Meriem and Bwana were sitting on the verandah together the following
day when a horseman appeared in the distance riding across the plain
toward the bungalow. Bwana shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed out
toward the oncoming rider. He was puzzled. Strangers were few in
Central Africa. Even the blacks for a distance of many miles in every
direction were well known to him. No white man came within a hundred
miles that word of his coming did not reach Bwana long before the
stranger. His every move was reported to the big Bwana—just what
animals he killed and how many of each species, how he killed them,
too, for Bwana would not permit the use of prussic acid or strychnine;
and how he treated his “boys.”
Several European sportsmen had been turned back to the coast by the big
Englishman’s orders because of unwarranted cruelty to their black
followers, and one, whose name had long been heralded in civilized
communities as that of a great sportsman, was driven from Africa with
orders never to return when Bwana found that his big bag of fourteen
lions had been made by the diligent use of poisoned bait.
The result was that all good sportsmen and all the natives loved and
respected him. His word was law where there had never been law before.
There was scarce a head man from coast to coast who would not heed the
big Bwana’s commands in preference to those of the hunters who employed
them, and so it was easy to turn back any undesirable stranger—Bwana
had simply to threaten to order his boys to desert him.
But there was evidently one who had slipped into the country
unheralded. Bwana could not imagine who the approaching horseman might
be. After the manner of frontier hospitality the globe round he met the
newcomer at the gate, welcoming him even before he had dismounted. He
saw a tall, well knit man of thirty or over, blonde of hair and smooth
shaven. There was a tantalizing familiarity about him that convinced
Bwana that he should be able to call the visitor by name, yet he was
unable to do so. The newcomer was evidently of Scandinavian origin—both
his appearance and accent denoted that. His manner was rough but open.
He made a good impression upon the Englishman, who was wont to accept
strangers in this wild and savage country at their own valuation,
asking no questions and assuming the best of them until they proved
themselves undeserving of his friendship and hospitality.
“It is rather unusual that a white man comes unheralded,” he said, as
they walked together toward the field into which he had suggested that
the traveler might turn his pony. “My friends, the natives, keep us
rather well-posted.”
“It is probably due to the fact that I came from the south,” explained
the stranger, “that you did not hear of my coming. I have seen no
village for several marches.”
“No, there are none to the south of us for many miles,” replied Bwana.
“Since Kovudoo deserted his country I rather doubt that one could find
a native in that direction under two or three hundred miles.”
Bwana was wondering how a lone white man could have made his way
through the savage, unhospitable miles that lay toward the south. As
though guessing what must be passing through the other’s mind, the
stranger vouchsafed an explanation.
“I came down from the north to do a little trading and hunting,” he
said, “and got way off the beaten track. My head man, who was the only
member of the _safari_ who had ever before been in the country, took
sick and died. We could find no natives to guide us, and so I simply
swung back straight north. We have been living on the fruits of our
guns for over a month. Didn’t have an idea there was a white man within
a thousand miles of us when we camped last night by a water hole at the
edge of the plain. This morning I started out to hunt and saw the smoke
from your chimney, so I sent my gun bearer back to camp with the good
news and rode straight over here myself. Of course I’ve heard of
you—everybody who comes into Central Africa does—and I’d be mighty glad
of permission to rest up and hunt around here for a couple of weeks.”
“Certainly,” replied Bwana. “Move your camp up close to the river below
my boys’ camp and make yourself at home.”
They had reached the verandah now and Bwana was introducing the
stranger to Meriem and My Dear, who had just come from the bungalow’s
interior.
“This is Mr. Hanson,” he said, using the name the man had given him.
“He is a trader who has lost his way in the jungle to the south.”
My Dear and Meriem bowed their acknowledgments of the introduction. The
man seemed rather ill at ease in their presence. His host attributed
this to the fact that his guest was unaccustomed to the society of
cultured women, and so found a pretext to quickly extricate him from
his seemingly unpleasant position and lead him away to his study and
the brandy and soda which were evidently much less embarrassing to Mr.
Hanson.
When the two had left them Meriem turned toward My Dear.
“It is odd,” she said, “but I could almost swear that I had known Mr.
