Bindloss Harold
The League of the Leopard

"Another day to be endured," said Maxwell, yawning as he spoke. "Another, and another, until the long weeks swell into months, and then, if nobody poisons or shoots us prematurely, we shall go back to England and fancy we have been dreaming. Has it occurred to you yet, Hilton, that the men who gain fortunes in Africa don't win but earn them hardly? One might wonder why a beneficent Creator made this country."

"It was His Satanic Majesty who made West Africa, using for a model his own dominions. A good many details prove it beside the temperature!"

It was eight o'clock in the morning and already fiercely hot, while the brightness outside the shade of the cottonwoods grew dazzling, when Maxwell, constituting himself at once prosecutor and judge, summoned the prisoner before an informal court. He was a big man, draped in loose cotton, and rather the hue of ocher than ebony; but his countenance was ghastly as well as malevolent, for the pistol butt had left its mark on it. A slackly rolled turban covered half his forehead, and he leaned with his back against a cottonwood scowling upon his judge. Maxwell sat on a camp-stool, not far away, with a rifle laid across his knee; Dane lay in the grass beside him; and the carriers and the armed men were drawn up in a half-circle behind them. Hitherto the would-be assassin, who acted as headman or chief of a section, had done nothing to excite Dane's suspicions.

"There is no law in this country but one, the lex talionis, while you and I are responsible for the lives of all these about us," said Maxwell. "It is a heavy responsibility, and I dare not allow any attempt to betray them to pass unpunished. You need not translate this, interpreter. Ask that fellow why he twice shot at the men whose bread and salt he has eaten."

What the interpreter, who spoke a little of the fantastic English in use along the coast, said, Dane did not know, but he spent some time over it, and when he had finished the prisoner spat upon the ground contemptuously.

"Damn fool man," explained the sable linguist. "He savvy too much and done say nothing."

"That means he refuses to plead," said Maxwell. "Well, we will proceed to inquire into his offenses as directly as possible. Listen carefully, and don't mix up my questions more than you can help, interpreter."

Maxwell asked questions which astonished his companion, and it was plain that he had for some time suspected a good deal. There was no lack of testimony; for carrier and armed retainer in turn set forth, through the black interpreter or in quaintest English, how the accused had told them gruesome stories of the devils inhabiting the country they were venturing into; had dropped hints that by seizing the provisions they might enrich themselves for life; and had been seen communing with mysterious strangers a few nights earlier. Dane listened with growing indignation, for the simple tales made plain not only how venomous insects got into his boots, but that on two occasions he had narrowly escaped with his life.

"Ask them," said Maxwell grimly, "why nobody had the sense to tell me this before."

"Them boy say you not done ask them, sah," answered the interpreter convincingly.

"It's African logic, and there's no use expecting too much from any nigger," said Maxwell aside. "The man's guilt is plainly evident; but while presumably neither of us knows much of jurisprudence, I wish to give him a fair chance of making his defense. We will do it in his own speech, though I am inclined to fancy that he understands English. Interpreter, try to make this clear to him."

Maxwell spoke for some minutes, pausing often for the linguist to explain his meaning, and again astonished Dane. He traced the accused's actions with surprising skill, showing how he had inspired a marauding headman to plunder and leave them starving, and induced the carriers to desert in the hope of precipitating a panic among the loyal. He also connected him with several of the mysterious accidents which had delayed the march.

"Tell him I give him a last chance. He has just five minutes to clear himself in."

Maxwell laid his watch on the camp-stool between his knees, pointed toward a lengthening shaft of brightness which approached the roots of a tree, and then opened and closed the breach of his rifle significantly. The dusky man before him showed no sign of fear, and his half-scornful, wholly malevolent scowl, together with the intense silence, the expectant black faces, and the glint of light on weapons, burnt itself into Dane's memory. The five minutes seemed very long to him. Then, as his comrade slowly replaced his watch in his pocket, the prisoner spoke a few words disdainfully, and Dane could feel his fingers contract as he waited for the interpreter's answer.

"Damn fool man," it came. "Say he only sorry he done miss you that time. Very bad man, sah. Say no white man or coast nigger ever lib for get into the Leopards' country."

