar hissing sound. The white
man, too, dropped to the ground, throwing his rifle forward.
"_Nyama, bwana!_" he whispered fiercely, "_karibu sana!_"
He pointed cautiously over the white man's shoulder. The safari, at the
sight of the two dropping to a crouch, had stopped as though petrified,
and stood waiting in silence.
"We have no meat," Simba reminded his master in Swahili.
The white man eased himself back to a sitting posture, resting his
elbows on his knees, as all sensible good rifle shots do when they have
the chance. Simba, his eyes glowing fiercely, staring with almost
hypnotic intensity over his master's shoulder, quivered like an eager
dog.
"Hah!" he grunted as the loud spat of the bullet followed the rifle's
crack. "_Na kamata_--he has it!" he added as the wildebeeste plunged
into full view.
The hunter manipulated the bolt to throw in a new cartridge, but did
not shift his position. In less remote countries the sportsman,
unlimited in ammunition but restricted in chances, would probably have
pumped in four or five shots until the quarry was down. The traveller
and Simba watched closely, with expert eyes, to determine whether a
precious second cartridge should be expended.
"Where?" asked the white man briefly.
"Low in the shoulder," replied Simba.
The wildebeeste plunged wildly here and there, kicking, bucking,
menacing the unseen danger with his horns. For several seconds longer
the two watched, then rose leisurely to their feet. Simba motioned to
the waiting safari, who, correctly interpreting the situation, broke
into a trot. Both Simba and his master knew that had the animal not
received a mortal wound it would before this have whirled to look back.
The fact that it still ran proved its extremity. Sure enough, within
the hundred yards it suddenly plunged forward on its nose, rolled over,
and lay still.
The fierce countenance of the gun bearer lit up in triumph. He shifted
the heavy rifle and reached out to touch the lighter weapon resting
again in the crook of his master's arm.
"_Nyama Yangu! Nyama Yangu!_" he murmured. That was Simba's name for
the light rifle that did most of the shooting. The words meant simply
"my meat." Simba had a name for everything from the sheath knife of his
office to the white man himself. Indeed Culbertson in the Central
countries was Culbertson to none. Should you inquire for news of him by
that name news you could not obtain; but of Bwana Kingozi you might
learn from many tribes and peoples.
But now the safari, topping the hill, swept down with a rapid fire of
safari sticks against the loads and a chorus whose single word was
"_n'yama!_"
Simba was already at the carcass, _Kisu M'kubwa_, his thin-bladed
knife, in his hand. The men eased their loads to the ground, and stood
about with eagerly gleaming eyes, as would well-trained dogs in like
circumstances. Simba briefly indicated the three nearest to act as his
assistants. The wildebeeste was rapidly skinned and as rapidly
dismembered, the meat laid aside. Only once did the white man speak or
manifest the slightest interest.
"_Sarrara indani yangu_--the tenderloin is mine."
The wizened little headman with the umbrella and the _kiboko_, who
answered to the name of Cazi Moto, stepped forward and took charge of
the indicated delicacy. Soon all was ready for a resumption of the
march. Nothing was left of the wildebeeste save the head and the
veriest offal. The stomach and intestines, even, had been emptied of
their contents and packed away in the hide.
Already the carrion birds had gathered in incredible numbers. The sky
was full of them circling; an encompassing ring of them sat a scant
fifty yards distant, their wings held half out from their bodies, as
though they felt overheated. And in the low bushes could be discerned
the lurking, furtive, shadowy jackals.
The men were laughing, their weariness forgotten. Maulo, the camp
humourist, declaimed loudly at the top of his lungs, mocking the
marabouts, the buzzards, the vultures great and small, the kites and
the eagles.
"Go to the lion," he cried, "he kills much, and leaves. Little meat
will you get here. We keep what we get!"
And the men broke into meaningless but hearty laughter, as though at
brilliant wit.
But Bwana Kingozi's low voice cut across the merriment.
"_Bandika!_" he commanded.
And immediately Cazi Moto and Simba took up the cry.
"_Bandika! bandika! bandika!_" they vociferated over and over. Cazi
Moto moved here and there, lively as a cricket, his eyes alert for any
indication of slackness, his _kiboko_ held threateningly.
But there was no need for the latter. The men willingly enough swung
aloft their loads, now augmented by the meat, and the little caravan
moved on.
Scarcely had Cazi Moto, bringing up the rear, quitted the scene when
the carrion birds swooped. They fell from the open sky like plummets,
their wings half folded. When within ten feet of the ground they
checked their fall with pinion and tail, and the sound of them was like
the roar of a cataract. Those seated on the ground moved forward in a
series of ungainly hops, trying for more haste by futile urgings of
their wings. Where the wildebeeste had fallen was a writhing, flopping,
struggling brown mass. In an incredibly brief number of seconds it was
all over. The birds withdrew. Some sat disgruntled and humpbacked in
the low trees; some merely hopped away a few yards to indulge in gloomy
thoughts. A few of the more ambitious rose heavily and laboriously with
strenuous beating of pinions, finally to soar grandly away into the
infinities of the African sky. Of the wildebeeste remained only a
trampled bloody space and bones picked clean. The jackals crept forward
at last. So brief a time did all this occupy that Maulo, looking back,
saw them.
"Ho, little dogs!" he cried with one of his great empty laughs; "your
stomachs will go hollow but you can fill your noses!"
They tramped on steadily toward the low narrow line of green trees, and
the sun sank toward the hills.