A GHOST LEOPARD
An hour after the audience had ended Garram was already on his way out
of the city of Yelwa by its eastern gate. Three months ago, or very
little more, he had entered by the same gate, warily, almost furtively,
into a strange and probably hostile town. Now people--more people than
he thought could have known him--pressed forward with farewells, with
food for him, and other small provision for the road. Some, and among
these was Goshi, wanted to present him with swords, slaves, and even
horses. If he had accepted, he would have had a small fortune, as
fortunes went in those parts. Reluctantly he thanked the people, but
returned their gifts, for hard travel, and he knew not what else, lay
in front of him, where such luxuries would be only encumbrances.
Two things, however, he could not resist, and he now carried them over
his shoulder, his arms fully occupied with the struggling piglet. One
was a coat of finest chain mail, such as used to find their way across
the Sahara and may even have seen the fighting of the Crusades. It was
light, as armor goes, and the small interlaced steel rings rippled
almost like silk when the coat was worn. It had been handed down by
the Emir’s ancestors and was indeed a royal gift. The other present,
which Goshi had given, was a leaf-headed spear with long and slender
damascened iron shaft all made in one piece. Though designed for
mounted use, it was of such fine workmanship that it was little heavier
than a stout hill spear, and its balance in the hand was a delight.
Kon careered wildly ahead as soon as they were outside the city walls.
Thrilled at the release from the tame life at court, he snuffled at
everything with a wriggling and inquiring nose, bounced back, and made
a playful snap at the corkscrew tail of the pig, then galloped off
ahead once more. But the boy traveled intent upon making good time, and
for once taking no notice of the things around him. Something from the
Hills, almost an audible voice, seemed to be calling. “Come!” it said.
“Come! Hasten!”
Though starting late in the day and cumbered with the pig, Garram
reached the foot of the Hills before dark. There, as he had somehow
expected, a boy with a message from the Rainmaker was waiting for him.
“The Rainmaker told me to meet you here and said you would be expecting
me.” Garram would have made inquiries, but hastily, so as not to
forget it, the small boy went on with his message: “The Rainmaker says,
‘Come! For Warok your father is lying in a hut bound and under guard.
The elders who listen to the evil counsel of Sura and Menud wish him
deposed from his chieftainship and, for their own safety, killed!’”
Now Garram understood the feeling that he had had all the day, urging
him as if with a voice to leave the city and go to the Hills. For the
old Rainmaker had practised sending him messages in this mysterious
way, sometimes when they were sitting together, sometimes from a
different hut or even different village. Sometimes he even got messages
from the Rainmaker when hunting. It had been only an amusing game in
those days, with a thrill of mystery about it. Now the advantage of it
became obvious.
“Where is Warok lying?” Garram asked. No great talker, his questions
were to the point and swift.
“In his own hut, but guarded by Menud’s own followers. The friends of
your father dare not help him, for each is afraid to act without the
others, and they have no leader.” The messenger would have gone off
into a dramatic recital of events, but Garram had no time to waste.
“With what crime have they charged my father, what injustice to the
tribe? For they dare not say they do this out of hatred.” Holding the
piglet under one arm, Garram was impatiently pricking the ground with
his spear point.
The young messenger hesitated before replying. “O Garram the Hunter, do
not be angry at this which I tell you. But they say that you showed the
secret passes of the Hills to the Fulani whom we fear. And more--that
this you did by orders of Warok himself! Also they say that Menud and
his followers surprised you in the act and would have brought you back
for trial, but a large body of the enemy released you and captured
them, taking them even as far as the great city of the plains. And they
speak of the city, describing it in such manner that all may know their
story is true.”
Garram writhed at the ease with which Menud the Talker with a few easy
lies had turned the tables on him. But that story did not account for
their being back in the Hills, nor for Menud being stained a deep and
indelible blue. Swift question elicited the simple explanation from the
messenger.
“Menud the Wily, they say, escaped first and, staining himself blue,
came back as a returned spirit of the dead, so scaring the guard that
the escape of the rest of the band was easy.”
Garram acknowledged the ingenuity of the lie with a grim smile. The
Rainmaker’s envoy went on: “And this we know must be true, for the
color is not yet off his skin, and all men seeing him must believe his
story.”
Angrily Garram turned with the younger boy toward the Hills. As they
went, in as few words as possible he outlined the true story. Darkness
had been falling as they spoke, and as the night was moonless, there
should be little fear of their being seen by spies of Menud. For still
greater precaution they took a difficult path known only to Garram, and
avoided the main pass into the Hills.
After an hour’s traveling their short but difficult route cut across
the main track. Garram showed the messenger his way. He himself would
take another short cut. “Take then this true account that I have told
you to the Rainmaker, that hearing he may know. Also, this small and
very light piglet you will take to him. For he will recognize it and
so know that the story like the piglet comes from me.” And with a grin
of relief, unseen in the darkness, the young hunter passed over his
awkward, kicking burden.
