THE CHIEF RETURNS
It was midnight when the dusty band of travel-worn Hillmen led by Warok
arrived at the southern escarpment of the Hills. In front of them the
rock dropped away like a cliff overhanging a black sea. Nothing could
be seen of the plainland spread out into the distance far below them.
Nearer in, tucked under the precipice, but still far away, three spots
of light glowed red through the darkness.
A wounded man, his arm bandaged with tree fiber and a padding of
leaves, came out from the surrounding night and in the strange-sounding
southern dialect told Warok his story. The glowing points were the
embers of the three villages which in a false sense of security the men
of the southern clans had built on the lower foothills. Forgetful of
old traditions, they had begun to farm in the Plains, and instead of
building defence works had improved and made easier the track from the
plain to the villages.
The slave-raiding Fulani of the East must somehow have come to know
of this group of defenceless villages. Anger came into the speaker’s
voice as he reached this point of his narrative. “In the blackness
before dawn I woke, smelling fire. I lived on the side of the village
from which the breeze was coming, and, moreover, near the gate. But
even as I looked round, rising from sleep on one elbow, flames ate
the grass roof and lighted the hut. All my house, all my village
was ablaze, as I saw, leaping through the door. Somewhere out of the
flames my family called, and their moans came to me above the roar of
the fire. Three times I tried to reach them but could not, for blazing
roofs had fallen and blocked the way.” The voice sank to a dull note of
despair. Warok nodded assent. To an old warrior the surprise attack of
an enemy at dawn, setting fire to the village to bolt the inhabitants
panic-stricken and defenceless was no new story.
“Then, with only the knife which I, like all men, keep in my belt when
sleeping, I stumbled from the flames which would have eaten me. The
gate was too far. But as I ran a house fell which had formed part of
the outer wall of the village. Also for a moment the wind, started by
the burning village, sucked the flames from the gap. So I escaped.”
The old chief had let the survivor tell his own story so far. But he
wanted useful facts, not a story of personal adventure. “How many of
your village, and how many from the other two villages escaped?” he
asked. “And where are the attackers?”
“Two men, and one girl child only have I met! The threshing ground and
flat space round the village were full of horsemen as I fled. Each
side of the gates they waited, spearing the men and old women, taking
captive the girls and young children.” He pointed to his bandaged arm
down which a trail of dried blood showed black in the starlight. “Even
as I ran, one thrust his spear through my arm, and other horsemen were
closing in on me as I reached the broken rocks. My knife....”
But Warok was no longer listening. He called three names. Three
warriors came out of the darkness. Grasping one by the arm he spoke:
“Loka, friend of my youth and companion in many battles, take with you
Garram, my son, as tracker. Go softly past the force encamped round the
villages and bring me word of the Fulani force lying in reserve in the
Plains. Their camp should not be far away. Speedy news, not fighting,
is your first task. Go.”
Led by Kon and Garram the warrior moved off into the darkness, calling
to him a handful of trusted men as he went.
“You”--Warok gave the next man his direction--“will take more men,
for you will need to fight. I have seen small lights round the three
burning villages. These will be the camp fires of the Fulani who
reached the foothills, and you must find their strength. Drive in the
sentry posts and kill a little. But do not fight in the open against
them, for we have few men and the enemy are many and mounted. Keep near
the rocks where their horses cannot follow, and see that they do not
sleep!” A chuckle showed that the plan was to the taste of the gathered
Hillmen. There was a sound of movement in the darkness, a rattle of
quivers and weapons, and the small body of men moved off.
Next, order was given that each chief should call the name of his
village. In spite of the darkness, the uneven ground, and the lack of
training due to long years of peace, the mob of armed men began to
form orderly groups. Simple though this organization was, it would make
it possible to handle the men in battle, working by plan, and not as a
blind and clumsy horde.
Orderly groups, each under its village leader, marched swiftly into the
darkness to prepare the defence of the pass which led up from the towns
below. Soon Warok and a handful of elders were the only ones left on
the dark crag overlooking the burning villages. It was necessary for
him to remain in the one place so that messengers from any of the three
parties should know where to find him in the dim, starlit night. Down
in the foothills, around the burning villages, the Hillmen were already
reconnoitring the Fulani position. The Fulani could not be given open
battle, since their numbers far exceeded the whole of Warok’s force,
and the little group of fighting scouts would have been wiped out
before they could have made any impression. A sentry here and there had
been killed as he replenished the outer ring of fires. But immediately
he had been replaced, and the Fulani, secure in their numbers, had
gone on sleeping. A sentry more or less did not matter!
Then, suddenly, as a Fulani guard strained his eyes to pierce the night
beyond his watch fire, with a hiss of steam the blaze and glowing
embers blackened. Earthenware water pots, thrown with unerring aim by
the Hillmen, landed in the fire and burst, scattering their contents,
and putting all in darkness.
Rapidly, on all sides, the fires hissed and went dead. Even as the
sentry shouted the alarm and grasped his spear, the dark figures of the
Hillmen sprang upon him. One more murderer of old men and women had
died. And not he alone, but the whole ring of sentries were stretched
as dead as the wet ashes of their watch fires.
The sleeping army woke to the sound of the war howl of the Hillmen.
Half quenched cooking fires in the center of the camp were kicked
into a blaze, as men grasped their arms and hastily rallied to defend
themselves. Under cover of the night the long vengeful knives of the
Hillmen were pressed home to the hilt, withdrawn, and again and again
sought heart, lung, or stomach of those who had butchered their unarmed
kinsmen.
Swiftly the small band of raiders came. Swiftly they withdrew to the
rocks and cover of darkness. The huge Fulani army, rallying in the name
of the Prophet, found only empty darkness filled with the taste of
fresh blood.