"So," said Maxwell dryly. "That is to say, while he can prevent it, which may not be long. Ask these boys what should be done with the man who would have left them starving, or perhaps sold them for slaves to some headman."

The camp boys had followed the evidence, and a clamor of voices answered the query. Big eyes glistened, black thumbs were run along twinkling matchet blades, and Dane distinguished ominous cries.

"You shoot him one time, sah! Give him to us and we done chop him!"

"It is the only possible verdict," Maxwell said with strange quietness. "One returns to primitive customs in this part of Africa; and it is more merciful that one should die than many. A curse upon the country! Must I turn executioner? – but for the sake of all those about us, there is no other way."

"What is your purpose?" Dane asked sharply, jumping to his feet.

Maxwell looked at him steadily with his lips firmly set and the color mottled a little in his face.

"Give him thirty seconds to reach the grass. I might miss; these others certainly would – and it will be a little easier that way. Do you understand me, interpreter? If he can reach the swamp alive no man shall harm him."

"You shall not do it!" Dane exclaimed hotly. "Heaven knows, the brute deserves it; but you can't go home with your hands fouled by that helpless wretch's blood! Pass him that rifle, and give me another, with fifty yards to commence at, if you can't think of anything better. The other is too much like murder!"

For a moment the returning color suffused Maxwell's forehead, and there was a flash of anger in his eyes, but he was generally master of his temper, and he answered calmly.

"I could not afford to lose you, Hilton. As I said, we have these men's lives to answer for; and while that fellow lives theirs and our own are equally in danger. That reminds me, I had forgotten something which may or may not surprise you further. You yonder, strike off his turban!"

A Kroo did it with the haft of his machet, and Dane gasped with astonishment, for there was a curiously shaped scar on the prisoner's forehead.

"The cross-marked man," said Maxwell. "The rascal who betrayed and sold poor Niven's carriers. He has, I think, one white man's death already to answer for."

Dane, stooping, laid a hand on each of the speaker's shoulders. Maxwell was a determined man, with virile brain and no lack of nervous energy; but Dane had the advantage in stature and muscular strength, and was glad that it was so. His leader was helpless in his grasp.

"You are perfectly right, Carsluith," he said stolidly. "If you were not, it would be useless for me to try to convince you; but I give you warning that the death of this man dissolves our partnership; and it will, at least, not be your rifle which fires the fatal shot."

Maxwell smiled curiously.

"Do you suppose I am fond of bloodshed, or sorry that you have forced me against my judgment?" he said. "On your head be it, and you can have the murderer. I hope that neither of us will regret your clemency!"

He beckoned the interpreter, and when the latter had spoken, the prisoner twice spat upon the ground, which was probably the most insulting action that occurred to him; then, turning, without word or sign, stalked into the grass. There was a harsh crackling, and, when his ragged draperies vanished, a murmur of wonder from the camp boys. Maxwell sighed as with relief.

"I am glad it is over; and whether we have done ill or well, time alone will show, but neither of us has seen the last of the cross-marked man," he said. "In the meantime, we want more carriers and supplies. Go back to the coast and get them. You will have much less trouble on the return journey. I will stockade a camp in the hills yonder and wait for you."

CHAPTER IX
TEMPTATION

Dane's preparations for his journey were quickly made, and he was ready to start before the sun was overhead.

"Life is very uncertain in this country, and because we are partners it might be as well if you took this map with you in case you should not find me on your return," said Maxwell. "I worked it out from Niven's notes, and have the knowledge safe within my brain; but you will remember that the information would be of value to another white man, who has already made attempts to obtain it. It might also be well, in case Miss Castro happens to be present at her father's factory, if you conducted yourself with a little more than your usual diplomacy."

"Your advice is a trifle superfluous," returned Dane testily. "Do you think I'm fool or rogue enough to make love to her?"

Maxwell smiled.

"You are one person, and I mentioned two. With all respect to Miss Castro, it is not quite impossible that she might make love to you. Remember that she might either prove a useful friend or a dangerous enemy."

