Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 1, 1922 — page 84: what you’re looking at

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

374 head back for one of these delicious drafts when his eyes happened to fall upon a Batateke warrior cautiously advanc- ing along the trail. The man dropped his bottle and sprang to his feet with a yell of terror. Frightened out of his wits, he tore off in the direction of his friends instead of diving into the concealing bush, and before he had run ten yards a heavy spear caught him fair between the shoulders and sent him to his last accounting. His shout of alarm had reached the Arabs, and a single glance showed them the charging horde of black warriors who now revealed themselves. At the same mo- ment the riflemen on the opposite hill swept over its crest, firing as they ran, and came racing across the valley. The combined on- slaught was too much for the low morale of the cowardly raiders; they correctly con- cluded that it was best “to run away and live to fight another day.” The ma- jority of them suceeded in reaching their ponies that were tethered near by, and galloped furiously into the grass brake, where pursuit was hopeless. A dozen of them, however, found them- selves ringed in by a band of Batateke, led by Holden, and hopelessly cut off from any chance of escape. An Arab slaver knows exactly what to expect if taken prisoner, and these men prepared to sell their lives dearly. They dropped to their knees in a circle, loading and firing their clumsy, old- fashioned weapons as fast as they could, but their aim was wild and the shooting in- effectual. A single rush of the Batatekes swept over them and passed on, leaving in its wake only a tangled pile of white-clad forms splashed with crimson. Rushton, at one end of the Batateke line, had his hands full for a few minutes. He emptied his magazine as he charged at a group of Arabs, and before he could re- load, he found himself locked in a passion- ate embrace with a burly ruffian of some nondescript nationality. The man was strong as an ox, and Fred had all he could do for a minute to keep him from reaching the revolver and knife that swung from his belt. Then the American resorted to a wrestling trick that he had learned in the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. gym at college—score one for the advan- tages of the higher education!—and brought the man to earth with a crash that winded him. Before he could recover his breath, and before Fred could intervene, a Batateke warrior finished the ruffian with a spear thrust. The savage was rushing past them on his way to the main fracas, and he never checked his pace or faltered in his stride as he split the man’s throat with the point of his weapon as neatly as a cavalry officer pins a tent peg with his lance. Rushton, looking about him for new fields to conquer, found that the battle was ended. His attention was caught by the sight of M’Buli, and a dozen of his men gathered in a circle and sorrowfully regarding some- thing that lay on the ground at their feet. Fred hurried up to them, possessed by a premonition of evil, and a swift pang of fear shot to his heart as he recognized the figure of Holden lying in the stubby grass. The trader was unconscious, and a slow- ly spreading patch of red above his right breast indicated the location of a severe wound. Rushton knelt beside him and care- fully cut away the stained clothing until the ugly injury was exposed. Holden had been shot in the last moment of the fighting as he led the Batateke rush that cut down the surrounded Arabs. Ap- parently the missile had come from a muz- zle-loading musket, for as Fred raised him from the ground the slug dropped from his shirt and proved to be a triangular frag- ment of an iron kettle. It had entered the flesh between his shoulder and breast, and after plowing its way through his body had torn a gaping hole in his back. They bore him gently to the shade of the nearest tree, and a native who had been dis- patched for water came up with a full pail. Rushton bathed the wound and bandaged it, using the cleanest portion of his own shirt that he could find. When he had put a folded coat beneath the trader’s head he had done all he could, and he straightened for a word with M’Bulli. ‘“‘He must go home. He is not badly hurt, but he will be sick for a very long time. Savvy?” The head man nodded his comprehension and gave orders at once for the construction CO 1OOOLK C©