Bosambo Of The River by Edgar Wallace

Author:Edgar Wallace [Wallace, Edgar]
Format: epub
Publisher: Ward, Lock
Published: 1914-06-14T18:30:00+00:00

Bosambo Of The River (1914)

CHAPTER IX

THE KI-GHU

The messenger from Sakola, the chief of the little folk who live in the bush, stood up. He was an ugly little man, four feet in height and burly, and he wore little save a small kilt of grass. Sanders eyed him thoughtfully, for the Commissioner knew the bush people very well.

“You will tell your master that I, who govern this land for the King, have sent him lord’s pleasure in such shape as rice and salt and cloth, and that he has sworn by death to keep the peace of the forest. Now I will give him no further present–“

“Lord,” interrupted the little bushman outrageously, “he asks of your lordship only this cloth to make him a fine robe, also ten thousand beads for his wives, and he will be your man for ever.”

Sanders showed his teeth in a smile in which could be discovered no amusement. “He shall be my man,” he said significantly.

The little bushman shuffled his uneasy feet. “Lord, it will be death to me to carry your proud message to our city, for we ourselves are very proud people, and Sakola is a man of greater pride than any.”

“The palaver is finished,” said Sanders, and the little man descended the wooden steps to the sandy garden path. He turned, shading his eyes from. the strong sun in the way that bushmen have, for these folk live in the solemn half-lights of the woods and do not love the brazen glow of the heavens.

“Lord,” he said timidly, “Sakola is a terrible man, and I fear that he will carry his spears to a killing.”

Sanders sighed wearily and thrust his hands into the deep pockets of his white jacket. “Also I will carry my spears to a killing,” he said. “O ko! Am I a man of the Ochori that I should fear the chattering of a bushman?”

Still the man hesitated. He stood balancing a light spear on the palm of his hand as a man occupied with his thoughts will play with that which is in reach. First he set it twirling, then he spun it deftly with his finger and thumb. “I am the servant of Sakola,” he said simply.

Like a flash of light his thin brown arm swung out, the spear held stiffly. Sanders fired three times with his automatic Colt, and the messenger of the proud chief Sakola went down sideways like a drunken man. Sergeant Abiboo, revolver in hand, leapt through a window of the bungalow to find his master removing a smouldering uniform jacket–you cannot fire through your pocket with impunity–and eyeing the huddled form of the fallen bushman with a thoughtful frown.

“Carry him to the hospital,” said Sanders. “I do not think he is dead.”

He picked up the spear and examined the point. There was lock-jaw in the slightest scratch of it, for these men are skilled in the use of tetanus.

The compound was aroused. Men had come racing over from the Houssa lines, and a rough stretcher was formed to carry away the debris.

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