The cold and gloomy dawn but reflected the spirits of the company as
the white men dragged themselves lethargically from their blankets.
But the first to view the camp in the swiftly coming daylight were
galvanized into instant wakefulness by what it revealed.
Bill West was the first to suspect what had happened. He looked
wonderingly about for a moment and then started, almost at a run, for
the crude shelters thrown up by the blacks the previous evening.
He called aloud to Kwamudi and several others whose names he knew,
but there was no response. He looked into shelter after shelter, and
always the results were the same. Then he hurried over to Orman's tent.
The director was just coming out as West ran up. O'Grady was directly
behind him.
"What's the matter with breakfast?" demanded the latter. "I don't see a
sign of the cooks."
"And you won't," said West; "they've gone, ducked, vamoosed. If you
want breakfast, you'll cook it yourself."
"What do you mean gone, Bill?" asked Orman.
"The whole kit and kaboodle of 'em have run out on us," explained the
cameraman. "There's not a smoke in camp. Even the askaris have beat it.
The camp's unguarded, and God only knows how long it has been."
"Come!" Orman's inflection registered incredulity. "But they couldn't!
Where have they gone?"
"Search me," replied West. "They've taken a lot of our supplies with
'em too. From what little I saw I guess they outfitted themselves to
the queen's taste. I noticed a couple of trucks that looked like they'd
been rifled."
Orman swore softly beneath his breath; but he squared his shoulders,
and the haggard, hang-dog expression he had worn vanished from his
face. O'Grady had been looking at him with a worried furrow in his
brow; now he gave a sigh of relief and grinned--the Chief was himself
again.
"Rout every one out," Orman directed. "Have the drivers check their
loads. You attend to that, Bill, while Pat posts a guard around the
camp. I see old el-Gran'ma'am and his bunch are still with us. You
better put them on guard duty, Pat. Then round up every one else at the
mess tables for a palaver."
While his orders were being carried out Orman walked about the camp
making a hurried survey. His brain was clear. Even the effects of a
sleepless night seemed to have been erased by this sudden emergency
call upon his resources. He no longer wasted his nervous energy upon
vain regrets, though he was still fully conscious of the fact that this
serious predicament was of his own making.
When he approached the mess table five minutes later the entire company
was assembled there talking excitedly about the defection of the blacks
and offering various prophecies as to the future, none of which were
particularly roseate.
Orman overheard one remark. "It took a case of Scotch to get us into
this mess, but Scotch won't ever get us out of it."
"You all know what has happened," Orman commenced; "and I guess you
all know why it happened, but criminations won't help matters. Our
situation really isn't so hopeless. We have men, provisions, arms, and
transportation. Because the coons deserted us doesn't mean that we've
got to sit down here and kiss ourselves good-bye.
"Nor is there any use in turning around now and going back--the
shortest way out of the Bansuto country is straight ahead. When we get
out of it we can recruit more blacks from friendly tribes and go ahead
with the picture.
"In the meantime every one has got to work and work hard. We have
got to do the work the blacks did before--make camp, strike camp,
unload and load, cook, cut trail, drag trucks through mud holes, stand
guard on the march and in camp. That part and trail cutting will be
dangerous, but every one will have to take his turn at it--every one
except the girls and the cooks; they're the most important members of
the safari." A hint of one of Orman's old smiles touched his lips and
eyes.
"Now," he continued, "the first thing to do is eat. Who can cook?"
"I can like nobody's business," said Rhonda Terry.
"I'll vouch for that," said Marcus. "I've eaten a chicken dinner with
all the trimmings at Rhonda's apartment."
"I can cook," spoke up a male voice.
Every one turned to see who had spoken; he was the only man that had
volunteered for the only safe assignment.
"When did you learn to cook, Obroski?" demanded Noice. "I went camping
with you once; and you couldn't even build a fire, let alone cook on
one after some one else had built it."
Obroski flushed. "Well, some one's got to help Rhonda," he said lamely,
"and no one else offered to."
"Jimmy, here, can cook," offered an electrician. "He used to be
assistant chef in a cafeteria in L. A."
"I don't want to cook," said Jimmy. "I don't want no cinch job. I
served in the Marines in Nicaragua. Gimme a gun, and let me do guard
duty."
"Who else can cook?" demanded Orman. "We need three."
"Shorty can cook," said a voice from the rear. "He used to run a
hot-dog stand on Ventura Boulevard."
"O.K.!" said Orman. "Miss Terry is chief cook; Jimmy and Shorty will
help her; Pat will detail three more for K.P. every day. Now get busy.
While the cooks are rustling some grub the rest of you strike the tents
and load the trucks."
"Oh, Tom," said Naomi Madison at his elbow, "my personal boy has run
away with the others. I wish you would detail one of the men to take
his place."
Orman wheeled and looked at her in astonishment. "I'd forgotten all
about you, Naomi. I'm glad you reminded me. If you can't cook, and I
don't suppose you can, you'll peel spuds, wait on the tables, and help
wash dishes."
For a moment the Madison looked aghast; then she smiled icily. "I
suppose you think you are funny," she said, "but really this is no time
for joking."
"I'm not joking, Naomi." His tone was serious, his face unsmiling.
"Do you mean to say that you expect me, Naomi Madison, to peel
potatoes, wait on tables, and wash dishes! Don't be ridiculous--I shall
do nothing of the kind."
"Be yourself, Naomi! Before Milt Smith discovered you you were slinging
hash in a joint on Main Street; and you'll do it again here, or you
won't eat." He turned and walked away.
During breakfast Naomi Madison sat in haughty aloofness in the back
seat of an automobile. She did not wait on table, nor did she eat.
Americans and Arabs formed the advance and rear guards when the
safari finally got under way; but the crew that cut trail was wholly
American--the Arabs would fight, but they would not work; that was
beneath their dignity.
Not until the last kitchen utensil was washed, packed, and loaded did
Rhonda Terry go to the car in which she and Naomi Madison rode. She was
flushed and a little tired as she entered the car.
Naomi eyed her with compressed lips. "You're a fool, Rhonda," she
snapped. "You shouldn't have lowered yourself by doing that menial
work. We were not employed to be scullery maids."
Rhonda nodded toward the head of the column. "There probably isn't
anything in those boys' contracts about chopping down trees or fighting
cannibals." She took a paper-wrapped parcel from her bag. "I brought
you some sandwiches. I thought you might be hungry."
The Madison ate in silence, and for a long time thereafter she seemed
to be immersed in thought.
The column moved slowly. The axe men were not accustomed to the sort
of work they were doing, and in the heat of the equatorial forest they
tired quickly. The trail opened with exasperating slowness as though
the forest begrudged every foot of progress that they made.
Orman worked with his men, wielding an axe when trees were to be
felled, marching with the advance guard when the trail was opened.
"Tough goin'," remarked Bill West, leaning his axe handle against his
hip and wiping the perspiration from his eyes.
"This isn't the toughest part of it," replied Orman.
"How come?"
"Since the guides scrammed we don't know where we're goin'."