Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 127: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The White Taking three of the tirailleurs with him, he hurried through the darkening bush. He tried to reassure himself with the thought that should the boatmen choose this propi- tious time for revolt Yatera would take the precaution to remove himself beyond reach of a quick rush, and cover the Yakomas with his rifle. “Hurry!” he panted to the black who preceded him, for he trusted native sight and footing to find the trail. Behind him, he heard the chant of the -men at work on the carcass of the hippo. From the landing-place of the canoes no sound came. He grew hopeful. The ¢éirailleur, in the lead, who was not a Bo Diare in forest lore, came to the edge of the grass field, and followed the pig-run blindly into the tall grass, striking off from the river side. He realized his mistake, and turned to the white man in dismay. ““T no savvy,” he admitted. The track had been crossed by others. | It was useless to attempt to follow it back to the starting-point. Peller took his bear- ings, hoisted himself on the shoulders of his companions, and looked over the grass tops. The river was to the left. He took the lead and worked his way back carefully. Shouts, then Yatera’s voice rose in warn- ing. -A shot. Peller muttered curses. Desperately he struck through the grass toward the river, in the direction of the uproar. Hestumbled, fell, got up again. His belt caught on the spines of the bushes. He tore himself free. His trousers were ripped, his legs bleeding. Behind him, the three soldiers crashed, hold- ing their rifles high above their heads. A narrow stream cut through the thicket. The water-course must be flowing toward the river. Peller sprang m. Fortunately the water was but knee-high. The tzrazl- leurs followed. Night fell suddenly. Ahead, silence. At last, Peller discerned the sand ledge. He stumbled toward the spot were the canoes had been. They were gone! Nothing there, save the piled knap- sacks of the soldiers. Near these, a prone figure; some distance away two or three more. From the stream came the splashing of hastily wielded paddles, and exclamations, ringing loudly in the stillness. Peller called out in French, then had one of his men call out to the boatmen in their dialect. No Man’s Way 125 answer coming, he fired. The tirailleurs in their turn worked their pieces, and the detonations echoed. But the splashing grew fainter. “Call Bo Diare.” The blacks obeyed. The corporal answered from near at hand. He had hurried back at the first shot, and, not having lost his way, had arrived soon after Peller. “The Yakomas stole the rifles,’ Peller said, ‘‘and killed Yatera.” What followed may seem cruel, but senti- ment finds little place in African hearts. Yatera had been killed by Yakomas. There were six Yakomas at hand, relatives of those who had done the killing, who would have helped if present. Peller was unable to oppose the rapid execution. The men were bayoneted and shot before he could interfere. Their anger somewhat appeased, the soldiers stood about irresolutely. Their business was killing. Thinking was the white man’s. ‘“‘A lantern?” Peller asked, still dazed by the turn of events. Bo Diare rummaged through the packs that had been left behind, found a lantern. Peller lighted it. Yatera had made a fight. Three Yakomas were on the ground, two with bayonet thrusts through their bellies, the third’s head blown open by a shot. Yatera lay on his back, blood streaming from his head and arms. As Peller brought the light close to his face, his eyelids flickered. “Savage take rifles,” he moaned, and lapsed into unconsciousness. Peller stripped the private’s coat from his back and examined the wounds. He counted seven slices on shoulders and arms, and two across the skull. The cloth had protected the arms to some extent. As for the head, the thick chechia and thicker skull had served the #radleur, and even the blows from th. heavy bush-knives had but stunned him. With the usual vitality of the black, Yatera was soon able to sit up, and talk coherently. “T fight!” he said. “But they flog me with coupe-coupes, flog me for arm, flog me for head.” “Thou didst well, Yatera,’”’ Peller assured him. ‘‘No man can fight eight and win.” “‘After Bo Diare call men, men from first canoe go. Ibe alone with Yakomas. I hold rifle on Yakomas. One he say, ‘Maybe we COniclboooks (C@