Chapter XXI: Menud, the Traitor

Overnight the remainder of the army of the Hills had been ordered to descend the pass and hide in the broken rocky country round the Fulani camp in the foothills.

Now, at first glint of dawn, Warok and the elders followed. Garram had just time to hand the monkey over to a friend and slip in front of the party with Kon.

On the western side of the peak lay the path, if it might so be called, which led down into the Plains. No more unlikely place could be found for a track, for the peak seemed to drop in sheer precipice. But along the face of the cliff stretched a diagonal fault in the rock, forming a narrow ledge which sloped southward and downward to the level ground around the burned villages. The sun had already begun to tint the opposite side of the gorge, but the face of the precipice down which the party marched in single file was still in the shadow of the crag they had left. One by one the party seemed to drop out of sight into a black, fathomless chasm.

Unseen and unheard above them, Menud had stumbled across the body of his father Sura. A casual glance showed that life was extinct. Then, quickly but cautiously, he made his way to the edge of the precipice and, leaning over, swore vengeance on the party moving through the darkness below. Revenge would be easy. Just a matter of pushing a few rocks crashing down upon the path beneath. The death of the unsuspecting Warok and Garram, of Kon and all the elders was a certainty. No skill, no courage could save them, for there was no way off the path, which was bounded by a precipice that rose on one side, and on the other dropped sheer several hundred feet into a boulder-strewn chasm.

Then Menud changed his mind!

Mean cunning replaced anger upon his face. His father was dead and no longer of use to him. Why should he waste time avenging his death? A more paying plan occurred to him. The ambitious plotter drew back from the edge and followed Warok’s party down the path. As he went he planned, his mouth twisted into a yellow-toothed, triumphant grin. For if he could find his way into the Fulani camp, show them this secret way up into the Hills--and it was the only pass into the Hills from the south--their numbers should give them easy victory over the Hillmen. Then, since no Fulani would wish to be left as chief over the conquered Hillmen in these strange and barren Hills, who would suit them better than himself, Menud? For he would have shown his loyalty to his new friends by betraying to them his own tribe!

Even as he walked and ran, the traitor saw himself the trusted agent of the Fulani, exacting tribute from the Hillmen, collecting their sons, and especially daughters, as slaves to be sent to the Fulani. What a full revenge! What tortures, what ignominy could he inflict on those whom he hated, with the support of the Fulani horsemen!

Stirred by his plan, Menud had been making better time down the path than he had expected. At a bend he almost bumped into the party of Garram and Warok, for the elders, more for dignity than because of weakness, were traveling slowly. Menud did not want to meet them. He planned to wait unseen behind them on the path, and then slip around them unseen as soon as the narrow way opened out near the Fulani camp.

As the rocky track swung round the face of a buttress-like projection of the cliff face, Garram began to realize the wisdom of Warok in moving the force down overnight. From where they were now hiding in the rocky foothills they could be thrown into attack like water from a bursting dam. But men moving to attack down this narrow path would have been like water dripping from a leaky pot--an easy matter for the enemy to deal with. Here, round the buttress-like projection, the ledge of rock along which the track led ceased in a vertical drop into the black shadowy depths beneath. At this point the path was carried on by a rickety, fantastic-looking bridge. Timbers, weathered silver gray with time, and long since bare of bark, had been wedged into crannies in the cliff face. On these twisted and uneven supports, which looked barely able to carry their own weight, had been laid smaller boughs, rounded and gnarled as all hilltop timber is. With its worn and frail-looking supports, its loose decking rolling underfoot and showing the black depths beneath, it was a writhing nightmare scaffolding rather than a bridge.

Unconcernedly the Hillmen balanced their way across it, talking as they went. They were well used to these weirdly skilled pieces of primitive engineering done with a chisel-shaped ax as the only tool. There were several more of these same bridges, on this same path, built like birds’ nests to the face of the precipice. Following the ledge in the vertical western side of the crag, the path led downward and southward to the foothills where lay the burned villages and the Fulani force. The foot of the crag hid the actual camp till Warok and his party had drawn clear of the pass.

Expecting to meet the main force of Hillmen guarding the mouth of the pass, the young hunter was surprised to find no one there. Accustomed to using his brain when hunting, Garram now tried to apply it to this new game of warfare. Why was the place left undefended?

