MENUD, THE TRAITOR
Overnight the remainder of the army of the Hills had been ordered to
descend the pass and hide in the broken rocky country round the Fulani
camp in the foothills.
Now, at first glint of dawn, Warok and the elders followed. Garram had
just time to hand the monkey over to a friend and slip in front of the
party with Kon.
On the western side of the peak lay the path, if it might so be called,
which led down into the Plains. No more unlikely place could be found
for a track, for the peak seemed to drop in sheer precipice. But along
the face of the cliff stretched a diagonal fault in the rock, forming
a narrow ledge which sloped southward and downward to the level ground
around the burned villages. The sun had already begun to tint the
opposite side of the gorge, but the face of the precipice down which
the party marched in single file was still in the shadow of the crag
they had left. One by one the party seemed to drop out of sight into a
black, fathomless chasm.
Unseen and unheard above them, Menud had stumbled across the body
of his father Sura. A casual glance showed that life was extinct.
Then, quickly but cautiously, he made his way to the edge of the
precipice and, leaning over, swore vengeance on the party moving
through the darkness below. Revenge would be easy. Just a matter of
pushing a few rocks crashing down upon the path beneath. The death
of the unsuspecting Warok and Garram, of Kon and all the elders was
a certainty. No skill, no courage could save them, for there was no
way off the path, which was bounded by a precipice that rose on one
side, and on the other dropped sheer several hundred feet into a
boulder-strewn chasm.
Then Menud changed his mind!
Mean cunning replaced anger upon his face. His father was dead and no
longer of use to him. Why should he waste time avenging his death?
A more paying plan occurred to him. The ambitious plotter drew back
from the edge and followed Warok’s party down the path. As he went he
planned, his mouth twisted into a yellow-toothed, triumphant grin.
For if he could find his way into the Fulani camp, show them this
secret way up into the Hills--and it was the only pass into the Hills
from the south--their numbers should give them easy victory over the
Hillmen. Then, since no Fulani would wish to be left as chief over the
conquered Hillmen in these strange and barren Hills, who would suit
them better than himself, Menud? For he would have shown his loyalty to
his new friends by betraying to them his own tribe!
Even as he walked and ran, the traitor saw himself the trusted agent of
the Fulani, exacting tribute from the Hillmen, collecting their sons,
and especially daughters, as slaves to be sent to the Fulani. What a
full revenge! What tortures, what ignominy could he inflict on those
whom he hated, with the support of the Fulani horsemen!
Stirred by his plan, Menud had been making better time down the path
than he had expected. At a bend he almost bumped into the party of
Garram and Warok, for the elders, more for dignity than because of
weakness, were traveling slowly. Menud did not want to meet them. He
planned to wait unseen behind them on the path, and then slip around
them unseen as soon as the narrow way opened out near the Fulani camp.
As the rocky track swung round the face of a buttress-like projection
of the cliff face, Garram began to realize the wisdom of Warok in
moving the force down overnight. From where they were now hiding in
the rocky foothills they could be thrown into attack like water from a
bursting dam. But men moving to attack down this narrow path would have
been like water dripping from a leaky pot--an easy matter for the enemy
to deal with. Here, round the buttress-like projection, the ledge of
rock along which the track led ceased in a vertical drop into the black
shadowy depths beneath. At this point the path was carried on by a
rickety, fantastic-looking bridge. Timbers, weathered silver gray with
time, and long since bare of bark, had been wedged into crannies in the
cliff face. On these twisted and uneven supports, which looked barely
able to carry their own weight, had been laid smaller boughs, rounded
and gnarled as all hilltop timber is. With its worn and frail-looking
supports, its loose decking rolling underfoot and showing the black
depths beneath, it was a writhing nightmare scaffolding rather than a
bridge.
Unconcernedly the Hillmen balanced their way across it, talking as they
went. They were well used to these weirdly skilled pieces of primitive
engineering done with a chisel-shaped ax as the only tool. There were
several more of these same bridges, on this same path, built like
birds’ nests to the face of the precipice. Following the ledge in the
vertical western side of the crag, the path led downward and southward
to the foothills where lay the burned villages and the Fulani force.
The foot of the crag hid the actual camp till Warok and his party had
drawn clear of the pass.
Expecting to meet the main force of Hillmen guarding the mouth of the
pass, the young hunter was surprised to find no one there. Accustomed
to using his brain when hunting, Garram now tried to apply it to this
new game of warfare. Why was the place left undefended?
