It was Trent himself who kept watch through that last long hour of
moonlit darkness till the wan morning broke. With its faint, grey
streaks came the savages of Bekwando, crawling up in a semicircle
through the long, rough grass, then suddenly, at a signal, bounding
upright with spears poised in their hands--an ugly sight in the dim dawn
for men chilled with the moist, damp air and only half-awake. But Trent
had not been caught napping. His stealthy call to arms had aroused them
in time at least to crawl behind some shelter and grip their rifles. The
war-cry of the savages was met with a death-like quiet--there were no
signs of confusion nor terror. A Kru boy, who called out with fright,
was felled to the ground by Trent with a blow which would have staggered
an ox. With their rifles in hand, and every man stretched flat upon
the ground, Trent's little party lay waiting. Barely a hundred yards
separated them, yet there was no sign of life from the camp. The long
line of savages advanced a few steps more, their spears poised above
their heads, their half-naked forms showing more distinctly as they
peered forward through the grey gloom, savage and ferocious. The white
men were surely sleeping still. They were as near now as they could get.
There was a signal and then a wild chorus of yells. They threw aside all
disguise and darted forward, the still morning air hideous with their
cry of battle. Then, with an awful suddenness, their cry became the cry
of death, for out from the bushes belched a yellow line of fire as the
rifles of Trent and his men rang out their welcome. A dozen at least of
the men of Bekwando looked never again upon the faces of their wives,
the rest hesitated. Trent, in whom was the love of fighting, made then
his first mistake. He called for a sally, and rushed out, revolver in
hand, upon the broken line. Half the blacks ran away like rabbits; the
remainder, greatly outnumbering Trent and his party, stood firm. In a
moment it was hand-to-hand fighting, and Trent was cursing already the
bravado which had brought him out to the open.
For a while it was a doubtful combat. Then, with a shout of triumph,
the chief, a swarthy, thick-set man of herculean strength, recognised
Francis and sprang upon him. The blow which he aimed would most surely
have killed him, but that Trent, with the butt-end of a rifle, broke
its force a little. Then, turning round, he blew out the man's brains as
Francis sank backwards. A dismal yell from his followers was the chief's
requiem; then they turned and fled, followed by a storm of bullets as
Trent's men found time to reload. More than one leaped into the air and
fell forward upon their faces. The fight was over, and, when they came
to look round, Francis was the only man who had suffered.
Morning had dawned even whilst they had been fighting. Little wreaths
of mist were curling upwards, and the sun shone down with a cloudless,
golden light, every moment more clear as the vapours melted away.
Francis was lying upon his face groaning heavily; the Kru boys, to whom
he was well known, were gathered in a little circle around him. Trent
brushed them on one side and made a brief examination. Then he had
him carried carefully into one of the tents while he went for his
medicine-chest.
Preparations for a start were made, but Trent was thoughtful. For the
second time within a few hours this man, in whose power it was to ruin
him, lay at his mercy. That he had saved his life went for nothing. In
the heat of battle there had been no time for thought or calculation.
Trent had simply obeyed the generous instinct of a brave man whose
blood was warm with the joy of fighting. Now it was different. Trent was
seldom sentimental, but from the first he had had an uneasy presentiment
concerning this man who lay now within his power and so near to death.
A mutual antipathy seemed to have been born between them from the first
moment when they had met in the village of Bekwando. As though it were
yesterday, he remembered that leave-taking and Francis's threatening
words. Trent had always felt that the man was his enemy--certainly the
power to do him incalculable harm, if not to altogether ruin him, was
his now. And he would not hesitate about it. Trent knew that, although
broadly speaking he was innocent of any desire to harm or desert Monty,
no power on earth would ever convince Francis of that. Appearances were,
and always must be, overwhelmingly against him. Without interference
from any one he had already formulated plans for quietly putting Monty
in his rightful position, and making over to him his share in the
Bekwando Syndicate. But to arrange this without catastrophe would need
skill and tact; interference from any outside source would be fatal,
and Francis meant to interfere--nothing would stop him. Trent walked
backwards and forwards with knitted brows, glancing every now and then
at the unconscious man. Francis would certainly interfere if he were
allowed to recover!