At a sign from Warok the party swung off wide to the right. Then left, left, in a wide circle with the Fulani camp for a centre. To Garram it was very like skirting game at a distance so as to approach it from down wind. That gave him the clue. With a hop of excitement he made a grab at Kon’s waving tail, as if to bring the news to his attention. It wasn’t the wind, but the sun; not scent, but sight, which the cunning Warok was planning to use as ally. The warriors had been swung round to the west of the camp so as to attack the Fulani with the low blinding morning sun directly behind them! With the sun behind him, a skilled fighter could catch as many as four out of five enemy arrows harmlessly on his shield. And with the dazzling tropical light low in front, the enemy would be able to ward off practically nothing, neither arrows nor spears, nor even slow-moving battle axes.

The hunter almost danced with excitement at his father’s tactics. And what nerve it must take to leave the pass unguarded rather than weaken his striking force and by overmuch caution court defeat. Then, below him, in the shallow green cup where lay the black spots of the charred villages, sounded the tinkle of the Fulani war cymbal. Men, more men than he had ever seen before, were moving hurriedly about, like uncountable water beetles on a mossy green pool. Gradually they formed into groups, like patterns on the green background. They were moving into battle order, in regular ranks--a method unknown to the wild Hill fighter.

Meanwhile the leaders of the Hill villages had been called up to receive orders. Quickly they returned, each man to his command. Morning light had shown Warok the absence of horses in the Fulani camp. They must have sent them back to the plains under cover of darkness. A detail, but it had made necessary a last minute change of plans, of which the village leaders had to be informed.

Now all was ready. Warok gave a signal; a series of soft sweet notes on the little Hill whistle made of horn. Immediately it was repeated by the whistles of the leaders of villages. Then the bare gray rock of the unchanging Hills appeared transformed into a black torrent. The hidden warriors had sprung from their hidings and, leaping from rock to rock, poured swiftly from the encircling heights.

Hastily Garram charged after them.

It was the rush of an undrilled horde in all its furious force. Without reducing this force, the organization by villages had made it controllable. As the rush carried the line forward, converging upon the enemy, the whistles blew again, ordering back the rear ranks who would have crowded among the men in front and jammed them too tight for full use of bow and spear. In silence the Hillmen reached the level ground and swept forward. And still the attention of the Fulani was directed toward the west, away from the attack, toward the pass into the Hills. Shouting of orders rose clearly from the camp, but still the packed and motionless ranks of the Fulani faced away from the charging Hillmen.

Now they were noticed, and the enemy turned hastily to meet the threatened danger. Now they were within bowshot. Men stood and fired, then ran forward a few paces, fitting another arrow to the bow, halted, and loosed another shaft.

Garram, who had brought along four quiverfuls of arrows, was loosing two swift shots for every one fired by the less skilled bowmen on each side of him. The clack of bowstring on hard leather wrist guard and the twang of the strings rose in continuous rattle and hum. It seemed only a moment since the young hunter was firing vaguely in the direction of the massed enemy at full bowshot range. But already he had thrown away one empty quiver and was now near enough to choose and hit his individual enemy.

Then, with a yell, the Fulani charged to meet them, their ranks thinning with falling men as they came.

A hunter is always unwilling to abandon the bow, and Garram might have used an ax instead of his last arrow, so close was the range. That man fell, but another enemy was already in the gap. The boy threw up his bow to parry a cleaving sword cut. It was only just in time, and even so the keen edge sliced a patch of skin from his bare shoulder.

With a yell of pain and fury he swung his ax in return, and then felt it nearly pulled out of his hand as his adversary fell, the edge firmly embedded in his skull. He jerked the ax free just in time to strike at another enemy. A misplaced blow this, the handle striking harmlessly on the Fulani’s shoulder and nearly jerking itself free from Garram’s grip. The long knife of a Hillman on his left saved him that time.

The front rank, with Garram in it, was now deep in the enemy’s lines. All formation had gone. Now was the time when men, wounded, thrown down, and rising again, lost all sense of direction and fought friend as well as foe. But this Warok, with hard-won experience of hand-to-hand fighting, had foreseen and provided for. From the throat of every village leader came the battle cry, “The sun on your backs--and on!” Quickly the slogan spread, and gave the steady aim of veterans to the dashing ardor of these young warriors. The deep yell panted from laboring lungs as the Hillmen again turned a solid front against the hated enemy.

Dry grass became slippery beneath his struggling feet. A body writhing in death agony on the ground tripped him. But Garram struggled upright again in the sweating, hacking, cursing struggle.