A few minutes later Dane, followed by three men of Moslem faith, was on his way; and eventually limped – hungry, half-dazed, and sick of fever – out of the dim forest, which, it seemed to him, was loth to let its victim go. The glare of sunlight was overpowering, and at first he could see little more than the two ragged scarecrows, one muttering excitedly as he stretched out a brown hand toward the southern horizon, and the other leaning very heavily on his long Snider rifle. The third man lay full length among the grass. Dane could never recollect all the incidents of that journey through a land of eternal shadow, but he felt tolerably certain that if his dusky followers had not served him faithfully his bones would have lain rotting somewhere among its jungles.

Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the change of light, he shouted exultantly, in a voice his British friends would not have recognized. The shining to the southward was, beyond all doubt, the sea, and the white blurs among the palms could represent only factories! Turning, he shook his fist at the forest with childish solemnity.

"Tell Amadu to turn that gun away from him, Monday. It might go off, and I be no fit to lose him," he said in coast jargon. "I don't care what your color is, you are fine fellows too much, both of you, and now we'll go on while we have strength left to reach them factory."

How much his followers comprehended did not appear. The man he called Monday grinned from ear to ear, the other slung his rifle, and they went on, staggering at their best pace toward the sea, though Dane had a vague impression that, with one arm beneath either shoulder, the two ragged Africans dragged him most of the way. Some time later a blindingly whitewashed factory rose up before them against a background of tossing spray and equally dazzling sea, and Dane made shift to reach its outer stairway unaided. An elderly man and a lady who sat on the shady veranda rose at the sight of him. Making an attempt to raise his battered sun-hat, he lurched up the stairway. The attempt was not successful. The sun-hat fell over the balustrade, and he saw it long afterward, painted green and blue, upon a Krooboy's head. Clutching at the topmost rail, he steadied himself by it.

"Unexpected pleasure to see you here, Miss Castro," he said. "Salutations, Dom Pedro! Sorry to arrive in this fashion; not quite myself to-day."

The elderly man shouted, clapping his hands, the lady moved toward the newcomer; then factory and palm trees went round and round before him, and Dane, loosing his hold, went down with a crash.

What happened next he did not remember, having only a hazy recollection of tossing in burning torment for an interminable space, during which at intervals somebody held a glass filled with cooling liquid to his lips, while now and then gentle hands, whose touch was soothing, raised his aching head. Still, he fancied that at times a white face bent over him, and once, when the dim light of a calabash lamp beat into his eyes, that waves of dusky hair drooped close above his forehead, and that he caught, and held fast with all his strength, the cool fingers that slipped into his own. They seemed to draw him back out of the black abyss into which he was sliding; and, he surmised afterward, they actually did so.

Attacks of malarial fever, however, are usually brief; and not long after his arrival Dane lay, clothed in neatly mended garments and more or less in his right mind, beside an open window of Castro's factory. The words "more or less" are used advisedly, for the malaria leaves a strange lassitude behind it, and the sufferer often takes up the burden of life again, as it were, reluctantly, and with somewhat clouded brain. The sea breeze had set in fresh and cool, but the man lay limp and dejected, scarcely troubling to breathe it in, while a haggard English surgeon from a neighboring British colony sat near by watching him with an irritating curiosity. White men recognize the bond of color in West Africa, and the surgeon had remained to fight hard for the life of a stranger when passing that way. Also, where all dwell under the shadow in a land where the veneer of civilization wears thin, and the primitive passions show through, the Briton casts aside much of his normal reticence.

"Tolerably bad, was I not?" asked Dane; and the surgeon answered frankly.

"You were. In fact, on two occasions, I concluded you were going to beat me. Wouldn't even take a draught from – me, and one might compliment you on your determined obstinacy."

"I'm much obliged," Dane said slowly. "That's not quite all I mean, but it's the best I'm capable of just now. I don't know who you are, or why you did so much for me."

The surgeon laughed good-humoredly.

"If you must have a reason, you were an interesting case. I'm Dennis Ormond, of the Gold Coast service, and Dom Pedro asked me to look at you. I obliged him, and at first you were not a very encouraging spectacle. Of course, I did my little, but I may say that my medicine was not the only thing responsible for your cure. The señorita assisted me very ably, and – for a man must sleep sometimes – without her help it is quite probable we should have attended the expected funeral."