At a sign from Warok the party swung off wide to the right. Then left,
left, in a wide circle with the Fulani camp for a centre. To Garram it
was very like skirting game at a distance so as to approach it from
down wind. That gave him the clue. With a hop of excitement he made a
grab at Kon’s waving tail, as if to bring the news to his attention. It
wasn’t the wind, but the sun; not scent, but sight, which the cunning
Warok was planning to use as ally. The warriors had been swung round to
the west of the camp so as to attack the Fulani with the low blinding
morning sun directly behind them! With the sun behind him, a skilled
fighter could catch as many as four out of five enemy arrows harmlessly
on his shield. And with the dazzling tropical light low in front, the
enemy would be able to ward off practically nothing, neither arrows nor
spears, nor even slow-moving battle axes.
The hunter almost danced with excitement at his father’s tactics. And
what nerve it must take to leave the pass unguarded rather than weaken
his striking force and by overmuch caution court defeat. Then, below
him, in the shallow green cup where lay the black spots of the charred
villages, sounded the tinkle of the Fulani war cymbal. Men, more
men than he had ever seen before, were moving hurriedly about, like
uncountable water beetles on a mossy green pool. Gradually they formed
into groups, like patterns on the green background. They were moving
into battle order, in regular ranks--a method unknown to the wild Hill
fighter.
Meanwhile the leaders of the Hill villages had been called up to
receive orders. Quickly they returned, each man to his command. Morning
light had shown Warok the absence of horses in the Fulani camp. They
must have sent them back to the plains under cover of darkness. A
detail, but it had made necessary a last minute change of plans, of
which the village leaders had to be informed.
Now all was ready. Warok gave a signal; a series of soft sweet notes on
the little Hill whistle made of horn. Immediately it was repeated by
the whistles of the leaders of villages. Then the bare gray rock of the
unchanging Hills appeared transformed into a black torrent. The hidden
warriors had sprung from their hidings and, leaping from rock to rock,
poured swiftly from the encircling heights.
Hastily Garram charged after them.
It was the rush of an undrilled horde in all its furious force.
Without reducing this force, the organization by villages had made it
controllable. As the rush carried the line forward, converging upon the
enemy, the whistles blew again, ordering back the rear ranks who would
have crowded among the men in front and jammed them too tight for full
use of bow and spear. In silence the Hillmen reached the level ground
and swept forward. And still the attention of the Fulani was directed
toward the west, away from the attack, toward the pass into the Hills.
Shouting of orders rose clearly from the camp, but still the packed and
motionless ranks of the Fulani faced away from the charging Hillmen.
Now they were noticed, and the enemy turned hastily to meet the
threatened danger. Now they were within bowshot. Men stood and fired,
then ran forward a few paces, fitting another arrow to the bow, halted,
and loosed another shaft.
Garram, who had brought along four quiverfuls of arrows, was loosing
two swift shots for every one fired by the less skilled bowmen on each
side of him. The clack of bowstring on hard leather wrist guard and the
twang of the strings rose in continuous rattle and hum. It seemed only
a moment since the young hunter was firing vaguely in the direction
of the massed enemy at full bowshot range. But already he had thrown
away one empty quiver and was now near enough to choose and hit his
individual enemy.
Then, with a yell, the Fulani charged to meet them, their ranks
thinning with falling men as they came.
A hunter is always unwilling to abandon the bow, and Garram might have
used an ax instead of his last arrow, so close was the range. That man
fell, but another enemy was already in the gap. The boy threw up his
bow to parry a cleaving sword cut. It was only just in time, and even
so the keen edge sliced a patch of skin from his bare shoulder.
With a yell of pain and fury he swung his ax in return, and then felt
it nearly pulled out of his hand as his adversary fell, the edge firmly
embedded in his skull. He jerked the ax free just in time to strike at
another enemy. A misplaced blow this, the handle striking harmlessly
on the Fulani’s shoulder and nearly jerking itself free from Garram’s
grip. The long knife of a Hillman on his left saved him that time.
The front rank, with Garram in it, was now deep in the enemy’s lines.
All formation had gone. Now was the time when men, wounded, thrown
down, and rising again, lost all sense of direction and fought
friend as well as foe. But this Warok, with hard-won experience
of hand-to-hand fighting, had foreseen and provided for. From the
throat of every village leader came the battle cry, “The sun on your
backs--and on!” Quickly the slogan spread, and gave the steady aim of
veterans to the dashing ardor of these young warriors. The deep yell
panted from laboring lungs as the Hillmen again turned a solid front
against the hated enemy.
Dry grass became slippery beneath his struggling feet. A body writhing
in death agony on the ground tripped him. But Garram struggled upright
again in the sweating, hacking, cursing struggle.
