"How did you get such a hold over the old boy?" asked Mr. McFee, nodding towards the squatting black figure.
"That's a short story," answered the Englishman, laughing. "I have had my eye on him for a long time. He let something slip once, and I tell you, man, I worked with my hands to keep that old nig in idleness--for three years I've worked for him. I arranged it so that he thinks I saved his life, too; and that was easy. And now the point--will you join me?"
This question was superfluous, as any one who had known Malcolm's father would have testified.
Three weeks later two large ox-carts, with four blacks to drive them, and three white men--at least two white men and a boy--were treaking across the flat plains, equipped apparently for a hunting excursion into the game-abounding country where beasts with strange horns and names are found in plenty, and where the lion's roar often breaks the stillness of the night.
Privation and hardship, death and disease they faced, and at last, a month later, with only one wagon left, and the loss of one of the negro drivers (by drowning at a river ford) they arrived at the great fertile border-land that edges the deep forest of the outermost possessions of King Obani, chief of the Bangwalis. Here they rested for a week, regaining strength, for they had made the trip in the unhealthy season of the year. They had traded their way peaceably, so far, with what natives they had met, and had encountered no hostile resistance. But the hardest work was yet to come.
Leaving the cattle in charge of one of the natives in a little hidden valley, the four men and Malcolm entered the shadows of the forest. For ten days they struggled on, cutting their way slowly through the massive undergrowth. Each one was laden down with a heavy pack, pickaxes, and long-handled shovels, not forgetting a few coils of rope, and iron bolts which came in handy afterwards. Besides, the three white men (I can speak of Malcolm as a man) carried rifles and well-filled cartridge-boxes.
On the tenth day old Grumpah, who was leading, stopped and made a strange clucking sound, the sound that the African used universally to attract attention. He pointed with his long bony arm. Half hidden by the vines and weeds lay a white rain-washed skeleton, and only a few feet away lay another. They counted thirty of them in all. It was here that the sharers of King Obani's secret had been put past the revealing of it. Grumpah was talking excitedly now, using long words, but Malcolm had picked up a little of the language, and he caught the gist of it even before Gifford turned and spoke.