Hanson in the past. It is odd, but quite impossible,” and she gave the
matter no further thought.
Hanson did not accept Bwana’s invitation to move his camp closer to the
bungalow. He said his boys were inclined to be quarrelsome, and so were
better off at a distance; and he, himself, was around but little, and
then always avoided coming into contact with the ladies. A fact which
naturally aroused only laughing comment on the rough trader’s
bashfulness. He accompanied the men on several hunting trips where they
found him perfectly at home and well versed in all the finer points of
big game hunting. Of an evening he often spent much time with the white
foreman of the big farm, evidently finding in the society of this
rougher man more common interests than the cultured guests of Bwana
possessed for him. So it came that his was a familiar figure about the
premises by night. He came and went as he saw fit, often wandering
along in the great flower garden that was the especial pride and joy of
My Dear and Meriem. The first time that he had been surprised there he
apologized gruffly, explaining that he had always been fond of the good
old blooms of northern Europe which My Dear had so successfully
transplanted in African soil.
Was it, though, the ever beautiful blossoms of hollyhocks and phlox
that drew him to the perfumed air of the garden, or that other
infinitely more beautiful flower who wandered often among the blooms
beneath the great moon—the black-haired, suntanned Meriem?
For three weeks Hanson had remained. During this time he said that his
boys were resting and gaining strength after their terrible ordeals in
the untracked jungle to the south; but he had not been as idle as he
appeared to have been. He divided his small following into two parties,
entrusting the leadership of each to men whom he believed that he could
trust. To them he explained his plans and the rich reward that they
would win from him if they carried his designs to a successful
conclusion. One party he moved very slowly northward along the trail
that connects with the great caravan routes entering the Sahara from
the south. The other he ordered straight westward with orders to halt
and go into permanent camp just beyond the great river which marks the
natural boundary of the country that the big Bwana rightfully considers
almost his own.
To his host he explained that he was moving his _safari_ slowly toward
the north—he said nothing of the party moving westward. Then, one day,
he announced that half his boys had deserted, for a hunting party from
the bungalow had come across his northerly camp and he feared that they
might have noticed the reduced numbers of his following.
And thus matters stood when, one hot night, Meriem, unable to sleep,
rose and wandered out into the garden. The Hon. Morison had been urging
his suit once more that evening, and the girl’s mind was in such a
turmoil that she had been unable to sleep.
The wide heavens about her seemed to promise a greater freedom from
doubt and questioning. Baynes had urged her to tell him that she loved
him. A dozen times she thought that she might honestly give him the
answer that he demanded. Korak fast was becoming but a memory. That he
was dead she had come to believe, since otherwise he would have sought
her out. She did not know that he had even better reason to believe her
dead, and that it was because of that belief he had made no effort to
find her after his raid upon the village of Kovudoo.
Behind a great flowering shrub Hanson lay gazing at the stars and
waiting. He had lain thus and there many nights before. For what was he
waiting, or for whom? He heard the girl approaching, and half raised
himself to his elbow. A dozen paces away, the reins looped over a fence
post, stood his pony.
Meriem, walking slowly, approached the bush behind which the waiter
lay. Hanson drew a large bandanna handkerchief from his pocket and rose
stealthily to his knees. A pony neighed down at the corrals. Far out
across the plain a lion roared. Hanson changed his position until he
squatted upon both feet, ready to come erect quickly.
Again the pony neighed—this time closer. There was the sound of his
body brushing against shrubbery. Hanson heard and wondered how the
animal had gotten from the corral, for it was evident that he was
already in the garden. The man turned his head in the direction of the
beast. What he saw sent him to the ground, huddled close beneath the
shrubbery—a man was coming, leading two ponies.
Meriem heard now and stopped to look and listen. A moment later the
Hon. Morison Baynes drew near, the two saddled mounts at his heels.
Meriem looked up at him in surprise. The Hon. Morison grinned
sheepishly.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he explained, “and was going for a bit of a ride
when I chanced to see you out here, and I thought you’d like to join
me. Ripping good sport, you know, night riding. Come on.”
Meriem laughed. The adventure appealed to her.
“All right,” she said.
