“I had seen signs, but I thought I held them still. The leaders I know—three brothers—men who—”
A shrill cry came up from the dark trees by the burning house, followed by a roar of voices; and then, short and sharp, the bark of the revolvers. For a moment the King lost all his self-possession. He wrung his hands. He flung his arms wide. “O my people, my people!” he cried.
“Yes,” said Pryce, grimly, “your people seem to have left you out of this bean-feast. They’ve forgotten you, Smith.”
The King turned on him savagely. “And they must be made to remember. That is why I go. If need be, of ten men nine must die, that the tenth may remember for ever.”
“If that was Hanson shooting just now, you’ll find some of the nine dead already. But you’re taking all the patrol with you—well, what’s left for this place?”
“This place is taboo. They dare not come.”
“Yesterday you would have told me that they dare not burn down the club and murder the white men. There’s liquor in the club, any amount of it, and you may bet your life your precious people have looted it. They respect the taboo when they’re sober, but they’ll respect nothing when they’re mad with drink.”
“What am I to do? As it is, I have only seventy-five men against many hundreds.”
“But they’re the only seventy-five who have rifles and can use them. There’s your own prestige too, and all the hocus-pocus and mummery that you know how to work on them.”