The messenger would have protested. Carrying struggling pigs, even
small ones, along a dark and broken rocky path was not a habit of his.
But Garram sent him firmly upon his way.
“Child! Idiot!” His voice sounded very stern to the younger boy. “The
Rainmaker will expect some sign from me to show that you have done his
bidding. Otherwise and without doubt he will beat you and say your tale
is a lie. This is the only token I will give you, so be content with
the pig that saves you a beating.”
Grumbling, the messenger took his way. For a moment Garram stood
considering the short cut, then changed his mind. Probably he would
save time by the main route, which, though longer, was far easier.
Time was so important that the extra risk must be taken. Within a few
moments he was back on the main track, after a swift detour which cut
in, in front of the Rainmaker’s envoy. Garram thought of the awkward
burden he had so easily transferred and chuckled. Then he arranged his
weapons so that they would not rattle and gave himself up to swift and
silent travel.
This extreme silence and Kon’s keen ears and nose lessened any risk
of capture. Several times they stepped swiftly from the path and
crouched while something, perhaps beast, perhaps man, passed within a
few yards of them on their windward side. These halts served also as
a well-earned rest. The two were moving at a swift lope, no easy task
over a dark rocky path and in that high mountain air which starves the
lungs.
To Kon darkness mattered little. His nose kept him as fully informed
of his surroundings as his eyes could have done in daylight, and even
Garram picked out many scents on the still night air. The inhabitants
of the villages which he passed had long since gone to bed, so it was
too late for the sweet savor of the evening cooking, but the smoke
of wood fires from the huts drifted across the track here and there.
The aromatic taste in the smoke made from the brush wood of the Hills
was pleasantly distinct from the heavy acrid smoke of the city fires.
Garram wriggled his nose and snorted to get a stronger whiff of it.
The feel of the rocks under foot, the bracing touch of the crisp
mountain air, the stillness of the barren Hills all gave him the thrill
of homecoming. Where the chill mist, which he could feel but could not
see, hung in the little fertile cups of valleys he could catch the
scent of dwarf cattle. Away in the distance, in front of him, he heard
the sawing note of a leopard busy on his night’s hunt.
It was going to be no easy homecoming. With his enemies in power and
his father awaiting death at their hands, he was more likely to be
killed on sight than welcomed! The young hunter repressed his desire
to sing and turned his attention to producing some plan of action.
Half the art of hunting is in laying plans. Plans not so detailed that
unexpected behavior of the game throws them out, but elastic plans
with alternatives to fit any possible move of the quarry. Garram, the
invisible ground slipping away behind him as he ran, tried over plan
after plan in his mind, rejecting one because it would take outside
assistance, and he preferred to play a lone-hand game; rejecting
another because it would take too long. For he felt that whatever he
did must be done before dawn if it were to be in time to rescue his
father, Warok.
It was still early in the night when he arrived outside Kwallak, the
village where he had been born. He was still testing the plan he had
in mind by confronting it with all possible variations, when Kon, who
had been bounding ahead, slunk back as if for protection, tail down and
every bristle raised. As the hunter’s hand felt the dog’s raised mane
in the darkness, he stopped in his stride and listened.
Only two things could make the dog behave like this: a lion in the
Plains or a leopard in the Hills. Garram almost shouted with joy as he
saw how this might fit into his plan. If he could kill it! And what a
glorious mad adventure to fight a leopard single handed in the dark!
The faint breeze was from in front of them, and if this leopard
followed the path, as they usually do, it must almost bump into him.
Swiftly he made his preparations, slipping the chain mail over his
head, putting one arrow on his bow, and silently placing the quiver on
the ground. Kon backed farther and farther into the darkness as the
scent of the approaching beast strengthened.
Then came the soft swish-swish of padded paws in front. Breathlessly
the boy waited until the sound was within five paces, swinging his head
to get the exact direction by sound; then loosed the arrow.
In one swift movement he dropped the bow, set the butt of his new spear
against the ground, and clamped it there with his foot. With a coughing
roar, which told that the arrow had not missed, the leopard charged.
Square and low in the chest the inclined head of the spear met the
leaping body, raking upward into the heart as the weight of the animal
forced the butt more firmly into the rocky soil.
Garram’s foot and left hand stayed only just long enough to present the
spear point at the leopard. Then he leaped aside and with his right
hand swung his hunting ax with a crash into the beast’s skull.
The huge leopard kicked and lay dead, the ax torn from the hunter’s
hand still embedded in its brain.
