We are all either the victims or the beneficiaries of heredity and
environment. Stanley Obroski was one of the victims. Heredity had
given him a mighty physique, a noble bearing, and a handsome face.
Environment had sheltered and protected him throughout his life. Also,
every one with whom he had come in contact had admired his great
strength and attributed to him courage commensurate to it.
Never until the past few days had Obroski been confronted by an
emergency that might test his courage, and so all his life he had been
wondering if his courage would measure up to what was expected of it
when the emergency developed.
He had given the matter far more thought than does the man of ordinary
physique because he knew that so much more was expected of him than
of the ordinary man. It had become an obsession together with the fear
that he might not live up to the expectations of his admirers. And
finally he became afraid--afraid of being afraid.
It is a failing of nearly all large men to be keenly affected by
ridicule. It was the fear of ridicule, should he show fear, rather than
fear of physical suffering, that Obroski shrank from; though perhaps he
did not realize this. It was a psyche far too complex for easy analysis.
But the results were disastrous. They induced a subconscious urge to
avoid danger rather than risk showing fear and thus inducing ridicule.
And when the first shower of arrows fell among the cars of the safari
Obroski leaped from the opposite side of the automobile in which he
was riding and disappeared among the tall grasses that hemmed them in
on both sides. His reaction to danger had been entirely spontaneous--a
thing beyond his will.
As he pushed blindly forward he was as unthinking as a terrified animal
bent only upon escape. But he had covered only a few yards when he ran
directly into the arms of a giant black warrior.
Here indeed was an emergency. The black was as surprised as Obroski. He
probably thought that all the whites were charging to the attack; he
was terrified. He wanted to flee, but the white was too close; so he
leaped for him, calling loudly to his fellows as he did so.
It was too late for Obroski to escape the clutching fingers of the
black. If he didn't do something the man would kill him! If he could
get rid of the fellow he could run back to the safari. He _must_ get
rid of him!
The black had seized him by the clothes, and now Obroski saw a knife
in the fellow's free hand. Death stared him in the face! Heretofore
Obroski's dangers had always been more or less imaginary; now he was
faced with a stark reality.
Terror galvanized his mind and his giant muscles into instant action.
He seized the black and lifted him above his head; then he hurled him
heavily to the ground.
The black, fearful of his life, started to rise; and Obroski, equally
fearful of his own, lifted him again high overhead and again cast him
down. As he did so a half dozen blacks closed upon him from the tall
surrounding grasses and bore him to the earth.
His mind half numb with terror, Obroski fought like a cornered rat. The
blacks were no match for his great muscles. He seized them and tossed
them aside; then he turned to run. But the black he had first hurled to
the ground reached out and seized him by an ankle, tripping him; then
the others were upon him again and more came to their assistance. They
held him by force of numbers and bound his hands behind him.
In all his life Stanley Obroski had never fought before. A good
disposition and his strange complex had prevented him from seeking
trouble, and his great size and strength had deterred others from
picking quarrels with him. He had never realized his own strength; and
now, his mental faculties cloyed by terror, he only partly appreciated
it. All that he could think of was that they had bound his hands and he
was helpless; that they would kill him.
At last they dragged him to his feet. Why they did not kill him he
could not guess--then. They seemed a little awed by his great size and
strength. They jabbered much among themselves as they led him away
toward the forest.
Obroski heard the savage war cries of the main body as it attacked the
safari and the crack of rifles that told that his fellows were putting
up a spirited defense. A few bullets whirred close, and one of his
captors lunged forward with a slug in his heart.
They took him into the forest and along a winding trail where presently
they were overtaken by other members of the tribe, and with the arrival
of each new contingent he was surrounded by jabbering savages who
punched him and poked him, feeling of his great muscles, comparing his
height with theirs.
Bloodshot eyes glared from hideous, painted faces--glared in hatred
that required no knowledge of their language to interpret. Some
threatened him with spears and knives, but the party that had captured
him preserved him from these.
Stanley Obroski was so terrified that he walked as one in a trance,
giving no outward sign of any emotion; but the blacks thought that his
manner was indicative of the indifference of great bravery.
At last a very large warrior overtook them. He was resplendent in paint
and feathers, in many necklaces and armlets and anklets. He bore an
ornate shield, and his spear and his bow and the quiver for his arrows
were more gorgeously decorated than those of his fellows.
But it was his commanding presence and his air of authority more than
these that led Obroski to infer that he was a chief. As he listened to
the words of those who had made the capture, he examined the prisoner
with savage disdain; then he spoke commandingly to those about him and
strode on. The others followed, and afterward none threatened to harm
the white man.
All afternoon they marched, deeper and deeper into the gloomy forest.
The cords about Obroski's wrists cut into the flesh and hurt him;
another cord about his neck, by which a savage led him, was far too
tight for comfort; and when the savage jerked it, as he occasionally
did, Obroski was half choked.
He was very miserable, but he was so numb with terror that he made no
outcry nor any complaint. Perhaps he felt that it would be useless, and
that the less he caused them annoyance or called attention to himself
the better off he would be.
The result of this strategy, if such it were, he could not have
guessed; for he could not understand their words when they spoke among
themselves of the bravery of the white man who showed no fear.
