A Millionaire of Yesterday [62]
question asked. One or two of the Kru boys seemed on the verge of insanity - Francis himself was hysterical and faint. Trent boiled a kettle and made some beef-tea himself. The first mouthful Francis was unable to swallow. His throat had swollen and his eyes were hideously bloodshot. Trent, who had seen men before in dire straits, fed him from a spoon and forced brandy between his lips. Certainly, at the time, he never stopped to consider that he was helping back to life the man who in all the world was most likely to do him ill.
"Better?" he asked presently.
"Much. What luck to find you. What are you after - gold?"
Trent shook his head.
"Not at present. We're planning out the new road from Attra to Bekwando."
Francis looked up with surprise.
"Never heard of it," he said; "but there's trouble ahead for you. They are dancing the war-dance at Bekwando, and the King has been shut up for three days with the priest and never opened his mouth. We were on our way from the interior, and relied upon them for food and drink. They've always been friendly, but this time we barely escaped with our lives."
Trent's face grew serious. This was bad news for him, and he was thankful that they had not carried out their first plan and commenced their prospecting at Bekwando village.
"We have a charter," he said, "and, if necessary, we must fight. I'm glad to be prepared though."
"A charter!" Francis pulled himself together and looked curiously at the man who was still bending over him.
"Great Heavens!" he exclaimed, "why, you are Scarlett Trent, the man whom I met with poor Villiers in Bekwando years ago."
Trent nodded.
"We waited for you," he said, "to witness our concession. I thought that you would remember."
"I thought," Francis said slowly, "that there was something familiar about you.... I remember it all now. You were gambling with poor old Monty for his daughter's picture against a bottle of brandy."
Trent winced a little.
"You have an excellent memory," he said drily.
Francis raised himself a little, and a fiercer note crept into his tone.
"It is coming back to me," he said. "I remember more about you now, Scarlett Trent. You are the man who left his partner to die in a jungle, that you might rob him of his share in the concession. Oh yes, you see my memory is coming back! I have an account against you, my man."
"It's a lie!" said Trent passionately. "When I left him, I honestly believed him to be a dead man."
"How many people will believe that?" Francis scoffed. "I shall take Monty with me to England. I have finished with this country for awhile - and then - and then - "
He was exhausted, and sank back speechless. Trent sat and watched him, smoking in thoughtful silence. They two were a little apart from the others, and Francis was fainting. A hand upon his throat - a drop from that phial in the medicine-chest - and his faint would carry him into eternity. And still Trent sat and smoked.
CHAPTER XXVI
It was Trent himself who kept watch through that last long hour of moonlit darkness till the wan morning broke. With its faint, grey streaks came the savages of Bekwando, crawling up in a semicircle through the long, rough grass, then suddenly, at a signal, bounding upright with spears poised in their hands - an ugly sight in the dim dawn for men chilled with the moist, damp air and only half-awake. But Trent had not been caught napping. His stealthy call to arms had aroused them in time at least to crawl behind some shelter and grip their rifles. The war-cry of the savages was met with a death-like quiet - there were no signs of confusion nor terror. A Kru boy, who called out with fright, was felled to the ground by Trent with a blow which would have staggered an ox. With their rifles in hand, and every man stretched flat upon the ground, Trent's little party lay waiting. Barely a hundred yards separated them, yet there was no sign of life from the camp. The long line of savages advanced a few steps more, their spears poised above
"Better?" he asked presently.
"Much. What luck to find you. What are you after - gold?"
Trent shook his head.
"Not at present. We're planning out the new road from Attra to Bekwando."
Francis looked up with surprise.
"Never heard of it," he said; "but there's trouble ahead for you. They are dancing the war-dance at Bekwando, and the King has been shut up for three days with the priest and never opened his mouth. We were on our way from the interior, and relied upon them for food and drink. They've always been friendly, but this time we barely escaped with our lives."
Trent's face grew serious. This was bad news for him, and he was thankful that they had not carried out their first plan and commenced their prospecting at Bekwando village.
"We have a charter," he said, "and, if necessary, we must fight. I'm glad to be prepared though."
"A charter!" Francis pulled himself together and looked curiously at the man who was still bending over him.
"Great Heavens!" he exclaimed, "why, you are Scarlett Trent, the man whom I met with poor Villiers in Bekwando years ago."
Trent nodded.
"We waited for you," he said, "to witness our concession. I thought that you would remember."
"I thought," Francis said slowly, "that there was something familiar about you.... I remember it all now. You were gambling with poor old Monty for his daughter's picture against a bottle of brandy."
Trent winced a little.
"You have an excellent memory," he said drily.
Francis raised himself a little, and a fiercer note crept into his tone.
"It is coming back to me," he said. "I remember more about you now, Scarlett Trent. You are the man who left his partner to die in a jungle, that you might rob him of his share in the concession. Oh yes, you see my memory is coming back! I have an account against you, my man."
"It's a lie!" said Trent passionately. "When I left him, I honestly believed him to be a dead man."
"How many people will believe that?" Francis scoffed. "I shall take Monty with me to England. I have finished with this country for awhile - and then - and then - "
He was exhausted, and sank back speechless. Trent sat and watched him, smoking in thoughtful silence. They two were a little apart from the others, and Francis was fainting. A hand upon his throat - a drop from that phial in the medicine-chest - and his faint would carry him into eternity. And still Trent sat and smoked.
CHAPTER XXVI
It was Trent himself who kept watch through that last long hour of moonlit darkness till the wan morning broke. With its faint, grey streaks came the savages of Bekwando, crawling up in a semicircle through the long, rough grass, then suddenly, at a signal, bounding upright with spears poised in their hands - an ugly sight in the dim dawn for men chilled with the moist, damp air and only half-awake. But Trent had not been caught napping. His stealthy call to arms had aroused them in time at least to crawl behind some shelter and grip their rifles. The war-cry of the savages was met with a death-like quiet - there were no signs of confusion nor terror. A Kru boy, who called out with fright, was felled to the ground by Trent with a blow which would have staggered an ox. With their rifles in hand, and every man stretched flat upon the ground, Trent's little party lay waiting. Barely a hundred yards separated them, yet there was no sign of life from the camp. The long line of savages advanced a few steps more, their spears poised above