Bones of the River by Edgar Wallace Page B

bloodless, no strong word went down to the ear of Mr Commissioner Sanders, who sat between sea and river in a large thatched house and gave judgment impartially. But there came to the Ochori a certain man from the Kroo Coast, an escaped convict, one Bosambo, who, by the employment of questionable methods, had secured his election to the kingship. And with his coming there had arisen a new spirit in the Ochori, so that when the Akasava or the Isisi raided their lands, they were met by locked shields and a phalanx of spears, and there was a killing or two.
    Ofaba was now a man of twenty-three, and in the year when M’mina became the Keeper of the Tree, the harvests of the Akasava failed, for no especial or understandable reason. Ofaba and his wise men gathered in secret council, and in the dark hours of the night they took from his bed a youth who was silly with sleeping sickness, and, carrying him into the woods, they cut his throat with the razor edge of Ofaba’s hunting spear, and sprinkled his blood on that old and sacred tree which had stood from the beginning of time.
    M’mina watched the ceremony from the door of her hut, and when it was over came forth.
    “I see you, Ofaba, also this man whom you have killed because your crops have failed. Now, I have talked with my husband, who comes to me every night in the shape of a bat, and he says that the crops have failed because of Bosambo, the chief man of the Ochori. That day you bring him to me, that day shall the crops grow and the game come back to the forest. For I will make a great magic with Bosambo that will be wonderful to see. You shall make an end to Bosambo, as I have made to his spies. Come.”
    Bewildered, the king followed her through the dark forest and came to the beach. Here, hidden by bushes, were three graves.
    “O woman!” he gasped. “What evil have you done? For if Sandi knows–”
    “Shall Sandi know the blooding of the tree?” she asked significantly, and Ofaba sweated. “Now, I tell you that when Bosambo himself comes, as he will, you shall bring him here. and be happy.”
     
    *  *  *
     
    At headquarters, Mr Commissioner Sanders was in a peculiarly complacent frame of mind. For two months there had been no sign or sound of trouble in his territory. Mr Terence Doughty, that fastidious grammarian, had passed to the French territory (Bosambo had sent a long message by pigeon post announcing his passage); the crops, with the exception of the Akasava mealie crop, had been good. Taxation was being voluntarily liquidated.
    “In fact, everything is almost too good to be true,” he said one evening as they sat in the cool of the verandah.
    That night he was wakened from a sound sleep by a hullaballoo that brought him to the open, revolver in hand. A knot of men were struggling noisily somewhere in the darkness, and Hamilton, who joined him, offered an explanation.
    “One of my infernal Houssas,” he swore. “Where these devils get gin from, heaven knows – Bones!”
    Bones answered from the darkness. “Naughty old thief trying to get into the residency, Ham, old thing–”
    Five minutes later a dishevelled Bones in pyjamas and mosquito boots came to report.
    “Chucked him in the guard-room,” he said. “By gad, if I hadn’t seen him you might have been robbed, dear old excellency – murdered, dear old Ham. If this isn’t worth a special report and a DSO, then there’s no justice on this wicked old earth.”
    “Did you spot him?” asked Hamilton incredulously.
    “I didn’t exactly spot him, sir and brother officer,” said Bones with care. “In theory I did, old captain. Ahmet saw him sneaking across the square, and of course I was on the spot in two shakes of a duck’s jolly old rudder.”
    Sergeant Ahmet supplemented the information. He had seen the marauder and had leapt at him.
    “When we wakened my lord Tibbetti, he ordered the bad man to prison.”
    “What do you mean – ‘wakened’?” demanded Bones indignantly.