Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [45]
That night, when the Zaire was threshing her way up between the shoals, and was within ten miles of the Akasava city, Fobolo and his kinsmen landed noiselessly on the beach, and, slaying the sentry before the hut of the king’s daughter, carried her away, and within two hours came to the village by the lake.
“Now, woman,” said Fobolo, “you may cry, but none will hear you.”
The girl, an object of dispassionate interest on the part of Fobolo’s wives, lay moaning on the ground, more dead than alive, for Fobolo had choked her into silence when he carried her off. His kinsmen and his people were ready, their cooking-pots upon their shoulders, their young goats and dogs tethered, and each carried something of his treasures. Fobolo went to the little compound on the headland and opened the grass door.
“Come, my pretty one,” he said.
Helen of Troy opened her eyes and blinked at the sunlight. Then she stretched both her hind legs and her forelegs and yawned. For three months she had lain in that roomy pen, waddling out at intervals to inspect the village, and never once in all that time had she shown the slightest indication of her true character.
To Fobolo, Helen of Troy was a normal dog, something which in time would make an excellent pièce de résistance for a feast. And Helen had fostered this illusion, for she had been content to eat and sleep, and since, after the native way, none interfered with her, she had interfered with none. Obediently and meekly she trotted at Fobolo’s heels back to the village street, where the carriers were waiting. The girl still sat huddled, clasping her knees, her face hidden.
“Come, woman,” said Fobolo, “for you will walk far before you sleep.”
So far he got, when his trained ears heard the rumble of a distant lokali. Lokalis belong to the night and to the early morning, when the air is still and sound travels fastest. He bent his head and listened, then suddenly heaved a long, sobbing sigh.
“Sandi is coming,” he said. “I think we had better go.”
In his hand was a long and pliant thong. He dropped it sharply across the girl’s shoulders and jerked her to her feet.
“Walk, woman,” he said.
And at that moment Helen of Troy began to take a serious interest in the proceedings.
At the shriek of the girl she growled softly; and as though encouraged by the ferocity of her own language, the growl became a bark the like of which had never been heard by Fobolo. The fat food dogs looked round at Helen in terror. That bark stirred something within them, and they whimpered fiercely in response.
“Dog,” said Fobolo, “be silent.”
He brought up the thong and it fell once. He only knew one kind of dog – a dog that whimpered and fled. But Helen did neither. She stood square, motionless, glaring, her black lips curled in a silent snarl.
“Let us go,” said Fobolo.
And then something weighing about 20 lbs leapt at him. He struck it down with the bunch of spears he carried on his shield arm, but the respite was temporary.
As the Zaire pushed her nose through the last barrier of weeds and gained the open water of the Lake, Sanders saw a figure running along the sandy edge of the lake. He was running at a speed which at once interested and startled the Commissioner. Behind him bounded a small white speck.
“What is that, Bones?”
Bones focussed his glasses. “Looks like a man running to me, sir,” he said.
At that moment the flying native saw the Zaire, and, turning, plunged into the water and swam frantically toward the boat. Behind him came a blunt head, and, at a short interval, the white stump of a tail.
They hauled the two on board together, which was necessary, since Helen of Troy had gripped his loincloth and was