"Ammunition," said Jim under his breath. "The devil had made pretty good preparation."
"Behold!" said Ofesi, "therein is Sanders' death—listen all people!"
He held up his hand for silence.
Bosambo heard it—that faint rattle of the lokali. From some far distant place it was carrying the news. "Sanders dead!" it rolled mournfully, "distantly—moonlight—puc-a-puc—middle of river—man on bank—boat at shore—Sandi dead on ground—many wounds." He pieced together the tidings. Sandi had been shot from the bank and the boat had landed him dead. The chief of the Ochori heard the news and wept.
"Now you shall smell death," said Ofesi.
He turned abruptly to the door of the hut and exchanged a dozen quick words with the man inside. He spoke imperiously, sharply.
Alas! Mr. Bannister Fish, guest of honour on the remarkable occasion, the Ofesi you deal with now is not the meek Ofesi with whom you drove your one-sided bargain in the deep of the Akasava forest! Camel-train and boat have brought ammunition and rifles piecemeal to your enemy's undoing. Ofesi owes his power to you, but the maker of tyrants was ever a builder if his own prison-house.
Mr. Fish felt his danger keenly, pulled two long-barrelled automatic pistols from his pocket and mentally chose his route for the border, cursing his own stupidity that he had not brought his Arab bodyguard along the final stages of the journey.
"Ofesi," he muttered, "there shall be no killing until I am gone."
"Fisi," replied the other louder, "you shall see all that I wish you to see," and he made a signal.