THE TRAIL OF THE LEOPARD
Maxwell expressed his approval of the recruits Dane brought in, for Dom
Pedro had chosen well. They were sturdy, woolly-haired Kroomen from
Liberia who had gained some experience of forest warfare in petty
skirmishes with the troops of the black republic. It is noticeable that
the untamed African cherishes little love for his partly civilized
brother. When he had harangued them, the two white men sat talking
together.
"I would give a good deal to know what is in Dom Pedro's mind just now,"
said Maxwell. "It is quite possible that the offer he made you was
genuine. There is, if one may say it without appealing to your vanity, a
certain air of solidity and force about you which might appeal to a man
of his type who could supply all the finesse necessary--and who
possesses a troublesome enemy. The map would in any case be of little
use to Dom Pedro, who would never venture into the Leopards' country;
and I hardly fancy he would give it to Rideau. In the meantime our own
program is clear. We start again at sunrise to-morrow."
"Are you not taking too much for granted when you assume that Dom Pedro
has the map?" asked Dane; and Maxwell smiled enigmatically but did not
answer.
A few days later they halted at sunset beside a stream which, contrary
to the custom of most African rivers, flowed clear as crystal over
yellow sand. Wooded hills whose hollows were filled with drifting steam
sloped steeply upward from the opposite bank, and the black shadow of a
few palms lengthened across the grass behind the waiting men. There was
nothing remarkable about the river or its surroundings; but heathen,
missionary convert, and dusky Moslem alike shrank back murmuring from
its bank.
"This is our Rubicon, and beyond it lies the Leopards' country," said
Maxwell. "It is not a very imposing stream, but I believe no white man
has ever crossed it without suffering from his rashness, since the days
of the early Portuguese. Something has evidently startled the boys. As I
partly expected, here it is."
Maxwell pointed to a slender wand set up beside the bank. A tuft of
reddened rags was tied to it, and beneath them hung a piece of sun-dried
clay rudely modeled into the resemblance of a leopard.
"I would rather have seen fifty men with flint-locks than this trumpery
thing," he declared. "You don't quite grasp its significance, Hilton?
Well, in this land anything may be made the emblem of the Ju-ju, and
that is the insignia of a powerful one I have alluded to several times
already."
"I could never understand what a Ju-ju is."
"Very few white men do, but its ministers are a force to reckon with;
and this piece of clay signifies that many unpleasant things, varying
from slow poisoning to death by violence, may happen to the man who
disregards it. You can see that the boys are afraid of it."
"We can't stay here forever because some benighted heathen has tied it
to a stick," expostulated Dane. "Here's a challenge to the powers of
darkness. Watch and try to understand, you boy! If them thing be no fit
to hurt me, it can't hurt you. That's logic, or, as you say, the Lord he
give me sense too much, isn't it?"
The eyes of the spectators grew wide with horror as, snapping the wand
across his knee, he next crushed the leopard beneath his heel; and there
was a heavy silence while they waited to see what would follow this bold
defiance of the forest deity. So real was their terror, and the hush so
impressive, that Dane felt his own heart beating faster than it
generally did, and when he laughed the laugh rang hollow. But nothing
unusual happened; and with murmurs of relief the men followed him as he
splashed through the ford.
"It was necessary," said Maxwell with noticeable gravity. "Nevertheless,
we will double our sentries henceforward, and recharge our filters.
There is no doubt that the powers of darkness will take up your
challenge."
They pitched camp among the cottonwoods at the mouth of a ravine, and,
when they had eaten, sat for a time within their little tent poring over
a map issued privately for the use of French officials. Innumerable
insects dimmed the light of the lamp above them, and they could scarcely
see the lettering.
"We are here," said Maxwell, laying his finger on the paper, "on the
threshold of what the niggers call the Leopards' country, which is
marked as partly explored territory, with this patch to represent the
dominions of King, or headman, Shaillu. A few armed expeditions have
traversed it farther east, and found it thinly peopled by petty tribes
hostile to Europeans, while nobody knows much about Shaillu except that
he abruptly broke off the negotiations he once began with the
authorities. That showed the hand of his priests, and brings us back to
the Leopard League."
Dane laid down his damp cigar, and listened with keen interest as
Maxwell explained.
"As you have heard, secret leagues of all kinds are common in this
country, and that of the Leopard is probably one of the most powerful.
Its priestly leaders are apparently the power behind the throne in
Shaillu's dominions, and, so the natives say, those they favor with a
share of their supernatural qualities can render themselves invisible or
take the shape of beasts. Like their namesake, they always strike at
night. Dismissing all idea of witchcraft, you can take very ingenious
human cunning, a thorough knowledge of poisoning, and no mean strategic
skill, for granted. Once the white man settles in their country the
power of the bush magician must decline; and the deduction you can draw
from that should justify a close watch to-night. It is your turn until
twelve o'clock, Hilton."
Dane found it a somewhat depressing watch when the cooking fires had
died out and the sounds which gather depth with the darkness emphasized
the hush of the forest. There was nothing visible but the faint glimmer
of the lighted tent, which suggested a huge Chinese lantern set down
among the dripping undergrowth. Behind it loomed dim ghosts of trees.