The young hunter extracted the spear, and after several jerks freed
the ax, which had bitten deeply into the skull. Either ax or spear
wound would have been immediately fatal without the other. The arrow
wound too was mortal, but poison often takes a minute or two to kill
outright. Carefully he made his examination, sliding quick fingers
over the warm silky body. Then, ever businesslike, set to work on the
skinning. For it was the skin he needed for his plan.
The skinning finished, Kon, to his disgust, was ordered to remain
in the cover afforded by some thick bushes while Garram cautiously
reconnoitered the village. Careful inspection showed that, though
everywhere else the people seemed to have gone to sleep, a murmur of
talk still rose from the chiefs compound. The huts of Warok’s house
were built touching each other, and forming four sides of a rough
square. In the center of this square was the courtyard from which the
voices seemed to come. The only entrance was through a hut which faced
inward toward the maze of village streets. If the small messenger’s
story were true Warok must be a prisoner somewhere inside. In which
case the entrance hut would be well guarded.
In daylight there would be no chance of getting in undetected. But by
night.... How about the wide-spreading doka tree which reached out its
branches well outside the compound? It was just the sort of weak point
in his defences which Menud might leave open.
Silently the young hunter felt his way along the outer wall until
he reached the place where he remembered the boughs to hang lowest.
Then he leaped, once, twice, and even a third time, but still his
upstretched hands closed on nothing. For a moment dread seized him that
his plan might fail. Then, jumping farther to one side, his fingers
touched some leaves, and little by little he bent down first twigs,
then boughs, until he gripped something strong enough to support him as
he climbed.
The leaves, green though they were, seemed to his anxious ears
to rustle and crackle like dried hide, and in spite of the most
painstaking caution twigs snapped in a way which he was certain must
arouse even a sleeping guard. But at last he reached the center of
the tree where the bare limbs could neither rustle nor snap, and hung
silently watching and listening.
Below him lay the courtyard, with an isolated hut, usually used as a
granary, in the center. Before the door of the hut a large fire glowed,
and beyond this again were the guard, some lying wrapped in rough
cloth, others sitting and talking. From time to time one would rise
and pace up and down in front of the hut door, replenish the fire with
huge logs, or kick it into a warm blaze before sitting down again.
Carefully Garram weighed the situation. A few well-directed arrows
might kill several of the guard, but this would only bring in others
whom he could hear in the entrance hut. Warok would be unable to
help, as he would undoubtedly be lying bound behind the closed and
fastened door. If the surprise attack failed, everyone would be on the
alert till dawn, and any further attempt at rescue would be hopeless.
Fantastic as it was, his first plan seemed the best, and without
further delay he started to put it into execution.
First he carefully sought among the tangle of boughs, for the limb
which stretched out above the well-guarded hut. There was no bright
moonlit sky to reveal him but from time to time the watch fire threw a
dangerous glow upon the underside of the tree. Inch by inch Garram made
his way out along the bough, skilfully parting the leaves and twigs in
front of him, and slowly releasing them again behind him so that they
should not rustle. The guard had stopped talking, which, unless they
went to sleep, made silence more imperative than ever. Each time the
youth parted the leaves for a fresh examination of his position there
were still some sitting upright, or rising from time to time to tend
the fire.
It seemed hours of strained caution before Garram found himself
directly above the hut with the guards beneath still unsuspecting. Then
came disappointment, for the thatched roof was too far below him! It
would be impossible to jump to the cracking straw without arousing the
men. To attempt any method of letting himself down gently by his bow
and bowstring would be useless, for between the cover of the leaves and
the shelter of the roof he would be hanging in the glow of the fire in
full view of the watchers.
[Illustration: Garram was directly above the hut]
For a moment all seemed useless, and the boy even considered his other
plan of a surprise attack on the guard. Then in a flash he had the
solution. With as much care as he had used before, he retraced his
way along the bough to where the thinner one joined it. Cutting and
laying aside twigs which barred his way, he wormed his way out again
toward the hut, still managing to keep a screen of leaves between
himself and the watchers in the courtyard. As he went the bough, as he
had hoped, began to bend ever so little under his weight, to lean down
toward the hut roof.
It would not be sufficient to pass along the bough silently till it
bent so that he could step off, though this seemed difficult enough: he
must move so slowly that to any one who glanced that way the bough must
still appear stationary. This slow motion set up a strain that brought
the perspiration bursting from his skin, in spite of the coolness of
the night. Once, too, it nearly led to his being discovered. For a
wrist that had been bearing the weight of his body in the slow forward
movement for nearly a minute began to tremble and started a rustling
among the leaves.
One of the guard rose to his feet, picked up a stone, and came and
stood under the young hunter, peering up into the dark mass of leaf.
No doubt he had hoped that it was a stray hen roosting there, as they
sometimes did, and that he might pass some of the long hours of the
night making and eating a chicken stew. Garram chuckled inwardly at the
mistake. Then nearly yelled. For the stone thrown experimentally to see
if it might bring anything down had glanced off a twig and spent its
remaining force on his elbow.