Ormond said this with an indifference which Dane, because he did not then know how much his little had been, or that his was an eminent name on the fever coast, thought hardly civil; but there was a warning gravity in his tone as he continued:

"It was, of course, my business; but not the señorita's; and you might have changed the pronouns in your last sentence advantageously."

Dane was ashamed of several things he said and did that day, and his answer among them; but few white men are quite accountable for their actions when recovering from fever, and there was that in the surgeon's glance which aroused his indignation.

"Are you not taking an unfair advantage – considering how much I owe you!" he asked.

"Perhaps so!" said Ormond. "In this land one takes an advantage when and how one can. I dare say I'm a meddlesome idiot; but I conceived a certain respect for you, if only because of the spirited manner in which you resisted my attempts to cure you; and more for the señorita. Now, I don't think Miss Castro, curious combination of ministering angel, child, and – well, the angel's antithesis, as she evidently is, would have done so much for everybody!"

Dane answered nothing. One cannot rebuke the man one owes one's life to. Ormond, however, had not finished with the subject.

"You crawled off your cot in delirium one night, and I found you groping among some papers scattered from your pocket-book about the floor," he said. "It required the assistance of two Krooboys to induce you to lie down again, and Miss Castro helped me to pick up the papers. I, however, found this among them first, and considered it well to take charge of it in the meantime. Miss Castro, you have heard, made an excellent nurse."

Dane felt that the surgeon noticed the way his fingers tightened on the little photograph handed him; but the man went on, with a smile:

"Your sister, presumably, for one could not help glancing at the picture. Still, I can't flatter you by saying that I recognize a family likeness. Therefore – I kept it aside."

Dane thanked him, and Ormond answered lightly:

"The rest of the papers Miss Castro returned to the pocket-book. All you have to do now is to lie still and recover."

"I will try," Dane said. "When can I start again?"

Ormond pointed out through the window toward the sea.

"In a week, if you are prudent – in fact, the sooner you start in that direction the wiser you will be. This country is not healthy for full-blooded Englishmen of your description. If you march inland again, cable anybody interested to double your life insurance."

Dane made a negatory gesture, but Ormond anticipated his answer.

"Of course, I hardly expected you would take good advice, but it was my duty to give it. Just now I'll leave you to your own resources, because Dom Pedro is waiting with the chessmen below. Most gentlemanly old rascal, and you are indebted to him; but I wouldn't tell him too much respecting the supposititious treasure you rambled about if I were you. Henceforward you will have to get better in your own way, because word has just been sent me that my niggers are dying by dozens."

He went out, and left Dane staring at the photograph in his hand. Although not improved by long exposure to tropic heat, or the dampness of the African climate, it had been a good portrait of Lilian Chatterton, and the eyes that looked out from the faded paper seemed to challenge the man. On inspecting the dim picture later he decided it must have been because he remembered them so well. They were clear and searching, honest above all things, but, as it were, demanding equal sincerity from whoever looked into them; and though perhaps this was due to the observer's fancy, the whole face seemed to possess a spiritual beauty. Dane, however, was certainly a little light-headed still, for as he gazed the face grew scornful.

To most Europeans in that country there comes a time of mental weakness and black dejection, and Dane's courage had melted before the fever which left him unstable as water, and fanciful as a child. Thus it was that, in a sudden access of bitterness, he slipped the picture back into its case. Lilian, he decided, had cruelly misjudged him, and now doubtless enjoyed the sunny side of life in the cool British air, careless of the fact that for her sake he risked life and reason in the pestilential steam of Africa.

There was a rustle of draperies, and Bonita Castro swept into the room with the grace of movement and carriage which characterizes her mother's race. There was, however, nothing spiritual about Miss Castro's beauty, which was of the flesh and of the glowing south, appealing to the senses, delighting the eye; and Dane's pulse throbbed a little faster as she came toward him with a low cry of pleasure. It was the first time he had risen from his trestle cot in the adjoining room. Stooping, she held toward him a great cluster of the spotless African lilies – which, scented ambrosially, spring up wherever decay is rankest – then sank with lithe gracefulness into a chair near his side.

