Chapter XIX: The Chief Returns

It was midnight when the dusty band of travel-worn Hillmen led by Warok arrived at the southern escarpment of the Hills. In front of them the rock dropped away like a cliff overhanging a black sea. Nothing could be seen of the plainland spread out into the distance far below them. Nearer in, tucked under the precipice, but still far away, three spots of light glowed red through the darkness.

A wounded man, his arm bandaged with tree fiber and a padding of leaves, came out from the surrounding night and in the strange-sounding southern dialect told Warok his story. The glowing points were the embers of the three villages which in a false sense of security the men of the southern clans had built on the lower foothills. Forgetful of old traditions, they had begun to farm in the Plains, and instead of building defence works had improved and made easier the track from the plain to the villages.

The slave-raiding Fulani of the East must somehow have come to know of this group of defenceless villages. Anger came into the speaker’s voice as he reached this point of his narrative. “In the blackness before dawn I woke, smelling fire. I lived on the side of the village from which the breeze was coming, and, moreover, near the gate. But even as I looked round, rising from sleep on one elbow, flames ate the grass roof and lighted the hut. All my house, all my village was ablaze, as I saw, leaping through the door. Somewhere out of the flames my family called, and their moans came to me above the roar of the fire. Three times I tried to reach them but could not, for blazing roofs had fallen and blocked the way.” The voice sank to a dull note of despair. Warok nodded assent. To an old warrior the surprise attack of an enemy at dawn, setting fire to the village to bolt the inhabitants panic-stricken and defenceless was no new story.

“Then, with only the knife which I, like all men, keep in my belt when sleeping, I stumbled from the flames which would have eaten me. The gate was too far. But as I ran a house fell which had formed part of the outer wall of the village. Also for a moment the wind, started by the burning village, sucked the flames from the gap. So I escaped.”

The old chief had let the survivor tell his own story so far. But he wanted useful facts, not a story of personal adventure. “How many of your village, and how many from the other two villages escaped?” he asked. “And where are the attackers?”

“Two men, and one girl child only have I met! The threshing ground and flat space round the village were full of horsemen as I fled. Each side of the gates they waited, spearing the men and old women, taking captive the girls and young children.” He pointed to his bandaged arm down which a trail of dried blood showed black in the starlight. “Even as I ran, one thrust his spear through my arm, and other horsemen were closing in on me as I reached the broken rocks. My knife....”

But Warok was no longer listening. He called three names. Three warriors came out of the darkness. Grasping one by the arm he spoke: “Loka, friend of my youth and companion in many battles, take with you Garram, my son, as tracker. Go softly past the force encamped round the villages and bring me word of the Fulani force lying in reserve in the Plains. Their camp should not be far away. Speedy news, not fighting, is your first task. Go.”

Led by Kon and Garram the warrior moved off into the darkness, calling to him a handful of trusted men as he went.

“You”--Warok gave the next man his direction--“will take more men, for you will need to fight. I have seen small lights round the three burning villages. These will be the camp fires of the Fulani who reached the foothills, and you must find their strength. Drive in the sentry posts and kill a little. But do not fight in the open against them, for we have few men and the enemy are many and mounted. Keep near the rocks where their horses cannot follow, and see that they do not sleep!” A chuckle showed that the plan was to the taste of the gathered Hillmen. There was a sound of movement in the darkness, a rattle of quivers and weapons, and the small body of men moved off.

Next, order was given that each chief should call the name of his village. In spite of the darkness, the uneven ground, and the lack of training due to long years of peace, the mob of armed men began to form orderly groups. Simple though this organization was, it would make it possible to handle the men in battle, working by plan, and not as a blind and clumsy horde.

Orderly groups, each under its village leader, marched swiftly into the darkness to prepare the defence of the pass which led up from the towns below. Soon Warok and a handful of elders were the only ones left on the dark crag overlooking the burning villages. It was necessary for him to remain in the one place so that messengers from any of the three parties should know where to find him in the dim, starlit night. Down in the foothills, around the burning villages, the Hillmen were already reconnoitring the Fulani position. The Fulani could not be given open battle, since their numbers far exceeded the whole of Warok’s force, and the little group of fighting scouts would have been wiped out before they could have made any impression. A sentry here and there had been killed as he replenished the outer ring of fires. But immediately he had been replaced, and the Fulani, secure in their numbers, had gone on sleeping. A sentry more or less did not matter!

Then, suddenly, as a Fulani guard strained his eyes to pierce the night beyond his watch fire, with a hiss of steam the blaze and glowing embers blackened. Earthenware water pots, thrown with unerring aim by the Hillmen, landed in the fire and burst, scattering their contents, and putting all in darkness.

Rapidly, on all sides, the fires hissed and went dead. Even as the sentry shouted the alarm and grasped his spear, the dark figures of the Hillmen sprang upon him. One more murderer of old men and women had died. And not he alone, but the whole ring of sentries were stretched as dead as the wet ashes of their watch fires.

The sleeping army woke to the sound of the war howl of the Hillmen. Half quenched cooking fires in the center of the camp were kicked into a blaze, as men grasped their arms and hastily rallied to defend themselves. Under cover of the night the long vengeful knives of the Hillmen were pressed home to the hilt, withdrawn, and again and again sought heart, lung, or stomach of those who had butchered their unarmed kinsmen.

Swiftly the small band of raiders came. Swiftly they withdrew to the rocks and cover of darkness. The huge Fulani army, rallying in the name of the Prophet, found only empty darkness filled with the taste of fresh blood.