Thrown in relief by the rekindled cooking fires, no longer protected by
the line of sentries and watch fires, the massed forces of the Fulani
formed a perfect target. Without warning an unseen cloud of arrows
poured in from nowhere, finding the massed ranks a target impossible to
miss.
Here and there courageous groups of the Fulani charged on foot among
the rocks, trying to come to grips with the subtle stinging enemy.
Enraged by their losses and inability to make contact, they tried again
and again, until their commander, becoming anxious at their continuing
casualties, ordered them back. The raid had been beautifully executed,
and the massing of the panic-stricken Fulani in full glare of their
cook fires had been a gift from the gods to the skilled bowmen of the
Hills. The raiders had lost men, and here and there among the rocks a
wounded Hillman groaned as his friends carried him to safety. But for
every raider killed at least a score of Fulani lives had been taken in
exchange.
Meanwhile news of the success of this raid that he had planned spread
up to Warok. The main body of warriors stationed at the head of the
pass clamored to leave their work and charge down upon the Fulani camp.
The elders, grouped with Warok on the peak, counseled him to immediate
action. Even Sura, so lately discomfited and in danger of death, joined
his voice to the others, counseling attack in full force.
With only the support of the Rainmaker, Warok refused to pit
inexperienced warriors against five times their strength of trained
Fulani. “A dog may bring to bay and tire out a bull,” the old chief
explained, “but if he closes with the bull and tries to slay....”
The elders nodded assent. The bull would win, of course. The strength
of the Fulani was like that of the bull compared with the force the
Hillmen could throw into the attack. But Sura had a scheme worthy
of his mean cunning. None but Sura, nicknamed the Snake, could have
devised a scheme so diabolically selfish, so murderous for others, so
safe for himself. He asked permission to put forward a plan.
“In full daylight our men will see the numbers of the enemy and fear to
attack. But in this darkness they will not know the certain death to
which they go. And even now they are clamoring to attack. So--” with a
pointed pause--“none will blame you afterward!”
Neither Warok nor the Rainmaker spoke his disgust. From the assembled
elders came a murmur of interest. Encouraged, Sura continued: “Once
they have closed with the enemy, all will be hand-to-hand fighting and
confusion from which neither our men nor the enemy will be able to
escape. Few of our men will be alive by morning, but the enemy will
fear us. So that when at dawn they see our women, dressed as warriors,
and carrying sticks to look like spears, crowning the heights above
them, they will be deceived by their fears and will retreat.”
Little red spots began to gleam in the darkness, as the elders, stirred
by the skilful plan, drew harder on their huge tobacco pipes. Cynically
the Snake played his last card: “So we should be safe without risk to
ourselves. And the wives, the betrothed, the household goods, and the
farms of the young men of the tribe will become ours, since the dead
will no longer have need of them!”
With silky voice of anger Warok broke in upon the applause. “Do you,
the elders of our people, counsel this plan?” Their answer left no
doubt. “O Warok, there is no other plan whereby we may live and the
Fulani be driven back!”
“On one condition and one only I consent,” the soft voice insinuated:
“You and I, O Sura, will lead the attack, my wrist tied to yours. Our
only weapons will be short stabbing spears which have no edge to cut
the bond should one of us be slain before the other. Is not the plan
now perfect? Since we shall both be slain, there will be no dishonor!”
The awed intake of breath sounded like the rustle of the dawn breeze
among the leaves. The elders did not doubt Warok’s reckless willingness
to put the amendment into practice. Nor did the Snake doubt, scrambling
to his feet as if for flight. “This is mad folly,” he blurted out. “Why
should a wise man die when fools can die for him?”
“How shall a man who fears to fight give good counsel as to fighting?”
was the swift retort. “Go join the women and give them counsel as to
the cooking of food!”
But the Snake had courage after his own fashion. There was the scrape
of a rough-surfaced native knife being drawn from the dry leather
sheath. There was the sound of a body leaping through the dark as Sura
would have flung himself upon the chief. But Warok’s light throwing
spear, impelled by his powerful shoulder muscles, met the assailant as
he leaped, pinning him through the chest as if he were a butterfly. The
old chief had not risen to throw, his back had not even left the rock
on which he leaned, and he must have judged his throw only by sound.
Yet the force of the blow had driven the spear head out through the
would-be murderer’s back, and the thrum of the vibrating spear shaft
sang out among the rocks. With a clatter the body of Sura spun round
and fell.
None moved. All knew what had happened. The sounds had told all as well
as sight would have done. Then the voice of the Rainmaker rose out of
the darkness. “Sura would not fight for the tribe. But in the dark, as
you have heard, he would have murdered.” Deep toned, impersonal as of a
judge, his voice rolled on. “Death of such a one as this will not anger
the gods. No curse will fall. I bear witness!” The deep tones ended.
The Priest of the Tribe had spoken!
Silence, dreaded silence grew in the darkness. In the belief of the
elders, the spirit of the freshly slain man was angrily walking around
them, seeking revenge. For this is what spirits are believed to do when
just made homeless by death. None dared speak or move, for fear of
being noticed. For the spirit would take a dreadful vengeance--would
kill perhaps the soul of the first man it caught, leaving the body
alive and unconscious of the terrible mutilation.
Warok’s pipe gleamed cheerfully in the darkness, all the same. He had
not wanted to take life. Had indeed only taken it at the last moment,
in self-defence. Now he was quite willing that the silent vigil should
impress the object lesson on the elders. Spirits did not trouble him.
The old chief had regained full control of the tribe again. Comfortably
he sat puffing his long pipe. As to the enemy, his plan had been
decided as soon as he had seen the situation.
GARRAM EARNS SLEEP
[Illustration]