Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [73]
“I tell you I don’t know him,” she cried, for the horror of her situation was dawning upon her. “I swear I have never met him, and that I have no knowledge of his existence.”
“That we shall discover,” said Garfield again.
They trudged along for some time in silence, leaving the beaten path and following a native guide through the trees.
The unmarked way was an extraordinarily tortuous one, and the girl understood why, when now and again she glimpsed the waters of a great swamp. Every two hours they rested, and at the second rest the man gave her chocolate and water from the big skin which hung from the guide’s shoulder.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, putting into words the thought which had occupied her mind all day.
“After?” For the second time he smiled. “You will not give information to your friend Sanders, that I promise you,” he said significantly.
“You’re going to kill me?” she asked wildly, starting up.
“Nothing so unpleasant,” he said, and offered no other information.
They came at last to the strangest village she had ever seen. A circle of new huts evidently built for this convention. The place was alive with men – she saw no women – who looked at her in wonder as she passed, but saluted Mr Garfield with every evidence of respect and fear.
They were met outside the village by a young native, who spoke English until, with a sharp word, Garfield silenced him. She was conducted to a hut, and a native squatted in front of the door to prevent her escape, and there she sat until the night came and the big moon showed through the tracery of the trees. She heard movements and caught the reflection of a great fire which burnt before a newly erected palaver-house, and now and again she heard the sing-song of a man crying “Kwa!” which meant “Silence!” and another voice speaking in the Bomongo dialect, which she recognised as Garfield’s.
And then they brought her out. The pleasant Mr Garfield she had known was not the man who sat on a carved stool under the thatched roof of the palaver-house. Except for a cloth wound about his waist, the loose ends of which were sewn up over his shoulder, he was as innocent of clothing as any of his audience. A strange, obscene figure he made, with his dead-white skin and his bristling black hair, and the incongruity of his appearance was heightened by the fact that he wore his black-rimmed spectacles.
At another time she could have laughed, but now she was speechless with fear.
“Brent.” He spoke in English and addressed her by her surname. “My brethren desire that you should speak and tell them of Sanders and the letter you handed secretly to the English officer at the mouth of the river.”
She looked round at the scowling faces and past them, in the direction, as she guessed, of Bofuru, and he read her thoughts.
“There is no escape for you,” he said. “Get that out of your mind, my friend. No human being could find his way across the marsh even if friend Sanders was on hand. Now, you shall tell me” – his manner changed suddenly, and his voice was harsh – “where is Sanders?”
“I do not know,” she said, and her voice was husky.
“Then I will find a way of making you speak,” he answered through his teeth, “as Sanders made Molaka speak. What was that letter – you know its contents?”
There was no spoken answer. Only there ran through the squatting figures a man who crouched, a man in grey-green uniform suit, who came swiftly yet stealthily, a long-barrelled revolver in each hand.
He came from nowhere, but, looking past him with staring eyes, Garfield saw the glitter of bayonets, and in the light of the fire, the red fezes of Government soldiers, and dropped his hand to where, concealed by his waistcloth, his pistol belt was strapped.
Sanders fired twice, once from each hand, and the square-faced man stood suddenly erect, covering his face with those tell-tale hands of his – the hands with the half-moon nails that betrayed his native origin. Then he as suddenly fell, and there was no life in him when Sanders