Troops pressed backwards offer less resistance than those pressing forward. Balance on the feet, morale, everything enters into it. Each army, pushed forward by the chest and shoulders of their slipping, tripping rear ranks, pressed harder and harder against the opposing ranks. Ribs could be heard to snap where the struggling, thrusting pressure was greatest. Few who fell could rise again; there was no room to strike a blow. Where a hand could be freed for an instant, a knife would be pressed home, and a dying man would be carried upright in the packed and swaying crush, until he could be turned under those cruel struggling feet. Over the heads of the front ranks where friend and foe were mixed, poisoned arrows were being exchanged by the rear-rank men. Since each side was engaged along the whole of its front, flanking movements were impossible.

Garram had no idea of what was happening except just around him. The pressure and heat became a cruel, impossible nightmare. The rank smell of human blood made him sick and giddy. The quilted cotton armor of his enemies began to provoke him to absurd anger. It was so difficult to force a knife through the thick padding. Then he found a method of reaching round and placing the point of the knife under the ribs at the side. Once placed and pointing inward, the pressure of the swaying crowd would force the blade through anything.

With unspeakable relief Garram felt the pressure slackening, felt himself being carried forward as the enemy began to give ground. Then suddenly the fighting changed. He found himself charging past small groups of four or five mixed friends and enemies hotly engaged in a kind of human dog fight. Suddenly he was the center of a similar dog fight, knife back on his hip again, swinging the hunting ax. As he fought, more assistance would pour up, some of the enemy fall, the remainder melt away. Then on to the next isolated struggle. “Backs to the sun--and on!”

Stung by wounds he fought like a seasoned warrior and no boy. The advance reached the black ruins of the villages. Fighting opened out more and more. The enemy seemed to have disappeared, though here and there skirmishing was going on. Arrows and quiver were broken and his bow gone, or he could have done great execution in this open fighting.

A group of corpses lay at the gate of the village. He was passing them as no matter for comment at a time like this when something about them caught his attention. Disgust and anger shook him. For they were the unarmed villagers--women as well as men--killed by the Fulani in their surprise raid upon the peaceful sleeping hamlet. Killed, and--he was nearly sick at the sight--mutilated--horribly. Something like madness seized him. With a yell he sprang at a group of tall Fulani soldiers. Three spears were thrust out to meet him. He ducked, swerved, and was in with the knife.... A sword flashed out, and would have transfixed him when, still in the gleaming chain mail, Warok charged in with a roar.

The old chief had done his best to stay behind and direct the battle, but his instinct for the fight was too strong. Dropping all weapons save his favorite ax, he had sprung into the battle. Never noted for playing for safety, with a chuckle at the thought of the chain mail, he had made no attempt to guard himself or parry. With both hands he swung his ax, swung again and again, and four men had dropped. The handle, wet and slippery, twisted from his grasp. A spear point slid past his face as he sidestepped. He was in and under the spear and had his last adversary in his arms. But the man he grasped was already slipping to the ground. Garram’s knife had been just a shade faster. The old chief stood back with a grin of appreciation. A neat stroke that for a boy! Garram would have grinned back, but a look of surprise came to the father’s face, for the boy swayed unsteadily on his feet. Swayed, recovered himself, then sank, wounded and unconscious, to the ground.

Rapidly but carefully the warrior carried the sagging body into the cover of the burned-out village. The sound of stealthy footsteps brought him round with a snarl to defend himself. A huge black form nearly bowled him over. It was Kon, who had been squeezed away from his master in the first stages of the fight and had now found him again. With the fussy assistance of the anxious animal Warok checked the boy’s heart and breathing, each seeming to find reassurance in his own way. The boy lived.

Then, as Kon snuffled inquiringly at ear, mouth, and eyes, the old chief grasped the situation. The boy had had no sleep, almost no rest or food or water for more than two days and nights. Two days and nights of strain and effort such as few grown men could have borne. Then on top of this the boy--for he was only a boy in years--had been put to the terrible ordeal of a long, sternly fought battle. The sight of the murdered villagers must have drawn from him his last remaining strength in that fierce final effort. And body and mind had at last rebelled, and he had fallen asleep as he stood!

For there was no doubt about it, he was peacefully sleeping! Here among the shouts and smells of battle!

The father reassured himself by a further examination of skull, ribs, and limbs. Nothing was broken, nothing amiss except for a few easily healed wounds. Leaving some weapons by his side for use when Garram awoke, the old chief posted Kon as huge calf-like nurse and all-sufficient guard. Then Warok ran toward the sounds of the receding battle.

THE HILLMEN TRIUMPH