Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [38]
And then, one sleepy afternoon…
By all the laws of average and chance, Bones should have been killed. As it was, he sneezed, and when Bones sneezed, his body fell into strange and fearful contortions. Sometimes he sneezed forward and finished up with his head between his knees (you must suppose him sitting in the shade of his verandah); sometimes he sneezed backward and his head jerked over the rail of his deck-chair, and, to the alarmed spectator, seemed in danger of dropping off. Usually he sneezed forward, but this time he raised his contorted visage to the heavens and sneezed at the blue skies. And the arrow, missing his throat, struck a pole of the verandah and stuck quiveringly.
Lieutenant Tibbetts looked at the deadly shaft, dazed for a second. Then he rose quickly and went into his hut. He was out again in a second, a sporting Lee Metford in his hand. A glance at the arrow showed the direction. It had come from a clump of cotton bush at the far side of the parade ground, and, sinking to one knee, Bones aimed at the ground-line and fired.
The “pang!” of the shot brought the Houssa guard tumbling out of their hut, but before the sergeant could reach him, the long legs of Bones were flying across the parade in the direction of the bushes. He heard a shout, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Hamilton leap the verandah and pelt along after him, but he did not slacken his pace, and was tearing through the bush before Hamilton had jumped the first fence of the plantation, and, guided by certain sounds of anguish, came up with his subordinate. Bones was standing, legs wide apart, arms akimbo, glaring down at a writhing, terror-stricken man on the ground.
He did not display any apparent wound, and Hamilton frowned questioningly at the other.
“Little toe,” said Bones briefly, and yet in his very terseness conveying a hint of annoyance. “And I aimed for the big toe!” he added later. “I must have that naughty old rifle corrected. It isn’t like me to make a perfectly ghastly error like that, old Ham – you know Bones!”
Hamilton ignored the opening. “What happened?” he asked, and at that moment Sanders came through the trees, a sporting rifle under his arm.
He listened as Bones described his exact position before the hut, his occupation, his tendency to sneeze forward, his emotions at the sight of the arrow. His first thoughts, his alacrity, his amazing presence of mind and marksmanship. When he had finished, Sanders looked at the stricken man.
“Speak: Why did you do this evil thing?”
“Lord, that is my mystery.” [3]
Sanders jerked his head on one side and looked at the assassin through narrowed lids.
“If I hang you, what of your mystery then?” he asked, and the man made no reply.
They put the would-be murderer in irons and confined him to the guard-room.
“I don’t understand it,” said the troubled Sanders. “This fellow is Akasava and, though the Akasava are by nature and inclination assassins, they have never come to headquarters to carry out their dirty work. Have steam in the Zaire, Hamilton, and warn your men to be ready.”
“It may be some friend of his late majesty,” suggested Hamilton, but Sanders shook his head.
“One king is as good as another to the Akasava,” he said.
“But why Bones?” said Hamilton, and Bones smiled sadly.
“It’s perhaps dawnin’ on your fusty old brain, dear old Ham, that the indigenous native is slowly wakin’ up to the sense of proportion, dear old sir and superior. You can’t kid the jolly old native, Ham. He knows who’s important an’ who isn’t important. He strikes at the keystone of administration, dear old bird – not that I’d disparage the importance of our blessed old excellency–”
“I’d hate to deceive you, Bones,” said Sanders, with his rare smile, “but I hardly think that it is your importance that made you the object of attack – you happened to be in sight – so you got it.”
For once Sanders was wrong.
Bones went to his hut that night, after inspecting the loose