"You may have an opportunity to-night, or earlier," said Maxwell. "When, in spite of warnings, two white men insist on visiting a region which was specially made for black men, they can't expect to be comfortable. What is it that excites your particular indignation?"
The malarial fever contracted in other parts of the tropics had, as not infrequently happens, returned upon Dane in Africa. His head ached intolerably, every joint seemed stiff, and he swept his hand round the horizon as he answered vaguely.
"Everything! Why was it that, after drinking at a village well, two of our carriers died? Why should venomous insects crawl into my boots and from underneath my pillow? Or a guide, who declared he knew the country, bog us waist-deep in a quagmire, where we lost half our ammunition? Doesn't it strike you that the sequence of accidents is not all due to coincidence?"
"And, in addition to all this, you will be wondering why you are prostrate with fever to-morrow, if you excite yourself at the present temperature. Forget your grievances until your turn comes, and then strike the harder. Meanwhile, we have been stalked since we passed the last village, and the sooner we reach yonder dry ground, and build a breastwork, the better."
Knowing that this was good counsel, Dane did his best, finding a savage comfort in the thought that at last he would probably have the satisfaction of seeing his persecutors; but the grass was tall and matted, the temperature suffocating, and when they lost sight of the islet the morass appeared interminable. Such civilization as may be found in West Africa is only skin-deep. That is to say, it pertains to the coast, and is occasionally hard to discover there. In many places it still extends less than a day's march from the black troops' barracks, and the white man who travels beyond that distance takes his own risks, which are sometimes considerable. Dane already had cause to realize this, and he was accordingly thankful when at last the expedition, floundering out of the swamp, reached the strip of firmer earth. Here a breastwork of deal cases and branches was built, and camp pitched among the giant buttresses staying the cottonwood trunks.
"I think," said Maxwell cheerfully, when they lingered over a frugal meal, "if any misguided bushmen try to rush this camp to-night they will regret it. I will see to the sentries and keep first watch while you rest. You look as though you needed sleep."
Dane certainly did, having enjoyed little sleep worth mentioning since he left the coast. Indeed, he could scarcely keep his eyes open, and he wondered vacantly that Maxwell, who seemed proof against the climate, should show no sign of fatigue. When he unrolled his strip of matting and water-proof inside the little tent, the African sunset was flaming in the west, and the cottonwoods crowning the ridge stood out black as ebony against its almost unearthly brilliancy. Among them fantastic figures, some naked as when they first entered the world, some draped in white and blue, crouched about the cooking fires; while, seen between two mighty buttresses of living wood which stayed ponderous trunks, men with matchets and long guns were curled up beneath the breastwork. The wood smoke drifted in filmy wisps athwart the lonely camp, the swamp steamed like a cauldron, and the chirruping of countless frogs rose out of the vapor. Then the brief brilliancy faded, and thick impenetrable darkness suddenly rolled down. The faint coolness that came with it brought sleep to Dane, and it was midnight when Maxwell's voice roused him.
"Get up and stand by with your rifle! There are bushmen in the grass!" he said.
Half-awake, Dane groped for the breastwork, falling over several negroes on the way, and when he reached it the blackness was Egyptian. There was nothing visible beyond the loom of shadowy trunks, but Dane could hear unseen men breathing heavily, the click-clack of flintlocks, and the rasp of a file along a matchet blade. Then a faint crackle which drew nearer came out of the grass, and instantly a blaze of weird blue radiance leaped up, showing Maxwell's spare figure perched recklessly aloft upon the breastwork with a port-fire held high above him. Its glare beat along the matchet blades, the gun-barrels, and the oily skin of the men beneath, and showed black patches which might have been arms or heads among the grass. Then it died out; and Dane pitched the rifle to his shoulder at Maxwell's shout. There was neither challenge nor parley. They were now beyond civilized jurisdiction, and the right of any man to existence in that country depends upon the strength of his hand.
The heel-plate jarred on his shoulder, the barrel jumped in his left hand, red sparks flickered along the breastwork, and the sputtering roar of the flintlocks was repeated among the trunks. Dane fancied a scream rose in answer from the grass, and once or twice a long gun flashed; then the firing slackened, and it was heartsome to hear Maxwell laugh. He came stumbling toward Dane, and held up a second port-fire whose light showed no trace of any assailant. The silence that followed grew oppressive. It was, however, suddenly broken. A rifle flashed in the rear of the camp, a bullet whirred close by Dane's head; and Maxwell, dropping the flare, set his foot upon it.