“The cook's in there,” he told Worth. “Her head's gone, too. She was too heavy, and I had to clear out.”
“It was my fault,” Wallenstein said. “Old Koho did it. But I let him take a drink of Worth's horse liniment.”
“I guess he's headed for the bush,” Worth said, springing astride his horse and starting. “Oliver is down there by the river. Hope he didn't get him.”
The manager galloped away through the trees. A few minutes later, as the charred wreck of the barracks crashed in, they heard him calling and followed. On the edge of the river bank they came upon him. He still sat on his horse, very white-faced, and gazed at something on the ground. It was the body of Oliver, the young assistant manager, though it was hard to realize it, for the head was gone. The black labourers, breathless from their run in from the fields, were now crowding around, and under conches to-night, and the war-drums, “all merry hell will break loose. They won't rush us, but keep all the boys close up to the house, Mr. Worth. Come on!”
As they returned along the path they came upon a black who whimpered and cried vociferously.
“Shut up mouth belong you!” Worth shouted. “What name you make 'm noise?”
“Him fella Koho finish along two fella bulla-macow,” the black answered, drawing a forefinger significantly across his throat.
“He's knifed the cows,” Grief said. “That means no more milk for some time for you, Worth. I'll see about sending a couple up from Ugi.”
Wallenstein proved inconsolable, until Denby, coming ashore, confessed to the dose of essence of mustard. Thereat the German Resident became even cheerful, though he twisted his yellow mustache up more fiercely and continued to curse the Solomons with oaths culled from four languages.
Next morning, visible from the masthead of the Wonder, the bush was alive with signal-smokes. From promontory to promontory, and back through the solid jungle, the smoke-pillars curled and puffed and talked. Remote villages on the higher peaks, beyond the farthest raids McTavish had ever driven, joined in the troubled conversation. From across the river persisted a bedlam of conches; while from everywhere, drifting for miles along the quiet air, came the deep, booming reverberations of the great war-drums—huge tree trunks, hollowed by fire and carved with tools of stone and shell. “You're all right as long as you stay close,” Grief told his manager. “I've got to get along to Guvutu. They won't come out in the open and attack you. Keep the work-gangs close. Stop the clearing till this blows over. They'll get any detached gangs you send out. And, whatever you do, don't be fooled into going into the bush after Koho. If you do, he'll get you. All you've got to do is wait for McTavish. I'll send him up with a bunch of his Malaita bush-men. He's the only man who can go inside. Also, until he comes, I'll leave Denby with you. You don't mind, do you, Mr. Denby? I'll send McTavish up with the Wanda, and you can go back on her and rejoin the Wonder. Captain Ward can manage without you for a trip.”