Troops pressed backwards offer less resistance than those pressing
forward. Balance on the feet, morale, everything enters into it. Each
army, pushed forward by the chest and shoulders of their slipping,
tripping rear ranks, pressed harder and harder against the opposing
ranks. Ribs could be heard to snap where the struggling, thrusting
pressure was greatest. Few who fell could rise again; there was no room
to strike a blow. Where a hand could be freed for an instant, a knife
would be pressed home, and a dying man would be carried upright in the
packed and swaying crush, until he could be turned under those cruel
struggling feet. Over the heads of the front ranks where friend and
foe were mixed, poisoned arrows were being exchanged by the rear-rank
men. Since each side was engaged along the whole of its front, flanking
movements were impossible.
Garram had no idea of what was happening except just around him. The
pressure and heat became a cruel, impossible nightmare. The rank smell
of human blood made him sick and giddy. The quilted cotton armor of
his enemies began to provoke him to absurd anger. It was so difficult
to force a knife through the thick padding. Then he found a method of
reaching round and placing the point of the knife under the ribs at
the side. Once placed and pointing inward, the pressure of the swaying
crowd would force the blade through anything.
With unspeakable relief Garram felt the pressure slackening, felt
himself being carried forward as the enemy began to give ground. Then
suddenly the fighting changed. He found himself charging past small
groups of four or five mixed friends and enemies hotly engaged in a
kind of human dog fight. Suddenly he was the center of a similar dog
fight, knife back on his hip again, swinging the hunting ax. As he
fought, more assistance would pour up, some of the enemy fall, the
remainder melt away. Then on to the next isolated struggle. “Backs to
the sun--and on!”
Stung by wounds he fought like a seasoned warrior and no boy. The
advance reached the black ruins of the villages. Fighting opened out
more and more. The enemy seemed to have disappeared, though here and
there skirmishing was going on. Arrows and quiver were broken and his
bow gone, or he could have done great execution in this open fighting.
A group of corpses lay at the gate of the village. He was passing them
as no matter for comment at a time like this when something about them
caught his attention. Disgust and anger shook him. For they were the
unarmed villagers--women as well as men--killed by the Fulani in their
surprise raid upon the peaceful sleeping hamlet. Killed, and--he was
nearly sick at the sight--mutilated--horribly. Something like madness
seized him. With a yell he sprang at a group of tall Fulani soldiers.
Three spears were thrust out to meet him. He ducked, swerved, and was
in with the knife.... A sword flashed out, and would have transfixed
him when, still in the gleaming chain mail, Warok charged in with a
roar.
The old chief had done his best to stay behind and direct the battle,
but his instinct for the fight was too strong. Dropping all weapons
save his favorite ax, he had sprung into the battle. Never noted for
playing for safety, with a chuckle at the thought of the chain mail, he
had made no attempt to guard himself or parry. With both hands he swung
his ax, swung again and again, and four men had dropped. The handle,
wet and slippery, twisted from his grasp. A spear point slid past his
face as he sidestepped. He was in and under the spear and had his last
adversary in his arms. But the man he grasped was already slipping
to the ground. Garram’s knife had been just a shade faster. The old
chief stood back with a grin of appreciation. A neat stroke that for
a boy! Garram would have grinned back, but a look of surprise came to
the father’s face, for the boy swayed unsteadily on his feet. Swayed,
recovered himself, then sank, wounded and unconscious, to the ground.
Rapidly but carefully the warrior carried the sagging body into the
cover of the burned-out village. The sound of stealthy footsteps
brought him round with a snarl to defend himself. A huge black form
nearly bowled him over. It was Kon, who had been squeezed away from his
master in the first stages of the fight and had now found him again.
With the fussy assistance of the anxious animal Warok checked the boy’s
heart and breathing, each seeming to find reassurance in his own way.
The boy lived.
Then, as Kon snuffled inquiringly at ear, mouth, and eyes, the old
chief grasped the situation. The boy had had no sleep, almost no rest
or food or water for more than two days and nights. Two days and nights
of strain and effort such as few grown men could have borne. Then on
top of this the boy--for he was only a boy in years--had been put to
the terrible ordeal of a long, sternly fought battle. The sight of the
murdered villagers must have drawn from him his last remaining strength
in that fierce final effort. And body and mind had at last rebelled,
and he had fallen asleep as he stood!
For there was no doubt about it, he was peacefully sleeping! Here
among the shouts and smells of battle!
The father reassured himself by a further examination of skull,
ribs, and limbs. Nothing was broken, nothing amiss except for a few
easily healed wounds. Leaving some weapons by his side for use when
Garram awoke, the old chief posted Kon as huge calf-like nurse and
all-sufficient guard. Then Warok ran toward the sounds of the receding
battle.
THE HILLMEN TRIUMPH
[Illustration]