Hanson swore beneath his breath. The two led their horses from the
garden to the gate and through it. There they discovered Hanson’s
mount.
“Why here’s the trader’s pony,” remarked Baynes.
“He’s probably down visiting with the foreman,” said Meriem.
“Pretty late for him, isn’t it?” remarked the Hon. Morison. “I’d hate
to have to ride back through that jungle at night to his camp.”
As though to give weight to his apprehensions the distant lion roared
again. The Hon. Morison shivered and glanced at the girl to note the
effect of the uncanny sound upon her. She appeared not to have noticed
it.
A moment later the two had mounted and were moving slowly across the
moon-bathed plain. The girl turned her pony’s head straight toward the
jungle. It was in the direction of the roaring of the hungry lion.
“Hadn’t we better steer clear of that fellow?” suggested the Hon.
Morison. “I guess you didn’t hear him.”
“Yes, I heard him,” laughed Meriem. “Let’s ride over and call on him.”
The Hon. Morison laughed uneasily. He didn’t care to appear at a
disadvantage before this girl, nor did he care, either, to approach a
hungry lion too closely at night. He carried his rifle in his saddle
boot; but moonlight is an uncertain light to shoot by, nor ever had he
faced a lion alone—even by day. The thought gave him a distinct nausea.
The beast ceased his roaring now. They heard him no more and the Hon.
Morison gained courage accordingly. They were riding down wind toward
the jungle. The lion lay in a little swale to their right. He was old.
For two nights he had not fed, for no longer was his charge as swift or
his spring as mighty as in the days of his prime when he spread terror
among the creatures of his wild domain. For two nights and days he had
gone empty, and for long time before that he had fed only upon carrion.
He was old; but he was yet a terrible engine of destruction.
At the edge of the forest the Hon. Morison drew rein. He had no desire
to go further. Numa, silent upon his padded feet, crept into the jungle
beyond them. The wind, now, was blowing gently between him and his
intended prey. He had come a long way in search of man, for even in his
youth he had tasted human flesh and while it was poor stuff by
comparison with eland and zebra it was less difficult to kill. In
Numa’s estimation man was a slow-witted, slow-footed creature which
commanded no respect unless accompanied by the acrid odor which spelled
to the monarch’s sensitive nostrils the great noise and the blinding
flash of an express rifle.
He caught the dangerous scent tonight; but he was ravenous to madness.
He would face a dozen rifles, if necessary, to fill his empty belly. He
circled about into the forest that he might again be down wind from his
victims, for should they get his scent he could not hope to overtake
them. Numa was famished; but he was old and crafty.
Deep in the jungle another caught faintly the scent of man and of Numa
both. He raised his head and sniffed. He cocked it upon one side and
listened.
“Come on,” said Meriem, “let’s ride in a way—the forest is wonderful at
night. It is open enough to permit us to ride.”
The Hon. Morison hesitated. He shrank from revealing his fear in the
presence of the girl. A braver man, sure of his own position, would
have had the courage to have refused uselessly to expose the girl to
danger. He would not have thought of himself at all; but the egotism of
the Hon. Morison required that he think always of self first. He had
planned the ride to get Meriem away from the bungalow. He wanted to
talk to her alone and far enough away so should she take offense at his
purposed suggestion he would have time in which to attempt to right
himself in her eyes before they reached home. He had little doubt, of
course, but that he should succeed; but it is to his credit that he did
have some slight doubts.
“You needn’t be afraid of the lion,” said Meriem, noting his slight
hesitancy. “There hasn’t been a man eater around here for two years,
Bwana says, and the game is so plentiful that there is no necessity to
drive Numa to human flesh. Then, he has been so often hunted that he
rather keeps out of man’s way.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of lions,” replied the Hon. Morison. “I was just
thinking what a beastly uncomfortable place a forest is to ride in.
What with the underbrush and the low branches and all that, you know,
it’s not exactly cut out for pleasure riding.”
“Let’s go a-foot then,” suggested Meriem, and started to dismount.
“Oh, no,” cried the Hon. Morison, aghast at this suggestion. “Let’s
ride,” and he reined his pony into the dark shadows of the wood. Behind
him came Meriem and in front, prowling ahead waiting a favorable
opportunity, skulked Numa, the lion.