"It is very good to see you better, Don Ilton," she said.

"It is the result of your kindness, señorita. Unfortunately, I don't know how to thank you – "

"Then you will not try." Miss Castro raised a restraining hand. "We do not leave the sick to die. Even if it had been another, there is always enjoined on us the charity."

Dane had lost his sense of humor, and just then Bonita Castro looked all ministering angel, and his attitude expressed rather reverential respect than personal admiration, which, it is possible, did not please the lady so well.

"But you have done so much for one who is almost a stranger," he persisted.

Miss Castro's mood changed swiftly, and spreading out her hands with a gesture of amusement, and a smile which Dane fancied most men would have given much to win, she was again all a woman, and a very alluring one.

"It is true that you English have not the graceful speech. Are we, then, the mere stranger, Don Ilton? Carramba! One takes pride in what one save from the fever, and it was on my lips to call you cariño."

Dane had acquired sufficient knowledge of Castilian in South America to appreciate the possible significance of the substantive; and he afterward remembered that he was not wholly displeased with it.

"You make me a vain man, señorita," he said lightly.

Miss Castro laughed again, and Dane lay silent for a while.

"I am the more indebted to your care because every day is precious, and I must rejoin my comrade as soon as possible," he said at last.

The damask warmth deepened just a trifle in his companion's cheek.

"You two still go on into the forest – why?" she asked.

"Because I am a poor man, and, as you have guessed, my comrade believes there is treasure waiting up yonder."

Bonita Castro smiled scornfully, and answered him with the assurance of one stating a definite fact.

"The Señor Maxwell will never bring gold out of the Leopards' country. Two white men have try already and, both of them, they die. You must not go back there, Don Ilton, nor let your comrade go, though I know he is a very clever and fearless man."

"How do you know that?"

Dane found it hard to conceal his astonishment at her tranquil answer:

"I try if he is fearless on board the steamer. I can use the pistol well."

"It is fortunate you did not test my courage in the same fashion. But was there not a third man?"

Miss Castro's fingers closed viciously, and the questioner experienced an instinctive shrinking as he saw the hatred in her deep black eyes.

"The third was not a white man, though he call himself so," she said, with a quietness that was ominous. "Maldito sea el perro! To-day again he infect this factory."

Dane could not help feeling that, unless the gentleman were prudent, he might have cause to regret his visit to the factory. He was inclined to admire high-spirited women, but Miss Castro looked more than dangerous just then; though Dane learned afterward that her hatred was justifiable.

Following her glance, he saw a short and very sallow-faced gentleman, neatly dressed in spotless duck, cross the compound below and disappear into the salt shed, evidently in search of Dom Pedro. There was nothing particularly noticeable about him; but another taller figure, draped in blue and white cotton and wearing a crimson turban, followed, and squatted in the hot dust outside the shed. This man was an African, but lighter in color than the seaboard tribes, and his movements reminded Dane of those of the midnight assassin. He decided, however, that the resemblance was fanciful.

"Is that the person you mentioned?" he asked. "It is evident that you dislike him. May I ask why?"

Miss Castro appeared to consider, and then answered frankly:

"Why should I not tell you? You are muy caballero, and I think, good friend of me. He was partner with my father, this Victor Rideau. They once go inland to trade with an Emir, who at that time gather much plunder of ivory, and perhaps they give their carrier boy the good rifle and cartridge, for the Emir is treacherous. He is very bad man, and —pobre padre mio!– when Rideau is go away he put pressure on Dom Pedro, and demand all his rifle and black carrier boy. What would you? My father he is not desire his throat cut, and he agree. The Emir write safe conduct and agreement, and sent him back with ivory, but this Rideau he guard the scroll in Arabic, and now always demand the silver from my father for fear he denounce him to the authority. One must not sell the black boy, and there is heavy penalty for giving the negro the arm of precision."

Dane grasped the situation, surmising that the Emir in question was one who had, for a time, successfully defied both British and French. He also surmised that the Gallic authorities would deal stringently with whoever had supplied the Moslem soldier with modern weapons at a time when it appeared quite possible he would even march upon the coast. Still, he was not sure that very much pressure had been required to convince Dom Pedro.

