THE SHARPENING OF THE SPEAR
Thus passed six weeks. By the end of this time the combined safaris had
progressed out into the unknown country about a normal three weeks'
journey. The rest was delay.
They had ventured out into the plain as into an enchanted sea. The
mountains had dropped below the horizon behind them; none had as yet
arisen before. The veldt ran in long, low undulations, so that always
they walked up or down gentle slopes. It was as though a ground swell
had set in toward distant, invisible shores. Here the short grass was
still green from the rains. Water lay in pools at the bottom of
_dongas_. By this good fortune travel was independent of the permanent
water, and hence safe and easy. Game was everywhere. Not for a single
hour in all that six weeks were they out of sight of it. Scattered over
the sward like deer in a pack the beasts grazed placidly in twos or
threes, or in great bands. Without haste, almost imperceptibly, they
drew aside to allow the safari to pass, and closed in again behind it.
Thus the travellers were always the centre of a little moving oasis of
clear space five hundred yards in diameter. Occasionally some unusual
and unexpected crease in the earth or density of brush in the _dongas_
brought them in surprise fairly atop an unsuspecting herd. Then ensued
a wild stampede. This communicated itself visually to all the animals
in sight. They moved off swiftly. And then still other remote beasts,
unaware of the cause of disturbance, quite out of sight of the safari,
but signalled by twinkle of stripe or flash of rump, also took flight.
So that far over the veldt, at last, the game hordes shifted uneasily
until the impulse died.
In this country were many lions. Most of the requisites of a lion were
here present--abundant game, water, the cover of the low brush in the
_dongas_. Only lacked a few rocky kopje fastnesses to make it ideal;
but that lack could be, and was, overlooked. The members of the safari
often saw the great beasts sunning themselves atop ant hills; walking
with dignity across the open country; sitting on their haunches to
stare with great yellow eyes at these strangers passing by. Here they
had never been annoyed or hunted; so here they had not become as
strictly nocturnal as nearer settlement. In all their magnificence they
stalked abroad, lords of the veldt. Kingozi's finger itched for the
trigger. There is no more exciting sport than that of lion shooting
afoot. It is a case of kill or be killed; for a lion, once the issue is
joined, never gives up. He fights literally to the death; and when he
is so crippled that he can no longer keep his feet, he drags himself
forward, and dies facing his opponent dauntlessly. No other beast
furnishes the same danger, the same thrill. His mere appearance stirs
the most sluggish spirit.
"_Simba! Simba! Simba!_" the exclamation ran back the line of the
safari, the sibilant hissed excitedly. Kingozi's heart bounded, and his
knuckles whitened as he gripped his rifle.
"_Bwana hapana piga?_" Simba implored. "Is not _bwana_ going to shoot?"
But Kingozi shook his head. The temptation was strong, but he resisted
it. He refrained from shooting at the lions for exactly the same reason
that he had insulated himself against the Leopard Woman's charms.
In all this wide country were no settled habitations. Your African
native requires hills or forests; he will not dwell on open plains at
any great distance from his natural protection. A few people there
were, hunters and nomads, living on wild honey and game. They were
solitaries and lived where night found them, a little race, shyer than
the game. For days and days they flanked the safari before venturing to
approach. Then one would appear a hundred yards away and open shouted
negotiations with the porters. Perhaps after a few hours he would
venture into camp. Invariably Kingozi interrogated these people. They
stood before him palpitating like birds, poised, tense for flight. He
asked them of water, of people, of routes. By means of kind treatment
and little presents he tried to gain their confidence. Sometimes thus
he induced them to talk freely, but never did he succeed in persuading
them to guide him. The mere fact of interrogation rendered them uneasy.
Probably they could not themselves have understood that uneasiness; but
invariably at nightfall they disappeared. They made fire by the rubbing
of sticks, shot poisoned arrows at game.
From them Kingozi gained little but chatter. They knew accurately every
permanent water, to be sure. This information, in view of the abundance
of rain pools, was not at present valuable; nevertheless Kingozi
questioned them minutely, and made many marks on the map he was
preparing. Always he mentioned M'tela. At first he introduced the name
at any time in the course of the interview; but soon he found that this
dried up all information. So then he reserved that subject for the
last. They were afraid of the very syllables. They spoke them under
their breaths, with side glances. M'tela was a great lord; a lord of
terror, to be feared.
At first the information was most vague. M'tela was over yonder--a long
distance--who knows how far? He possessed more or less mythical
characteristics, ranging from a height of forty or fifty feet down to
the mere possession of a charm by which he could kill at a distance.
Then, as the journey went on, the vagueness began to define. M'tela
took form as a big man with a voice like the lion at night. His
surroundings began to be described. He lived in the edge of a forest;
his people were many; he had forty wives, and the like. Still it was
far, very far. Kingozi concluded that none of these people had in
person visited the Kabilagani, but were talking at second hand.
