[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales March 1928.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
From the time when I first saw Senecoza, the fetish-man, I distrusted
him, and from vague distrust the idea eventually grew into hatred.
I was but newly come to the East Coast, new to African ways, somewhat
inclined to follow my impulses, and possessed of a large amount of
curiosity.
Because I came from Virginia, race instinct and prejudice were strong
in me, and doubtless the feeling of inferiority which Senecoza
constantly inspired in me had a great deal to do with my antipathy for
him.
He was surprizingly tall, and leanly built. Six inches above six feet
he stood, and so muscular was his spare frame that he weighed a good
two hundred pounds. His weight seemed incredible when one looked at his
lanky build, but he was all muscle--a lean, black giant. His features
were not pure negro. They more resembled Berber than Bantu, with the
high, bulging forehead, thin nose and thin, straight lips. But his hair
was as kinky as a Bushman's and his color was blacker even than the
Masai. In fact, his glossy hide had a different hue from those of the
native tribesmen, and I believe that he was of a different tribe.
It was seldom that we of the ranch saw him. Then without warning
he would be among us, or we would see him striding through the
shoulder-high grass of the veldt, sometimes alone, sometimes followed
at a respectful distance by several of the wilder Masai, who bunched
up at a distance from the buildings, grasping their spears nervously
and eyeing everyone suspiciously. He would make his greetings with a
courtly grace; his manner was deferentially courteous, but somehow it
"rubbed me the wrong way," so to speak. I always had a vague feeling
that the black was mocking us. He would stand before us, a naked bronze
giant; make trade for a few simple articles, such as a copper kettle,
beads or a trade-musket; repeat the words of some chief, and take his
departure.
I did not like him. And being young and impetuous, I spoke my opinion
to Ludtvik Strolvaus, a very distant relative, tenth cousin or
such-like, on whose trading-post ranch I was staying.
But Ludtvik chuckled in his blond beard and said that the fetish-man
was all right.
"A power he is among the natives, true. They all fear him. But a friend
he is to the whites. _Ja._"
Ludtvik was long a resident on the East Coast; he knew natives and he
knew the fat Australian cattle he raised, but he had little imagination.
The ranch buildings were in the midst of a stockade, on a kind of
slope, overlooking countless miles on miles of the finest grazing land
in Africa. The stockade was large, well suited for defense. Most of the
thousand cattle could be driven inside in case of an uprising of the
Masai. Ludtvik was inordinately proud of his cattle.
"One thousand now," he would tell me, his round face beaming, "one
thousand now. But later, ah! ten thousand and another ten thousand.
This a good beginning, but only a beginning. _Ja._"
I must confess that I got little thrill out of the cattle. Natives
herded and corralled them; all Ludtvik and I had to do was to ride
about and give orders. That was the work he liked best, and I left it
mostly to him.
My chief sport was in riding away across the veldt, alone or attended
by a gun-bearer, with a rifle. Not that I ever bagged much game. In the
first place I was an execrable marksman; I could hardly have hit an
elephant at close range. In the second place, it seemed to me a shame
to shoot so many things. A bush-antelope would bound up in front of me
and race away, and I would sit watching him, admiring the slim, lithe
figure, thrilled with the graceful beauty of the creature, my rifle
lying idle across my saddle-horn.
The native boy who served as my gun-bearer began to suspect that I was
deliberately refraining from shooting, and he began in a covert way to
throw sneering hints about my womanishness. I was young and valued even
the opinion of a native; which is very foolish. His remarks stung my
pride, and one day I hauled him off his horse and pounded him until he
yelled for mercy. Thereafter my doings were not questioned.
But still I felt inferior when in the presence of the fetish-man. I
could not get the other natives to talk about him. All I could get out
of them was a scared rolling of eyeballs, gesticulation indicative
of fear, and vague information that the fetish-man dwelt among the
tribes some distance in the interior. General opinion seemed to be that
Senecoza was a good man to let alone.
