LITMIR.BIZ

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glared at her but said nothing; then he turned to meet Bones.

      In that second of time Bucongo had to make a great decision, and to overcome the habits of a lifetime. Training and education to the dominion of the white man half raised his hand to the salute; something that boiled and bubbled madly and set his shallow brain afire, something that was of his ancestry, wild, unreasoning, brutish, urged other action. Bones had his revolver half drawn when the knobbly end of the chief's killing-spear struck him between the eyes, and he went down on his knees.

      Thus it came about, that he found himself sitting before Bucongo, his feet and hands tied with native grass, with the girl at his side in no better case.

      She was very frightened, but this she did not show. She had the disadvantage of being unable to understand the light flow of offensive badinage which passed between her captor and Bones.

      "O Tibbetti," said Bucongo, "you see me as a god—I have finished with all white men."

      "Soon we shall finish with you, Bucongo," said Bones.

      "I cannot die, Tibbetti," said the other with easy confidence, "that is the wonderful thing."

      "Other men have said that," said Bones in the vernacular, "and their widows are wives again and have forgotten their widowhood."

      "This is a new ju-ju, Tibbetti," said Bucongo, a strange light in his eyes. "I am the greatest of all cross-God men, and it is revealed to me that many shall follow me. Now you and the woman shall be the first of all white people to bear the mark of Bucongo the Blessed. And in the days to be you shall bare your breasts and say, 'Bucongo the Wonderful did this with his beautiful hands.'"

      Bones was in a cold sweat and his mouth was dry. He scarcely dare look at the girl by his side.

      "What does he say?" she asked in a low voice. Bones hesitated, and then haltingly he stammered the translation of the threat.

      She nodded.

      "O Bucongo," said Bones, with a sudden inspiration, "though you do evil, I will endure. But this you shall do and serve me. Brand me alone upon the chest, and upon the back. For if we be branded separately we are bound to one another, and you see how ugly this woman is with her thin nose and her pale eyes; also she has long hair like the grass which the weaver birds use for their nests."

      He spoke loudly, eagerly, and it seemed convincingly, for Bucongo was in doubt. Truly the woman by all standards was very ugly. Her face was white and her lips thin. She was a narrow woman too, he thought, like one underfed.

      "This you shall do for me, Bucongo," urged Bones; "for gods do not do evil things, and it would be bad to marry me to this ugly woman who has no hips and has an evil tongue."

      Bucongo was undecided.

      "A god may do no evil," he said; "but I do not know the ways of white men. If it be true, then I will mark you twice, Tibbetti, and you shall be my man for ever; and the woman I will not touch."

      "Cheer oh!" said Bones.

      "What are you saying—will he let us go?" asked the girl.

      "I was sayin' what a jolly row there'll be," lied Bones; "and he was sayin' that he couldn't think of hurtin' a charmin' lady like you. Shut your eyes, dear old Miss Hamilton."

      She shut them quickly, half fainting with terror, for Bucongo was coming towards them, a blazing iron in his hand, a smile of simple benevolence upon his not unintelligent face.

      "This shall come as a blessing to you, Tibbetti," he said almost jovially.

      Bones shut his teeth and waited.

      The hot iron was scorching his silk shirt when a voice hailed the high-priest of the newest of cults.

      "O Bucongo," it said.

      Bucongo turned with a grimace of fear and cringed backward before the levelled Colt of Mr. Commissioner Sanders.

      "Tell me now," said Sanders in his even tone, "can such a man as you die? Think, Bucongo."

      "Lord," said Bucongo huskily, "I think I can die."

      "We shall see," said Sanders.

      It was not until after dinner that night that the girl had recovered sufficiently to discuss her exciting morning.

      "I think you were an awful brute," she addressed her unabashed brother. "You were standing in the wood listening to and seeing everything, and never came till the last minute."

      "It was my fault," interrupted Sanders. "I wanted to see how far the gentle Bucongo would go."

      "Dooced thoughtless," murmured Bones under his breath, but audible.

      She looked at him long and earnestly then turned again to her brother.

      "There is one thing I want to know," she said. "What was Bones saying when he talked to that horrible man? Do you know that Bones was scowling at me as though I was … I hardly know how to express it. Was he saying nice things?"

      Hamilton looked up at the awning, and cleared his throat.

      "Play the game, dear old sir and brother-officer," croaked Bones.

      "He said–" began Hamilton.

      "Live an' let live," pleaded Bones, all of a twitter. "Esprit de corps an' discretion, jolly old captain."

      Hamilton looked at his subordinate steadily.

      "He asked to be branded twice in order that you might not be branded once," he said quietly.

      The girl stared at Bones, and her eyes were full of tears.

      "Oh, Bones!" she said, with a little catch in her voice, "you … you are a sportsman."

      "Carry on," said Bones incoherently, and wept a little at the realization of that magnificent moment.

      CHAPTER III

      THE MAKER OF STORMS

      Everybody knows that water drawn from rivers is very bad water, for the rivers are the Roads of the Dead, and in the middle of those nights when the merest rind of a moon shows, and this slither of light and two watchful stars form a triangle pointing to the earth, the spirits rise from their graves and walk, "singing deadly songs," towards the lower star which is the source of all rivers. If you should be—which God forbid—on one of those lonely island graveyards on such nights you will see strange sights.

      The broken cooking-pots which rest on the mounds and the rent linen which flutters from little sticks stuck about the graves, grow whole and new again. The pots are red and hot as they come from the fire, and the pitiful cloths take on the sheen of youth and fold themselves about invisible forms. None may see the dead, though it is said that you may see the babies.

      These the wise men have watched playing at the water's edge, crowing and chuckling in the universal language of their kind, staggering groggily along the shelving beach with outspread arms balancing their uncertain steps. On such nights when M'sa beckons the dead world to the source of all rivers, the middle islands are crowded with babies—the dead babies of a thousand years. Their spirits come up from the unfathomed deeps of the great river and call their mortality from graves.

      "How may the waters of the river be acceptable?" asks the shuddering N'gombi mother.

      Therefore the N'gombi gather their water from the skies in strange cisterns of wicker, lined with the leaf of a certain plant which is impervious, and even carry their drinking supplies with them when they visit the river itself.

      There was a certain month in the year, which will be remembered by all who attempted the crossing of the Kasai Forest to the south of the N'gombi country, when pools and rivulets suddenly dried—so suddenly, indeed, that even the crocodiles, who have an instinct for coming drought, were left high and dry, in some cases miles from the nearest water, and when the sun rose in a sky unflecked by cloud and gave place at nights to a sky so brilliant and so menacing in their fierce and fiery nearness that men went mad.

      Toward the end of this month, when an exasperating full moon advertised a continuance of the dry spell by its very whiteness, the Chief Koosoogolaba-Muchini, or, as he was called, Muchini,

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