The ground there was thinly timbered, and it was seen in a moment that these new arrivals, whoever they might be, were fugitives. They bore the unmistakable look of men and women—for there were several women among them—flying for their lives. They were not even aware of the proximity of the camp until right into it; and then, at the sight of armed men confronting them, they fell on their faces with a howl for mercy.
“Who are these, Somala?” said Haviland, not without a touch of anxiety; foreseeing the possibility of the flight of these people drawing down some formidable enemy upon his expedition.
And, indeed, their tidings confirmed his worst misgivings. They were natives of a small tribe, themselves of indifferent physique. Their village had been attacked the evening before, and burned, but they, being outside, had escaped. They had heard rumours of Mushâd being out with a strong force. Without doubt, he it was who had assailed them.
The name of the dreaded slave-hunting chief caused Haviland, and indeed others who heard it, to look grave.
“Well,” he said, “give these people food, such as we have, and let them go on their way.”
But this dictum was greeted by the refugees with a howl of dismay. If they went on further, why, then they were already dead, they protested. Would not the great white lords protect them? They would be safe within the shadow of their camp. Even Mushâd would not dare interfere with them there.
“Wouldn’t he?” said Haviland, in English. “I’m pretty sure he would—and will. These wretched devils have just about brought a hornet’s nest about our ears, I more than expect. What are we to do, doctor?”
“Why, get out into more open country and beat them off. I figure out that this is just the way Mushâd would take, in any event; so, perhaps, it’s just as well these poor devils turned up to warn us.”
“What do you say, Oakley?”
“I’m entirely with the doctor.”