GARRAM EARNS SLEEP
“Chief of our People, hear our report!” Loka, the leader of the scouts
sent to reconnoiter the war camp of the Fulani in the Plains strode
proudly into the silent group of elders. The gray light which heralds
the true dawn gave faint outline to objects seen in silhouette against
the sky, below, darkness seemed the more intense.
With slapping of slung weapons on their bare backs and the rustle of
soft leather loincloths his scouts followed him. In the rear came Kon,
tail up, and Garram, still unwearied. In Garram’s arms a vague bundle.
“Speak, then,” the chief commanded, “but tread not on the Snake at your
feet.”
“Guh!” With a startled grunt the old warrior bent to investigate the
body of Sura still lying where it fell. Then, unimpressed, went on with
his report.
“This is no ordinary raid such as we knew in our youth, O Warok. The
war camp is pitched barely at the foot of the Hills, and not the full
day’s journey away, as is usual. Many times we circled it, seeking to
see or hear some sign of the numbers.”
The elders, stiff with their motionless vigil, drew nearer, reassured a
little, and interested in the account.
“Never have I seen so large a camp nor so many sentries. An army of
sentries, not the sentries of an army merely!”
“Their numbers must give them courage,” Warok pointed out--more to
himself than as an item of information. “Always they used to keep the
camp with its many unarmed straying camp followers a full day’s journey
from our hills. But have you no further knowledge? Nothing except of
the outside of the camp?”
“I am no stalker by night, but a fighter by day.” The old warrior Loka
was nettled. “Moreover, so dark was the night that even Garram, your
son, who is noted as a stalker, was lost from our party when we arrived
at the camp and did not find us till we were about to return.”
Garram was curled up on the ground against Kon’s huge form. Even in
the tropics a hilltop at dawn can be piercingly cold, and Kon was
pleasantly warm. Garram was snatching some of his previous night’s
arrears of rest and kept only as much awake as he felt conditions
required. The sound of his name brought him back to realities.
“Yes, the words are true words,” Garram murmured sleepily. “Very big
camp but half empty. Half the men and horses must have gone to the
sack of the three villages.” He was nearly asleep before he had ended
his sentence and at once snuggled down again with the queer-shaped
bundle between himself and the dog.
Prodded further, the young hunter woke long enough to tell some of his
story. He had been into the camp. Was it not the only way to find out?
Yes, he had found many empty picket lines. Someone seemed skeptical.
“Does a man stub his toe on a hardwood picketing peg and think it is a
cat?” Appreciative chuckles greeted his naïve but telling retort.
Questions met him from all sides, and he tried to answer them. The
women and children captured from the Hill villages? People wanted to
inquire after the lost ones by name, but Warok intervened.
“Dawn is nearly breaking, and time is short. Have you any further news
of fighting matters?”
Garram roused himself and tried to think clearly. “The camp is big, and
half empty of both men and horses. There are several large tents of
cloth and leather. Three sentries had to die quietly before I could
obtain entrance. But there was nothing in the tents except useless pale
women of their own--Fulani--tribe. They slept among fine woven cloths,
but I did not wish to steal. Only this I took,” holding up a huddled
gray shape of fur, “for he is a monkey of the Hills and should not be a
slave to Plainsmen!”
The leader of the scouts laughed. “A likely story! You were lost,
and no doubt your dog caught you the monkey among the rocks!” But
those near by, examining the monkey, fingered a golden chain and
jewel-encrusted collar on his neck.
“Does a dog catch golden chains?” remarked an astonished onlooker. But
Garram was asleep again.
MENUD, THE TRAITOR
[Illustration]