No country for white men indeed! Herne grimly puffed a cloud of smoke
into a whirl of flies, and rose from the packing-case off which he had
dined.
Near by were the multitudinous sounds of the camp, the voices of Arabs,
the grunting of camels, the occasional squeal of a mule. Beyond lay the
wilderness, mysterious, silent, immense, the home of the unknown.
He had reached the outermost edge of civilization, and he was waiting
for the return of an Arab spy, a man he trusted, who had pushed on into
the interior. The country beyond him was a dense tract of bush almost
impenetrable; so far as he knew, waterless.
In the days of the British expedition this had been an almost
insuperable obstacle, but Herne was in no mood to turn back. Behind him
lay desert, wide and barren under the fierce African sun. He had
traversed it with a dogged patience, regardless of hardship, and,
whatever lay ahead of him, he meant to go on. Hidden deep below the
man's calm aspect there throbbed a fierce impatience. It tortured him by
night, depriving him of rest.
Very curiously, the conviction had begun to take root in his soul also
that Bobby Duncannon still lived. In England he had scouted the notion,
but here in the heart of the desert everything seemed possible. He felt
as if a voice were calling to him out of the mystery towards which he
had set his face, a voice that was never silent, continually urging him
on.
Wandering that night on the edge of the bush, with the camp-fires behind
him, he told himself that until he knew the truth he would never turn
back.
He lay down at last, though his restlessness was strong upon him,
compelling his body at least to be passive, while hour after hour
crawled by and the wondrous procession of stars wheeled overhead.
In the early morning there came a stir in the camp, and he rose, to find
that his messenger had returned. The man was waiting for him outside his
tent. The orange and gold of sunrise was turning the desert into a
wonderland of marvellous colour, but Herne's eyes took no note thereof.
He saw only his Arab guide bending before him in humble salutation,
while in his heart he heard a girl's voice, low and piteous, "Bobby is
still alive and wanting me."
"Well, Hassan?" he questioned. "Any news?"
The man's eyes gleamed with a certain triumph.
"There is news, _effendi_. The man the _effendi_ seeks is no longer
chief of the Zambas. They have been swallowed up by the Wandis."
Herne groaned. It was only what he had expected, but the memory of the
boy's face with its eager eyes was upon him. The pity of it! The vast,
irretrievable waste!
"Then he is dead?" he said.
The Arab spread out his hands.
"Allah knows. But the Wandis do not always slay their prisoners,
_effendi_. The old and the useless ones they burn, but the strong ones
they save alive. It may be that he lives."
"As a slave!" Herne said.
"It is possible, _effendi_." The Arab considered a moment. Then, "The
road to the country of the Wandis is no journey for _effendis_," he
said. "The path is hard to find, and there is no water. Also, the bush
is thick, and there are many savages. But beyond all are the mountains
where the Wandis dwell. It is possible that the chief of the Zambas has
been carried to their City of Stones. It is a wonderful place,
_effendi_. But the way thither, especially now, even for an Arab----"
"I am going myself," Herne said.
"The _effendi_ will die!"
Herne shrugged his shoulders.
"Be it so! I am going!"
"But not alone, _effendi_." A speculative gleam shone in the Arab's wary
eyes. He was the only available guide, and he knew it. The Englishman
was mad, of course, but he was willing to humour him--for a
consideration.
Herne saw the gleam, and his grim face relaxed.
"Name your price, Hassan!" he said. "If it doesn't suit me--I go alone."
Hassan smiled widely. Certainly the Englishman was mad, but he had a
sporting fancy for mad Englishmen, a fancy that kept his pouch well
filled. He had not the smallest intention of letting this one out of his
sight.
"We will go together, _effendi_," he said. "The price shall not be named
between us until we return in peace. But the _effendi_ will need a
disguise. The Wandis have no love for the English."
"Then I will go as your brother," said Herne.
The Arab bowed low.
"As traders in spice," he said, "we might, by the goodness of Allah,
pass through to the Great Desert. But we could not go with a large
caravan, _effendi_, and we should take our lives in our hands."
"Even so," said the Englishman imperturbably. "Let us waste no time!"
It had been his attitude throughout, and it had had its effect upon the
men who had travelled with him. They had come to look upon him with
reverence, this mad Englishman, who was thus calmly preparing to risk
his life for a man whose bones had probably whitened in the desert years
before. By sheer, indomitable strength of purpose Herne was
accomplishing inch by inch the task that he had set himself.
A few days more found him traversing the wide, scrub-grown plateau that
stretched to the mountains where the Wandis had their dwelling-place.
The journey was a bitter one, the heat intense, the difficulties of the
way sometimes wellnigh insurmountable. They carried water with them,
but the need for economy was great, and Herne was continually possessed
by a consuming thirst that he never dared to satisfy.
The party consisted of himself, Hassan, an Arab lad, and five natives.
The rest of his following he had left on the edge of civilization,
encamped in the last oasis between the desert and the scrub, with orders
to await his return. If, as the Arab had suggested, he succeeded in
pushing through to the farther desert, he would return by a more
southerly route, giving Wanda as wide a berth as possible.