And finally direct information came to him--in the form of fear. M'tela
was a great lord, a lord of many spears, his hand was heavy, he took
what he desired, his warriors were fierce and cruel and could not be
gainsaid. Told under the breath, with furtive glances to right and to
left. And not far: a three days' journey. Kingozi translated this into
terms of safari travel and made it about eight days. And, indeed,
though no mountains as yet raised their peaks above the horizon, fleets
of clouds setting sail from the distant ranges winged their way
joyously down a growing wind.
The Leopard Woman fell ill and kept her tent. Kingozi waited two days,
then sought her out. His patience over delay was about gone. The
headaches to which physical exhaustions always made him subject had
annoyed him greatly of late, had rendered him irritable. His eyes
bothered him--a reflex from his run-down condition, he thought,
combined with a slight inflammation due to the glare of sun or
yellowing grass. Boracic acid helped very little. The halo he had
noticed around the light that evening when they had first arrived at
the _sultani's_ village returned. He saw it about every campfire, every
lantern flame, even around the brightest of the stars. Altogether he
approached the interview in a strongly impatient mood.
The Leopard Woman lay abed beneath silken sheets. This was the first
time Kingozi had ever seen sheets of any kind on any kind of a safari.
In reality the Leopard Woman was an enticing, luring vision, but
Kingozi, through the lenses of his mood, saw only the silkiness and
"sheetiness" of those covers. He began to comprehend the numerous tin
boxes.
"I'm going to leave you here and push on," he began abruptly. "You will
be all right with the men I shall leave you. When you feel able to do
so, follow on. I'll leave a plain trail."
She objected feebly; but immediately, seeing that this would not touch
his mood, she asked him the reason of his haste.
"I'll tell you," he replied, "about a week distant is a chief named
M'tela. Did you ever hear of him?"
"M'tela?" she repeated the name thoughtfully. "No--but I don't know
much about native tribes."
Remembering her map Kingozi's lips compressed under his beard. What
earthly object could she have in lying?--unless her errand was as
secret as his own.
"Well, he is described as being very powerful. And of course he will
hear of us. It is well to make friends with him before he has had a
chance to think us over too long. I'll just go on and see him."
"When will you start?" she asked, conceding the point without
discussion.
"To-morrow morning. I shall make the distance in about five days,
probably: you should be able to do so in eight or ten. How are you
feeling to-day?"
"Better. I wondered would you ask."
He picked up her wrist.
"Pulse seems steady. Any fever?"
"A little early and late."
"Well, keep on with the hydrochlorate. You'll pull out in a day or so."
But the Leopard Woman pulled out in a second or so after Kingozi's
departure. As soon as he was safe away, she threw back the covers and
swung to the edge of the cot. At her call Chaké, the Nubian, appeared.
To him she immediately began to give emphatic directions, repeating
some of them over and over vehemently. He bent his fuzzy head
listening, his yellow eyeballs showing, his fang-like teeth exposed in
a grin of comprehension. When she had finished he nodded, said a few
words in his own tongue, and glided from the tent.
At his own camp he stooped and picked up a weapon. This was a spear,
and belonged to him personally. He had brought it all the way from
Nubia. It differed from any of the native spears of East Africa both in
form and in weight. Its blade was broad and shaped like a leaf; its
haft was of wood; and its heel was shod with only the briefest length
of iron. Chaké kept this spear in a high state of polish, so that its
metal shone like silver. He lifted it, poised it, made as though to
throw it, to thrust with it. Then with a sigh of renunciation he laid
it aside. From behind one of the porters' tents he took another spear,
one typical of this country that had been traded for only a day or two
before. This Chaké considered clumsy and unnecessarily heavy.
Nevertheless he bore it out into the long grass where he squatted in
concealment; and, producing a stone, began painstakingly to sharpen the
point and edges. As the slow labour went on he seemed to work himself
gradually to a pitch of excitement. A little crooning song began to
rise and fall, to flow and ebb. His eyes flashed, his back bent to a
tense crouch. Every few moments he dashed the spear against an
imaginary shield, poised it, thrust with it strongly, the chant rising.
Then abruptly his voice fell, his muscles relaxed, he resumed the
rythmical whetting with the stone.
All afternoon he squatted, passing the stone over the steel; polishing
long after the point and edges were as sharp as they could be made.
When the sun grew large at the world's edge he threw himself flat on
his belly and wormed his way to a position a few yards from Kingozi's
tent. There he left the spear. When he had gained a spot a hundred
yards away, he arose to his feet and walked quietly into camp. A moment
later he was sitting on his heels before his fire, eating his evening
meal.