Returning to her almost caressing manner, Miss Castro touched his arm:

"Why you need that gold?"

"Gold is generally useful, isn't it?" smiled Dane. "It would help me to earn a little more than my bread when I go back to England."

Bonita Castro laughed, and then grew serious. There was a light in her dark eyes, and her voice grew deeper; and it was only because it appeared necessary that Dane afterward told his comrade part of what followed. Indeed, there was little to relate, but much to be imagined.

"Is there no other place than England, when all the world is good?" she said. "Is not this much better than your mud and snow, and the sight of the men with anxious faces groping through the fog? Vaya! You men of the English cities, you not know how to live."

The speaker pointed out through the open window, and most men would have agreed with her in a measure. If the beauty of the fever coast is that of a whited sepulcher, it is a sufficiently alluring region, and Dom Pedro's factory stood high and healthily upon the summit of a bluff. Tall palms swaying about it before the sea breeze tossed their emerald traceries against transparent blue. In the cottonwoods' shadow beyond them tall white lilies grew, and the rollers of the southern ocean, flaming dazzlingly, dissolved into spouts of incandescence upon a crescent of silver sand below. The whole scene was flooded with light and color, and permeated by the languorous spell of the tropics, which it is not good for white men to linger under.

"It is all very beautiful," he said; "but I have my bread to win."

"You are very modest, Don Ilton. Is there no place for such as you in Africa? Now I know one who would give much – even a share in the profits of several factories – for the help of two men he could trust. There will be more gold to win than you will ever find in the Leopards' country; and there will be the excitement you hunger for. The man who needs the assistance has a cunning enemy. Will you not listen when again he speaks to you?"

Miss Castro leaned slightly forward.

"It is the life you English long for. There would be adventure; much profit, I think, too, and – for that you like also – an enemy. He is bad enemy of – me. This England of yours is far off, and the wise man he – is it not so? – takes gratefully what the good saints send him. Is it not enough, Don Ilton?"

Dane was not a vain man, but there was a subtle inflection in the woman's voice which suggested an amplification of the meaning of her last words. England certainly seemed very far away, Maxwell's project a mad one; and Dane remembered that the woman for whose sake he had joined in it had been ready to think ill of him. His companion was very alluring, he was weak in mind and body, very grateful to one who had saved his life for him, and loath to resume the burden which was part of his birthright as a civilized Englishman. A word, even a gesture, would, it seemed, smooth out many difficulties, and, shaking off responsibility, he might henceforward live for the day only; but though intoxicated by the spell of the tropics and the eyes of his companion, Dane had a memory, and he realized that he stood on the brink of a declivity. He had seen the end of other Britons who, selling their birthright for a few years' indulgence, sank beyond the level of the beasts. The face of a countrywoman, no longer cold and disdainful, but innocent and gentle, rose up before him; and the struggle ended.

"It is so much that I do not deserve it," he said humbly, answering her question. "I must accomplish the purpose which brought me here, and then go back to England. Nothing would turn back my comrade."

Miss Castro did not speak for a few moments, but Dane felt that she understood more than he had said. Then she looked at him steadily.

"You are a strange people, but, go when you will, God go with you, Don Ilton. Now, at least from my hands, you will take the medicine."

Dane's hand trembled as he held it out for the glass, for the struggle had left its mark on him; but he felt inclined to resent this climax, which appeared grotesquely ludicrous. Nevertheless, he duly swallowed the medicine, and resisted an inexplicable impulse which prompted him to smash the glass. Then, with a wondrous unfolding of filmy draperies, his companion rose languidly, and, it seemed to Dane, melted out of the room. Almost simultaneously the crouching figure in the dusty compound rose and vanished too.

Dane decided that it would be well to gather strength with all possible celerity, and leave the factory as soon as he was fit to travel in a hammock. Accordingly, in spite of the protests of Dom Pedro, who, after repeating in definite form the offer made by his daughter, found him supplies and carriers, he presently took his leave, and shook hands with Miss Castro beside the waiting hammock at the compound gate. Her manner had been a shade more reserved of late, but she spoke with friendly earnestness when she laid in his hand a tiny object wrought in silver and ivory.