There was no chance to rub it, he must make no move nor sound while the
man stood below. It was with extraordinary satisfaction that he heard
the man move slowly back to the fire.
There was no further incident to hinder his scheme, and within a
quarter of an hour he was pressed flat along the roof, on the side
farthest from the guard and the watch fire. But the helpful bough now
became a nuisance. It must not be allowed to flip up into position
again, or it would bring the guard to see what had happened. Swiftly
he loosened his bowstring, joined it to the spare one that he always
carried, and attached it to the bough that he was gripping with his
elbow. Inch by inch he began to pay out the string, but the tremendous
pull exerted by the branch began to make the plan impossible. It was
almost certain to make a noise, cause him to slip on the roof and let
go, or some other catastrophe. Also time was getting very precious.
He thought a moment. The branch must not be allowed to flip back into
place. True. But why let it go back at all? In fact, why not tie it to
the peak of the conical roof?
That was easy. Then came more trouble. The idea of cutting his way
in through the thatch of the roof had sounded simple. But to do it
silently he found he needed to sort out each straw-like grass stem
separately--working by touch only, since it was dark on the side away
from the fire--and then cut it and dispose of it by sticking it back
into the thatch somewhere else.
At last even this labor was ended, and he was standing safely within
the hut, the unsuspecting guard separated from him by only a thin wall
and a few yards of space.
For a moment he stood, uncertain what to do. How could he manage to
find his father in the darkness, and waken him without disturbing
the warriors outside? Then hope seemed to drain out by his feet, and
despondency which was almost a physical sickness swept over him. His
plan was near final success, so very near---- He checked a gasp of
dismay, for surely the hut was empty, surely no man could be here in
this silence?
“Son!” came the faintest of mocking whispers. “Do not breathe so
loudly, or the guard who are outside will make base talk of me as an
old man who snores and grunts in his sleep!”
Quickly Garram bent down with his knife and cut the cords that bound
the chief. Then, while he helped to restore the circulation in the
cramped arms and legs, whispered his plan of escape. Whispered with his
mouth to Warok’s ear, for the clear crackle of the fire and loud grunts
of the watch warned him how near they were.
In a short while Warok was able to stand upright. With whispered
instructions the young hunter handed into his keeping the new spear,
his bow, arrow quiver, and even his trusted hunting ax. Then, keeping
only his long-bladed knife, he busied himself with the awkward bundle
of chain mail and newly flayed leopard skin.
* * * * *
A noise inside the hut caught the attention of the guard. It sounded
like the faint note of a leopard. It could not be a leopard, of course,
but it might be the old man making the call of his totem animal in his
dreams. People do dream of their totem animals, and it seemed quite
likely that the chief would have a disturbed night since he would be
killed on the morrow. So one of the watchers at the fire thought, and
got up to undo the door of the hut and make sure that everything was
all right with the prisoner and that he had not worked loose his bonds.
Fumblingly, standing in his own light, he undid the leather fastening
of the door and walked in.
Then with a howl he leaped back. For the whole hut stank of leopard,
and there, following him out of the doorway, moved the leopard himself.
Even in the dim firelight the animal looked huge and tremendously broad
in the shoulders. The rest of the guard awoke, as, with a howl of
dismay the first man loosed an arrow.
At that range the arrow could not have missed. But there stood the
leopard with dropped head, insolently regarding him. Then, obviously
unharmed, stalked slowly and majestically toward the group of men
around the fire.
There had been no time to stir the embers into a blaze, but even as
they retreated the guard fired again and again at such close ranges
that they could not miss.
And in the firelight they saw the arrows strike the spotted flank only
to fall broken to the ground!
Huddled for protection in the entrance hut of the compound they watched
the huge beast skirt the fire and move slowly toward them, arrows
bouncing off him as they struck.
“God pity us! Warok is changed into his totem animal, the leopard,” a
scared and shaking voice gabbled. “O Warok, spare us! It is not we who
would have done you harm. Spare us! Spare us!”
For a moment they stood, then turned to fly. Wild terror jammed them
struggling in the outer door of the entrance hut. Then with a crash the
walls each side gave way and released them. Far down the winding maze
of village streets went the stumbling hurrying fugitives, eager only to
get away. Over their shoulders they gasped, “Spare us! Only spare us!”
and each saw a leopard ready to spring.
Garram, from under his chain mail and leopard skin, beckoned to the hut
door, and Warok came stiffly forth. Preceded by Garram, still on all
fours and covered with the yellow hide, he walked slowly out into the
village street. No one would touch them, no one would even willingly
set eyes on them. For it was well known that the mere sight of an angry
totem animal would kill. Outside the village the impatient Kon awaited
them.
THE ALARM DRUM
[Illustration]