Thus ran his plans as, day after day, he pressed farther into the heart
of the unknown country that the British had abandoned in despair over
three years before. They found it deserted, in some parts almost
impenetrable, so dense was the growth of bush in all directions. And yet
there were times when it seemed to Herne that the sense of emptiness was
but a superficial impression, as if unseen eyes watched them on that
journey of endless monotony, as if the very camels knew of a lurking
espionage, and sneered at their riders' ignorance.
This feeling came to him generally at night, when he had partially
assuaged the torment of thirst that gave him no peace by day, and his
mind was more at leisure for speculation. At such times, lying apart
from his companions, wrapt in the immense silence of the African night,
the conviction would rise up within him that every inch of their
progress through that land of mystery was marked by a close observation,
that even as he lay he was under _surveillance_, that the dense
obscurity of the bush all about him was peopled by stealthy watchers
whose vigilance was never relaxed.
He mentioned his suspicion once to Hassan; but the Arab only smiled.
"The desert never sleeps, _effendi_. The very grass of the _savannah_
has ears."
It was not a very satisfactory explanation, but Herne accepted it. He
put down his uneasiness to the restlessness of nerves that were ever on
the alert, and determined to ignore it. But it pursued him, none the
less; and coupled with it was the voice that called to him perpetually,
like the crying of a lost soul.
They were drawing nearer to the mountains when one day the Arab lad,
Ahmed, disappeared. It happened during the midday halt, when the rest of
the party were drowsing. No one knew when he went or how, but he
vanished as if a hand had plucked him off the face of the earth. It
seemed unlikely that he would have wandered into the bush, but this was
the only conclusion that they could come to; and they spent the rest of
the day in fruitless searching.
Herne slept not at all that night. The place seemed to be alive with
ghostly whisperings, and he could not bring himself to rest. He spent
the long hours revolver in hand, waiting with a dogged patience for the
dawn.
But when it came at last, in a sudden tropical stream of light
illuminating all things, he knew that, his vigilance notwithstanding, he
had been tricked. The morning dawned upon a deserted camp. The natives
had fled in the night, and only Hassan and the camels remained.
Hassan was largely contemptuous.
"Let them go!" he said. "We are but a day's journey from Wanda. We will
go forward alone, _effendi_. The chief of the Wandis will not slay two
peaceful merchants who desire only to travel through to the Great
Desert."
And so, with the camels strung together, they went forward. There was no
attempt at concealment in their progress. The path they travelled was
clearly defined, and they pursued it unmolested. But ever the conviction
followed Herne that countless eyes were upon them, that through the
depths of the bush naked bodies slipped like reptiles, hemming them in
on every side.
They had travelled a couple of hours, and the sun was climbing
unpleasantly high, when, rounding a curve of the path, they came
suddenly upon a huddled figure. It looked at first sight no more than a
bundle of clothes kicked to one side, too limp and tattered to contain a
human form. But neither Herne nor his companion was deceived. Both knew
in a flash what that inanimate object was.
Hassan was beside it in a moment, and Herne only waited to draw his
revolver before he followed.
It was the boy, Ahmed, still breathing indeed, but so far gone that
every gasp seemed as if it must be his last. Hassan drew back the
covering from his face, and, in spite of himself, Herne shuddered; for
it was mutilated beyond recognition. The features were slashed to
ribbons.
"Water, _effendi_!" Hassan's voice recalled him; and he turned aside to
procure it.
It was little more than a tepid drain, but it acted like magic upon the
dying boy. There came a gasping whisper, and Hassan stooped to hear.
When, a few minutes later, he stood up, Herne knew that the end had
come; knew, too, by the look in the Arab's eyes that they stood
themselves on the brink of that great gulf into which the boy's life had
but that instant slipped.
"The Wandis have returned from a great slaughter," Hassan said. "Their
Prophet is with them, and they bring many captives. The lad wandered
into the bush, and was caught by a band of spies. They tortured him, and
let him go, _effendi_. Thus will they torture us if we go forward any
longer." He caught at the bridle of the nearest camel. "The lust of
blood is upon them," he said. "We will go back."
"Not so," Herne said. "If we go back we die, for the water is almost
gone. We must press forward now. There will be water in the mountains."
Hassan glanced at him sideways. He looked as if he were minded to defy
the mad Englishman, but Herne's revolver was yet in his hand, and he
thought better of it. Moreover, he knew, as did Herne, that their water
supply was not sufficient to take them back. So, without further
discussion, they pressed on until the heat compelled them to halt.
It had seemed to Herne the previous night that he could never close his
eyes again, but now as he descended from his camel, an intense
drowsiness possessed him. For a while he strove against it, and managed
to keep it at bay; but the sight of Hassan, curled up and calmly
slumbering, soon served to bring home to him the futility of
watchfulness. The Arab was obviously resigned to his particular fate,
whatever that might be, and, since sleep had become a necessity to him,
it seemed useless to combat it. What, after all, could vigilance do for
him in that world of hostility? The odds were so strongly against him
that it had become almost a fight against the inevitable. And he was too
tired to keep it up. With a sigh, he suffered his limbs to relax and lay
as one dead.