The Alo Man

by Mara L. Pratt-Chadwick; Louise Lamprey

Of course the trader did not know that about an hour after he left the village, Mpoko’s father, with every fighting man he could muster, in full war dress, with feather headdresses, long spears, round hide-covered shields and horn-handled knives, had started up that very trail. The men of the village had come on at such a pace that they had to check themselves for fear of catching up with the men they were following. A scout was sent on now and then to make sure that the Arab was still going up the mountain.

From time to time other parties of warriors came in from trails that branched off into the forest. By the time the belt of forest began to grow thinner and the trail came out on the rocky open ground above, there was a very considerable band of grim, fierce-looking spearmen crowding up through the trees and crouching behind bushes.

Mpoko looked back and caught a glimpse of the flutter of plumes. He pointed up the mountain to a pile of boulders clear against the sky on the top of the ridge.

“That is the way to Tswki’s country,” he said. “I do not dare to go any farther. I may get beaten as it is.”

“You will get something worse than a beating if you don’t come,” said the Arab. “Come with us and we will give you a share in the ivory. Go back and you will be killed.”

Mpoko had not counted on this. He looked at the pile of rocks far above, and at the sunburnt bare slope strewn with boulders. He looked at the forest behind. He was sure from what he had seen of the Arab’s shooting that he would not live to get back to the shelter of the trees. He dug one toe into the earth and whimpered. “Do not shoot,” he said. “I will go.”

Laden with their guns, the Arab’s men could not climb as fast as Mpoko could, and he kept some distance ahead. The trail made a turn toward the right, about halfway to the top, and here the elephant pit had been formed by the washing out of a deep hole in the rainy season. It was covered over with woven grass and boughs, and it looked as if the long grass had blown over the trail just there. Mpoko scampered across and ducked behind a boulder beyond. Out from the woods came streaming a company of tribesmen, shouting and waving their spears. The Arab looked at the pile of rocks above, and saw that behind those rocks he and his men could defy any number of enemies with spears. The warriors behind them were not yet within range of the firearms, but they soon would be. The slave traders began to run. If they could not get to the top, at least they could get behind the boulders where the road made that turn.

Then down they tumbled into a great hole. The woven screen of foliage held long enough to let them all get on, and then gave way, exactly as it would do if an elephant were to step on it. The trader’s men went down all in a heap, and a revolver or two went off in the confusion. They could hear the yells of the men coming up the hill.

The Arab could not make out at first what had happened. He knew he had been trapped, but he could not see how it had been done. The walls of the hole were of solid rock, much too high to climb, and overhung the bottom of the pit.

Of course, no one could get at him and his men to kill them without taking a chance of being shot, but they could be left there to starve or die of thirst. The Arab had left many of his prisoners to starve or die of exhaustion by the roadside, and now he knew how they had felt. It was not at all pleasant.