Moisture fell drumming upon the tight-strained canvas; and at intervals
some beast in the forest sent up an unearthly scream. The darkness was
filled with the scent of wood smoke and lilies, and thickened by wisps
of drifting steam.
The time dragged by slowly; but at last Dane was about to make a final
round, when a stealthy rustling held him rigidly still, save that his
left hand slid farther along the rifle barrel. The sound ceased and
began again, and it became certain that something or somebody was
crawling toward the tent. It could hardly be one of the carriers, for
Maxwell had intimated that any man found wandering in the darkness would
promptly be fired upon. Dane could feel his heart throbbing, but his
fingers were steady on the cool barrel as he waited, realizing
instinctively that death or danger in some strange shape was drawing
near. Nevertheless he was silent, fearing to rouse the camp on a false
alarm, and also because he wished to make certain of their unseen enemy.
For a space of a few seconds there was no sound at all, and he grew the
more uneasy, knowing that the naked bushman learns by sheer necessity to
wriggle almost silently through the undergrowth. Then he found it hard
to repress a cry of astonishment as, for a moment, a monstrous shape was
silhouetted against the faintly illuminated canvas. It was bulkier than
a man, and though it stood upright, its head was that of a beast.
Maxwell was clearly in danger, there was no time to lose, and, pitching
up the rifle, Dane pressed the trigger. A streak of red fire rent the
darkness, and a spark blew into his eyes. He felt the jerk of the
barrel, and then, though he scarcely heard the explosion, he caught a
thud there is no mistaking--the sound made by the impact of a solid
bullet.
As he snapped down the lever and slid home another cartridge, something
dim and shadowy rushed past, and the rifle blazed again. Then there was
a snapping of undergrowth, a yell from a sentry, the crash of a Snider,
and the camp awoke to life. Maxwell, holding up a lamp, sprang
half-dressed from the tent, black men rose out of the shadows clamoring
excitedly, and Dane's headman, Monday, stood close beside him, peering
into the darkness with his long Snider rifle held out before him. Monday
was not a timid man, but he looked distinctly uneasy when the light of
Maxwell's lantern fell upon his face.
Dane briefly related what had happened; and Maxwell lowered his lantern.
"The Leopards have made their first move, and lost a man, I think," he
said. "Most black men are able to carry off considerable lead, but this
red trail on the undergrowth is significant. It also appears quite
probable that you have saved my life."
Just then, there was a shrill scream in the forest, a scream of human
agony, horrible and intense, and afterward a silence that could be felt.
"Them ghost leopard he done go chop some boy!" exclaimed Monday,
trembling a little. "We savvy fight black man, sah, but not them
debbil."
"The sound rose from behind the tuft of palms," Maxwell said quietly.
"Take six of your best men, Monday, and see who is missing. No--stay
where you are, Hilton! It is advisable to break them in to this kind of
thing."
Monday went reluctantly, and returned to say that one of the sentries
and his gun had vanished completely. Then a half-naked man with a
matchet burst through the wondering group which had gathered about the
pair, demanding assistance to search for his brother.
Maxwell glanced at him, hesitated, and, while Dane protested, shook his
head.
"We could never track them, even in broad daylight; and some of the
rescue party would not come back," he explained. "By this time the poor
devil is certainly dead, and I feel convinced that we shall find him
to-morrow without searching. Amadu, tell your boys to fire on any man
trying to leave the camp."
Maxwell kept watch himself henceforward, and Dane retired to the tent,
resigned though far from contented. He had learned that, if his ways
were a trifle autocratic, his comrade was a leader who could be trusted,
and though he longed with a vindictive yearning to search the forest,
rifle in hand, he did not consider it judicious to question Maxwell's
authority.
It was a relief when morning came, and somewhat silently they began the
march again. The path wound up a ravine, through climbing forest that
rotted as it grew, where grotesque and ghostly orchids sprouted from
each crumbling bough, and there was scarcely room for two men abreast in
the rutted trail. It had been worn deep by the passage of naked feet;
for gum, skins, and a little ivory came down on the heads of slave
trains out of Shaillu's country.
Maxwell, with a few picked men, led the way, after giving Dane orders
not to follow him too closely with the main body; but the latter found
it hard to restrain his carriers, who desired to leave the site of the
camp as far behind them as possible.
Dane had lagged a little behind the long line of colored headgear, cases
poised aloft on woolly crowns, white draperies, and patches of sable
skin, which wound on before him through the green of the tangled jungle,
when Maxwell's voice came back sharply.
"Lead your boys wide into the bush, Hilton! Break through for several
hundred yards, and send them on before you. Turn back and rejoin me
alone when you strike the trail again!"
It was done, though Dane fell over an ant-heap and into a network of
horrible thorny trailers which tore the flesh about his ankles. Hurrying
back along the trail, he found Maxwell standing behind a screen of
resplendent creepers, lighting a cigar with a hand that was not quite
steady. His eyes were positively savage, and a patch in the center of
each cheek was gray. Startled as Dane was, it was nevertheless soothing
to find that his comrade shared some, at least, of the weaknesses of
their common humanity. He could not mistake the intensity of Maxwell's
anger.