Out upon the plain a lone horseman muttered a low curse as he saw the
two disappear from sight. It was Hanson. He had followed them from the
bungalow. Their way led in the direction of his camp, so he had a ready
and plausible excuse should they discover him; but they had not seen
him for they had not turned their eyes behind.
Now he turned directly toward the spot at which they had entered the
jungle. He no longer cared whether he was observed or not. There were
two reasons for his indifference. The first was that he saw in Baynes’
act a counterpart of his own planned abduction of the girl. In some way
he might turn the thing to his own purposes. At least he would keep in
touch with them and make sure that Baynes did not get her. His other
reason was based on his knowledge of an event that had transpired at
his camp the previous night—an event which he had not mentioned at the
bungalow for fear of drawing undesired attention to his movements and
bringing the blacks of the big Bwana into dangerous intercourse with
his own boys. He had told at the bungalow that half his men had
deserted. That story might be quickly disproved should his boys and
Bwana’s grow confidential.
The event that he had failed to mention and which now urged him
hurriedly after the girl and her escort had occurred during his absence
early the preceding evening. His men had been sitting around their camp
fire, entirely encircled by a high, thorn _boma_, when, without the
slightest warning, a huge lion had leaped amongst them and seized one
of their number. It had been solely due to the loyalty and courage of
his comrades that his life had been saved, and then only after a battle
royal with the hunger-enraged beast had they been able to drive him off
with burning brands, spears, and rifles.
From this Hanson knew that a man eater had wandered into the district
or been developed by the aging of one of the many lions who ranged the
plains and hills by night, or lay up in the cool wood by day. He had
heard the roaring of a hungry lion not half an hour before, and there
was little doubt in his mind but that the man eater was stalking Meriem
and Baynes. He cursed the Englishman for a fool, and spurred rapidly
after them.
Meriem and Baynes had drawn up in a small, natural clearing. A hundred
yards beyond them Numa lay crouching in the underbrush, his
yellow-green eyes fixed upon his prey, the tip of his sinuous tail
jerking spasmodically. He was measuring the distance between him and
them. He was wondering if he dared venture a charge, or should he wait
yet a little longer in the hope that they might ride straight into his
jaws. He was very hungry; but also was he very crafty. He could not
chance losing his meat by a hasty and ill-considered rush. Had he
waited the night before until the blacks slept he would not have been
forced to go hungry for another twenty-four hours.
Behind him the other that had caught his scent and that of man together
came to a sitting posture upon the branch of a tree in which he had
reposed himself for slumber. Beneath him a lumbering gray hulk swayed
to and fro in the darkness. The beast in the tree uttered a low
guttural and dropped to the back of the gray mass. He whispered a word
in one of the great ears and Tantor, the elephant, raised his trunk
aloft, swinging it high and low to catch the scent that the word had
warned him of. There was another whispered word—was it a command?—and
the lumbering beast wheeled into an awkward, yet silent shuffle, in the
direction of Numa, the lion, and the stranger Tarmangani his rider had
scented.
Onward they went, the scent of the lion and his prey becoming stronger
and stronger. Numa was becoming impatient. How much longer must he wait
for his meat to come his way? He lashed his tail viciously now. He
almost growled. All unconscious of their danger the man and the girl
sat talking in the little clearing.
Their horses were pressed side by side. Baynes had found Meriem’s hand
and was pressing it as he poured words of love into her ear, and Meriem
was listening.
“Come to London with me,” urged the Hon. Morison. “I can gather a
_safari_ and we can be a whole day upon the way to the coast before
they guess that we have gone.”
“Why must we go that way?” asked the girl. “Bwana and My Dear would not
object to our marriage.”
“I cannot marry you just yet,” explained the Hon. Morison, “there are
some formalities to be attended to first—you do not understand. It will
be all right. We will go to London. I cannot wait. If you love me you
will come. What of the apes you lived with? Did they bother about
marriage? They love as we love. Had you stayed among them you would
have mated as they mate. It is the law of nature—no man-made law can
abrogate the laws of God. What difference does it make if we love one
another? What do we care for anyone in the world besides ourselves? I
would give my life for you—will you give nothing for me?”