One incident made the mystery about the fetish-man take on, it seemed,
a rather sinister form.
In the mysterious way that news travels in Africa, and which white men
so seldom hear of, we learned that Senecoza and a minor chief had had a
falling out of some kind. It was vague and seemed to have no especial
basis of fact. But shortly afterward that chief was found half-devoured
by hyenas. That, in itself, was not unusual, but the fright with which
the natives heard the news was. The chief was nothing to them; in
fact he was something of a villain, but his killing seemed to inspire
them with a fright that was little short of homicidal. When the black
reaches a certain stage of fear, he is as dangerous as a cornered
panther. The next time Senecoza called, they rose and fled en masse and
did not return until he had taken his departure.
Between the fear of the blacks, the tearing to pieces of the chief by
the hyenas, and the fetish-man, I seemed to sense vaguely a connection
of some kind. But I could not grasp the intangible thought.
* * * * *
Not long thereafter, that thought was intensified by another incident.
I had ridden far out on the veldt, accompanied by my servant. As we
paused to rest our horses close to a kopje, I saw, upon the top, a
hyena eyeing us. Rather surprized, for the beasts are not in the habit
of thus boldly approaching man in the daytime, I raised my rifle and
was taking a steady aim, for I always hated the things, when my servant
caught my arm.
"No shoot, _bwana_! No shoot!" he exclaimed hastily, jabbering a great
deal in his own language, with which I was not familiar.
"What's up?" I asked impatiently.
He kept on jabbering and pulling my arm, until I gathered that the
hyena was a fetish-beast of some kind.
"Oh, all right," I conceded, lowering my rifle just as the hyena turned
and sauntered out of sight.
Something about the lank, repulsive beast and his shambling yet
gracefully lithe walk struck my sense of humor with a ludicrous
comparison.
Laughing, I pointed toward the beast and said, "That fellow looks like
a hyena-imitation of Senecoza, the fetish-man." My simple statement
seemed to throw the native into a more abject fear than ever.
He turned his pony and dashed off in the general direction of the
ranch, looking back at me with a scared face.
I followed, annoyed. And as I rode I pondered. Hyenas, a fetish-man, a
chief torn to pieces, a countryside of natives in fear; what was the
connection? I puzzled and puzzled, but I was new to Africa; I was young
and impatient, and presently with a shrug of annoyance I discarded the
whole problem.
* * * * *
The next time Senecoza came to the ranch, he managed to stop directly
in front of me. For a fleeting instant his glittering eyes looked
into mine. And in spite of myself, I shuddered and stepped back,
involuntarily, feeling much as a man feels who looks unaware into the
eyes of a serpent. There was nothing tangible, nothing on which I could
base a quarrel, but there was a distinct threat. Before my Nordic
pugnacity could reassert itself, he was gone. I said nothing. But I
knew that Senecoza hated me for some reason and that he plotted my
killing. Why, I did not know.
As for me, my distrust grew into bewildered rage, which in turn became
hate.
And then Ellen Farel came to the ranch. Why she should choose a
trading-ranch in East Africa for a place to rest from the society life
of New York, I do not know. Africa is no place for a woman. That is
what Ludtvik, also a cousin of hers, told her, but he was overjoyed to
see her. As for me, girls never interested me much; usually I felt like
a fool in their presence and was glad to be out. But there were few
whites in the vicinity and I tired of the company of Ludtvik.
* * * * *
Ellen was standing on the wide veranda when I first saw her, a slim,
pretty young thing, with rosy cheeks and hair like gold and large gray
eyes. She was surprizingly winsome in her costume of riding-breeches,
puttees, jacket and light helmet.
I felt extremely awkward, dusty and stupid as I sat on my wiry African
pony and stared at her.
She saw a stocky youth of medium height, with sandy hair, eyes in which
a kind of gray predominated; an ordinary, unhandsome youth, clad in
dusty riding-clothes and a cartridge belt on one side of which was
slung an ancient Colt of big caliber, and on the other a long, wicked
hunting-knife.