Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 137: what you’re looking at

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

The White Man’s Way same family and responsible for each other’s deeds. “Tl stay here,’’ Peller said. boatmen come.” Tari hesitated. ‘““Mark me, Frenchman, I have no hand in this!”’ “Then hold thy message to the canoe- men for a few minutes and I will thank thee for my life.” Peller inspected all sides of the hut, saw, in every direction a free field for rifle-fire. Protected to some extent by the mud walls he might be able to hold the fisher- men at bay until Doucet’s arrival. He found enough timber to blockade the door. With a machete the érailleurs pierced loop- holes. Tari had disappeared. Peller and his men awaited developments. Yatera, who was watching at the front loophole, clucked his tongue in warning. Peller glanced out. The streets beyond the Zeriba were filling with men. The crowd soon overflowed into the open space. Many of Tari’s warriors had joined the canoemen. Probably word had gone around that the presence of the Frenchman on the Belgian shore was not justified, and that little reprisal would be taken in case he should be killed. A musket coughed, and a heavy slug splintered the barricade in the doorway. Peller heard the breech of Bo Diare’s rifle snap shut, and warned his men: “Shoot for the legs. Try not to kill!” The sharp crack of a Gras carbine, and the native, who had fired the first shot, dropped his piece, grasped his knees with both hands, and howled. Bo Diare, who was a fair shot, had scored a hit with Peller ‘calling’? the spot. This first cas- uality cooled the attackers somewhat, and they halted irresolutely. A tirailleur was teaching the young Yakoma captive to load the rifles so that two extra pieces could be brought into use. The boy had forgotten his fear of his captors, had admired the uniforms and was now eager to learn. He said that he would become a éirailleur. Had the men outside been from the boy’s own village still he would have been willing to kill. From now on he was won over to the regulars. Peller had often seen this conversion, but he never ceased to wonder. The fishermen appeared to have come to a decision, and a number rushed forward. “Let the 135 The Gras cracked steadily, and the group was dispersed, one man after another dropping. Not all were shot in the legs. The tirailleurs, purposely, or otherwise, for- got their instructions in the heat of conflict. Suddenly Bo Diare fell back from his loophole, and put a hand to the side of his head. Blood trickled down his fingers. A slug, striking a stone in the open, had ricocheted through the narrow aperture, and torn through his ear. “Savage!” the Ouolof commented. Maddened by the minor wound, he re- verted to the primitive, tore off his upper garments, with only his trousers and red chechia to distinguish him from the half naked canoemen who now swarmed on all sides of the hut. Spears pried at the timbers barring the door. The attack had assumed a serious turn. A crashing detonation and the sergeant’s helmet fell off. He turned and saw the threatening end of a double barreled musket close to his face. But some one had leaped forward. A clash of steel, and a second shot resounded, followed immedi- ately by the sharper crack of a Gras. On the floor lay the young Yakoma, his chest drenched with blood. From the ceiling hung an arm. Following this arm with his eyes, Peller saw the torso of a man hanging within. One of the natives had been hoisted by his comrades to the roof, had cautiously pierced the thatch, and aimed at the white man. The boy had knocked the musket aside, made the at- tacker miss his first shot, but had been hit by the second. Wounded, he had found the strength to kill his man. “Savage,”’ he groaned. Savage, the first and only word of French he had learned. Peller was about to bend close and ex- amine his wound, but at that moment, the barricade before the door gave way, and the canoemen rushed forward. Bo Diare met them in the doorway, his great figure looming above the stockier river-boys. He parried and thrust with the bayonet. Peller, standing behind him revolver in hand, fired when necessary. The struggle was brief. Not finding hand-to-hand en- counter to their liking the fishermen fled, followed by shots from the hut. Bo Diare sank his bayonet in the loose earth soil, then wiped it clean with a piece of oiled rag. COMmMiclbooOokkSs.G© S|