“You love me?” she said. “You will marry me when we have reached
London?”
“I swear it,” he cried.
“I will go with you,” she whispered, “though I do not understand why it
is necessary.” She leaned toward him and he took her in his arms and
bent to press his lips to hers.
At the same instant the head of a huge tusker poked through the trees
that fringed the clearing. The Hon. Morison and Meriem, with eyes and
ears for one another alone, did not see or hear; but Numa did. The man
upon Tantor’s broad head saw the girl in the man’s arms. It was Korak;
but in the trim figure of the neatly garbed girl he did not recognize
his Meriem. He only saw a Tarmangani with his she. And then Numa
charged.
With a frightful roar, fearful lest Tantor had come to frighten away
his prey, the great beast leaped from his hiding place. The earth
trembled to his mighty voice. The ponies stood for an instant
transfixed with terror. The Hon. Morison Baynes went white and cold.
The lion was charging toward them full in the brilliant light of the
magnificent moon. The muscles of the Hon. Morison no longer obeyed his
will—they flexed to the urge of a greater power—the power of Nature’s
first law. They drove his spurred heels deep into his pony’s flanks,
they bore the rein against the brute’s neck that wheeled him with an
impetuous drive toward the plain and safety.
The girl’s pony, squealing in terror, reared and plunged upon the heels
of his mate. The lion was close upon him. Only the girl was cool—the
girl and the half-naked savage who bestrode the neck of his mighty
mount and grinned at the exciting spectacle chance had staked for his
enjoyment.
To Korak here were but two strange Tarmangani pursued by Numa, who was
empty. It was Numa’s right to prey; but one was a she. Korak felt an
intuitive urge to rush to her protection. Why, he could not guess. All
Tarmangani were enemies now. He had lived too long a beast to feel
strongly the humanitarian impulses that were inherent in him—yet feel
them he did, for the girl at least.
He urged Tantor forward. He raised his heavy spear and hurled it at the
flying target of the lion’s body. The girl’s pony had reached the trees
upon the opposite side of the clearing. Here he would become easy prey
to the swiftly moving lion; but Numa, infuriated, preferred the woman
upon his back. It was for her he leaped.
Korak gave an exclamation of astonishment and approval as Numa landed
upon the pony’s rump and at the same instant the girl swung free of her
mount to the branches of a tree above her.
Korak’s spear struck Numa in the shoulder, knocking him from his
precarious hold upon the frantically plunging horse. Freed of the
weight of both girl and lion the pony raced ahead toward safety. Numa
tore and struck at the missile in his shoulder but could not dislodge
it. Then he resumed the chase.
Korak guided Tantor into the seclusion of the jungle. He did not wish
to be seen, nor had he.
Hanson had almost reached the wood when he heard the lion’s terrific
roars, and knew that the charge had come. An instant later the Hon.
Morison broke upon his vision, racing like mad for safety. The man lay
flat upon his pony’s back hugging the animal’s neck tightly with both
arms and digging the spurs into his sides. An instant later the second
pony appeared—riderless.
Hanson groaned as he guessed what had happened out of sight in the
jungle. With an oath he spurred on in the hope of driving the lion from
his prey—his rifle was ready in his hand. And then the lion came into
view behind the girl’s pony. Hanson could not understand. He knew that
if Numa had succeeded in seizing the girl he would not have continued
in pursuit of the others.
He drew in his own mount, took quick aim and fired. The lion stopped in
his tracks, turned and bit at his side, then rolled over dead. Hanson
rode on into the forest, calling aloud to the girl.
“Here I am,” came a quick response from the foliage of the trees just
ahead. “Did you hit him?”
“Yes,” replied Hanson. “Where are you? You had a mighty narrow escape.
It will teach you to keep out of the jungle at night.”
Together they returned to the plain where they found the Hon. Morison
riding slowly back toward them. He explained that his pony had bolted
and that he had had hard work stopping him at all. Hanson grinned, for
he recalled the pounding heels that he had seen driving sharp spurs
into the flanks of Baynes’ mount; but he said nothing of what he had
seen. He took Meriem up behind him and the three rode in silence toward
the bungalow.