"Come with us!" shouted Jim.
The figure on the bank, clear to be seen in his white jellab, made a trumpet of his hands.
"I go to kill one Ofesi, according to orders—say this to Sandi."
Then the boat drifted beyond earshot.
"Up stream or down?" demanded Jim at the wheel. "Down we meet Sanders and up we meet the heathen in his wrath."
"Up," said Coulson, and went aft to count noses.
That night died Iliki, the chief of the Isisi, and I'mini, his brother, stabbed as they sat at meat, also Bosomo of the Little Isisi, and B'ramo of the N'gomi, chiefs all; also the wives and sons of B'ramo and Bosomo; Father O'Leary of the Jesuit Mission at Mosankuli, his lay minister, and the Rev. George Galley, of the Wesleyan Mission at Bogori, and the Rev. Septimus Keen and his wife, at the Baptist Mission at Michi.
Bosambo did not die, because he knew; also a certain headman of Ofesi knew—and died.
Ofesi had planned largely and well. War had come to the territories in the most terrible form, yet Bosambo did not hesitate, though he was aware of his inferiority, not only in point of numbers, but in the more important matter of armament.
For the most dreadful thing had happened, and pigeons flying southward from a dozen points carried the news to Sanders—for the first time in history the rebellious people of the Akasava were armed with rifles—rifles smuggled across the border and placed in the hands of Ofesi's warriors.