During the long march his thoughts were often of the members of the
company he had deserted. He wondered how they had fared in the fight
and if any had been killed. He knew that many of the men had held him
in contempt before. What would they think of him now! Marcus must have
seen him run away at the first threat of danger. Obroski winced, the
old terrifying fear of ridicule swept over him; but it was nothing
compared to the acute terror he suffered as he shot quick glances about
him at the savage faces of his captors and recalled the stories he had
heard of torture and death at the hands of such as these.
He heard shouting ahead, and a moment later the trail debouched onto
a clearing in the center of which was a palisaded village of conical,
straw-thatched huts. It was late in the afternoon, and Obroski knew
that they must have covered considerable distance since his capture.
He wondered, in the event that he escaped or they released him, if he
could find his way back to the trail of the safari. He had his doubts.
As they entered the village, women and children pressed forward to see
him. They shouted at him. From the expressions of the faces of many
of the women he judged that they were reviling and cursing him. A few
struck or clawed at him. The children threw stones and refuse at him.
The warriors guarding him beat his assailants off, as they conducted
him down the single street of the village to a hut near the far end.
Here they motioned him to enter; but the doorway was so low that one
might only pass through it on hands and knees, and as his hands were
fastened behind his back that was out of the question for him. So they
threw him down and dragged him in. Then they bound his ankles and left
him.
The interior of the hut was dark, but as his eyes became accustomed to
the change from daylight he was able to see his surroundings dimly. It
was then that he became aware that he was not alone in the hut. Within
the range of his vision he saw three figures, evidently men. One was
stretched out upon the packed earth floor, the other two sat hunched
forward over their updrawn knees. He felt the eyes of the latter
upon him. He wondered what they were doing there--if they, too, were
prisoners.
Presently one of them spoke. "How the Bansuto get you, Bwana Simba?" It
was the name the blacks of the safari had given him because of the part
that he was to take in the picture, that of the Lion Man.
"Who the devil are you?" demanded Obroski.
"Kwamudi," replied the speaker.
"Kwamudi! Well, it didn't do you much good to run away--" He almost
added "either" but stopped himself in time. "They attacked the safari
shortly after noon. I was taken prisoner then. How did they get you?"
"Early this morning. I had followed my people, trying to get them to
return to the safari." Obroski guessed that Kwamudi was lying. "We ran
into a party of warriors coming from a distant village to join the main
tribe. They killed many of my people. Some escaped. They took some
prisoners. Of these they killed all but Kwamudi and these two. They
brought us here."
"What are they going to do with you? Why didn't they kill you when they
killed the others?"
"They not kill you, they not kill Kwamudi, they not kill these
others--yet--all for same reason. Kill by and by."
"Why? What do they want to kill us for?"
"They eat."
"Eh? You don't mean to say they're cannibals!"
"Not like some. Bansuto not eat men all time; not eat all men. Only
chiefs, brave men, strong men. Eat brave men, make them brave; eat
strong men, make them strong; eat chiefs, make them wise."
"How horrible!" muttered Obroski. "But they can't eat me--I am not a
chief--I am not brave--I am a coward," he mumbled.
"What, Bwana?"
"Oh, nothing. When do you suppose they'll do it? Right away?"
Kwamudi shook his head. "Maybe. Maybe not for long time. Witch doctor
make medicine, talk to spirits, talk to moon. They tell him when.
Maybe soon, maybe long time."
"And will they keep us tied up this way until they kill us? It's mighty
uncomfortable. But then, you aren't tied, are you?"
"Yes, Kwamudi tied--hands and feet. That why he lean forward across his
knees."
"Can you talk their language, Kwamudi?"
"A little."
"Ask them to free our hands, and our feet too if they will."
"No good. Waste talk."
"Listen, Kwamudi! They want us to be strong when they eat us, don't
they?"
"Yes, Bwana."
"Very well; then get hold of the chief and tell him that if he keeps
us tied up like this we'll get weak. He's certainly got brains enough
to know that that's true. He's got plenty of warriors to guard us, and
I don't see how we could get out of this village anyhow--not with all
those harpies and brats hanging around."
Kwamudi understood enough of what the white man had said to get the
main idea. "First time I get a chance, I tell him," he said.
Darkness fell. The light from the cooking fires was visible through the
low doorway of the prison hut. Women were screaming and wailing for
the warriors who had fallen in battle that day. Many had painted their
bodies from head to feet with ashes, rendering them even more hideous
than nature had fashioned them. Others laughed and gossiped.
Obroski was thirsty and hungry, but they brought him neither water
nor food. The hours dragged on. The warriors commenced to dance in
celebration of their victory. Tom-toms boomed dismally through the
night. The wails of the mourners, the screams and war cries of the
dancers rose and fell in savage consonance with the savage scene,
adding to the depression of the prisoners.
"This is no way to treat people you're going to eat," grumbled
Obroski. "You ought to get 'em fat, not starve 'em thin."
"Bansuto do not care about our fat," observed Kwamudi. "They eat our
hearts, the palms of our hands, the soles of our feet. They eat the
muscles from your arms and legs. They eat my brains."
"You're not very cheering, and you're not very complimentary," said
Obroski with a wry smile. "But at that there isn't much to choose
between our brains, for they've ended up by getting us both into the
same hole."