"Prepare yourself for a surprise, Hilton, and then see what awaits you
beyond that bush," he said. "I had partly expected it, but when I came
upon it the sight almost sickened me."
Dane's nerves were tolerably good, but when he passed the creepers he
experienced a shock of nausea and halted abruptly. Two black men were
scooping out a trench, while another crouched near by, crooning
something while he ran his thumb caressingly up and down a matchet
blade. He looked up at the white man's coming, and his face was a study.
Horror was stamped upon it; but a slow, relentless ferocity was written
there too. This Dane saw with his first glance, but after the second he
turned his eyes away. Maxwell was right. They had found the missing
sentry. The object--for there was little resemblance of humanity left in
what lay a foul blotch on the forest before him--was stretched across
the trail; and the neck was twisted so that the face, left whole,
looked down the pathway the way the expedition should have come,
distorted and ghastly, with its changeless grin of pain. Words appeared
superfluous, but Dane's sensations demanded relief in speech.
"Horrible! horrible! But what is the matter with Bad Dollar? He looks
positively murderous!"
"It is not surprising," answered Maxwell. "The African is not always
admirable in his domestic relations, but what lies yonder was his
brother."
Dane, stooping, patted the negro's head.
"It will be a bad day for some of the Leopards when he settles that
score. Listen to me, Maxwell. Heaven knows whether through greed I am
responsible for part of this; but I most solemnly promise that if ever I
can find the master fiend who inspired the murderers, I'll avenge that
poor devil, as well as Lyle, the trader, whatever it costs me. We're
partners in this affair, Bad Dollar!"
It is probable that the naked heathen attached little meaning to the
words, but he understood the hoarseness of the white man's voice, and
the steely glint in his eyes. He laid his black hands on the speaker's
foot.
"It is a bargain," Dane said gravely. "I mean to keep it, Maxwell."
"You are a little impetuous," was the quiet answer. "Some day there
will, I hope, be a reckoning; but a wise man says little and awaits his
opportunity. Our turn has not come yet. When it does I do not think you
will find me dilatory. Meanwhile, I'm puzzled. There are points
connected with this affair which are far from clear; but those fellows
have finished and we will go on again."
Beyond instructing Dane and his immediate followers to keep the
occurrence secret, Maxwell said nothing further until noon had passed,
when Dane asked a question.
"Why did the Leopards make their first move now, when we could, if we
wished it, retreat, instead of waiting until we had penetrated farther
into their country?"
"It is a pertinent question," said Maxwell. "For one thing, this is,
after all, King Shaillu's country, and they possibly fear that if we
once have speech with him, the headman, who, so the French officers told
me, has a hankering after civilization, might extend us protection. But
that does not quite account for everything. You remember Miss Castro's
mention of the following shadow? Events have proved her predictions
signally correct hitherto, and I am inclined to fancy that the worst
danger still lies behind us and not before."
Maxwell vouchsafed no further information, and though Dane knew it was
well the expedition had for its leader a man unmoved alike by excess of
anger or misguided pity, he could not help retorting: "You foresee a
good deal, Carsluith. It is unfortunate you could not more often prevent
it. Why could you not have told me more of what you anticipated?"
Maxwell laughed good-humoredly.
"Isn't it apparent that what I prevent from happening does not occur? As
to the last question, perhaps the African's answer, 'You never asked
me,' is the best. One dreads so much that it appeared useless to harrow
your feelings until I was certain."
The march through headman Shaillu's dominions left upon Dane only a
series of blurred impressions. He was too sick to notice definite
details most of the time; but he decided that under no circumstances
could it be considered a cheerful country. For days together the
expedition floundered through dripping forest so laced and bound with
creepers that at noon the daylight could hardly filter down. The
atmosphere resembled that of a Turkish bath; moisture splashed upon the
broad leaves everywhere, and the heat and the gloom together produced a
distressing lassitude. This the white men made strenuous efforts to
resist, knowing that they might blunder into an ambush at any moment.
It was evident that their enemies had not lost touch with them; for in
spite of their keenest vigilance, a carrier was twice spirited out of
camp at night. Once Dane, making the rounds with a lantern, came upon a
sentry huddled beneath a cottonwood. He had paid a heavy penalty for his
drowsiness. Even Maxwell showed signs of temper at this, and the
expedition waited two nights in camp while its leaders prowled through
the forest in an attempt to surprise the assassins. It was, of course, a
failure. They returned at sunrise, muddy, ragged, and savage, having
neither seen nor heard anything suspicious.
The fact that they never did see their persecutors was the most
harassing feature of it all; and at last Dane grew by turns murderously
resentful and subject to fits of limp dejection, in which the fever had
doubtless a share. The few villages they passed were empty. Where a
river crossed their path the canoes had been taken away; and at
intervals detachments of the carriers fell sick mysteriously. When they
limped out into a waste of crackling, sword-edged grass, the glare and
dust and heat were bewildering, and after a few days Dane longed for the
forest again.
Still they held on, and one evening they marched, blanched in face, and
very weary, into sight of one of the strongholds of headman Shaillu.