Thrown in relief by the rekindled cooking fires, no longer protected by the line of sentries and watch fires, the massed forces of the Fulani formed a perfect target. Without warning an unseen cloud of arrows poured in from nowhere, finding the massed ranks a target impossible to miss.

Here and there courageous groups of the Fulani charged on foot among the rocks, trying to come to grips with the subtle stinging enemy. Enraged by their losses and inability to make contact, they tried again and again, until their commander, becoming anxious at their continuing casualties, ordered them back. The raid had been beautifully executed, and the massing of the panic-stricken Fulani in full glare of their cook fires had been a gift from the gods to the skilled bowmen of the Hills. The raiders had lost men, and here and there among the rocks a wounded Hillman groaned as his friends carried him to safety. But for every raider killed at least a score of Fulani lives had been taken in exchange.

Meanwhile news of the success of this raid that he had planned spread up to Warok. The main body of warriors stationed at the head of the pass clamored to leave their work and charge down upon the Fulani camp. The elders, grouped with Warok on the peak, counseled him to immediate action. Even Sura, so lately discomfited and in danger of death, joined his voice to the others, counseling attack in full force.

With only the support of the Rainmaker, Warok refused to pit inexperienced warriors against five times their strength of trained Fulani. “A dog may bring to bay and tire out a bull,” the old chief explained, “but if he closes with the bull and tries to slay....”

The elders nodded assent. The bull would win, of course. The strength of the Fulani was like that of the bull compared with the force the Hillmen could throw into the attack. But Sura had a scheme worthy of his mean cunning. None but Sura, nicknamed the Snake, could have devised a scheme so diabolically selfish, so murderous for others, so safe for himself. He asked permission to put forward a plan.

“In full daylight our men will see the numbers of the enemy and fear to attack. But in this darkness they will not know the certain death to which they go. And even now they are clamoring to attack. So--” with a pointed pause--“none will blame you afterward!”

Neither Warok nor the Rainmaker spoke his disgust. From the assembled elders came a murmur of interest. Encouraged, Sura continued: “Once they have closed with the enemy, all will be hand-to-hand fighting and confusion from which neither our men nor the enemy will be able to escape. Few of our men will be alive by morning, but the enemy will fear us. So that when at dawn they see our women, dressed as warriors, and carrying sticks to look like spears, crowning the heights above them, they will be deceived by their fears and will retreat.”

Little red spots began to gleam in the darkness, as the elders, stirred by the skilful plan, drew harder on their huge tobacco pipes. Cynically the Snake played his last card: “So we should be safe without risk to ourselves. And the wives, the betrothed, the household goods, and the farms of the young men of the tribe will become ours, since the dead will no longer have need of them!”

With silky voice of anger Warok broke in upon the applause. “Do you, the elders of our people, counsel this plan?” Their answer left no doubt. “O Warok, there is no other plan whereby we may live and the Fulani be driven back!”

“On one condition and one only I consent,” the soft voice insinuated: “You and I, O Sura, will lead the attack, my wrist tied to yours. Our only weapons will be short stabbing spears which have no edge to cut the bond should one of us be slain before the other. Is not the plan now perfect? Since we shall both be slain, there will be no dishonor!”

The awed intake of breath sounded like the rustle of the dawn breeze among the leaves. The elders did not doubt Warok’s reckless willingness to put the amendment into practice. Nor did the Snake doubt, scrambling to his feet as if for flight. “This is mad folly,” he blurted out. “Why should a wise man die when fools can die for him?”

“How shall a man who fears to fight give good counsel as to fighting?” was the swift retort. “Go join the women and give them counsel as to the cooking of food!”

But the Snake had courage after his own fashion. There was the scrape of a rough-surfaced native knife being drawn from the dry leather sheath. There was the sound of a body leaping through the dark as Sura would have flung himself upon the chief. But Warok’s light throwing spear, impelled by his powerful shoulder muscles, met the assailant as he leaped, pinning him through the chest as if he were a butterfly. The old chief had not risen to throw, his back had not even left the rock on which he leaned, and he must have judged his throw only by sound. Yet the force of the blow had driven the spear head out through the would-be murderer’s back, and the thrum of the vibrating spear shaft sang out among the rocks. With a clatter the body of Sura spun round and fell.

None moved. All knew what had happened. The sounds had told all as well as sight would have done. Then the voice of the Rainmaker rose out of the darkness. “Sura would not fight for the tribe. But in the dark, as you have heard, he would have murdered.” Deep toned, impersonal as of a judge, his voice rolled on. “Death of such a one as this will not anger the gods. No curse will fall. I bear witness!” The deep tones ended. The Priest of the Tribe had spoken!

Silence, dreaded silence grew in the darkness. In the belief of the elders, the spirit of the freshly slain man was angrily walking around them, seeking revenge. For this is what spirits are believed to do when just made homeless by death. None dared speak or move, for fear of being noticed. For the spirit would take a dreadful vengeance--would kill perhaps the soul of the first man it caught, leaving the body alive and unconscious of the terrible mutilation.

Warok’s pipe gleamed cheerfully in the darkness, all the same. He had not wanted to take life. Had indeed only taken it at the last moment, in self-defence. Now he was quite willing that the silent vigil should impress the object lesson on the elders. Spirits did not trouble him.

The old chief had regained full control of the tribe again. Comfortably he sat puffing his long pipe. As to the enemy, his plan had been decided as soon as he had seen the situation.

GARRAM EARNS SLEEP