the messenger from sakola, the chief of the little folk who live in the bush, stood up. he was an ugly little man, four feet in height and burly, and he wore little save a small kilt of grass.
sanders eyed him thoughtfully, for the commissioner knew the bush people very well.
"you will tell your master that i, who govern this land for the king, have sent him lord's pleasure in such shape as rice and salt and cloth, and that he has sworn by death to keep the peace of the forest. now i will give him no further present——"
"lord," interrupted the little bushman outrageously, "he asks of your lordship only this cloth to make him a fine robe, also ten thousand beads for his wives, and he will be your man for ever."
sanders showed his teeth in a smile in which could be discovered no amusement.
"he shall be my man," he said significantly
the little bushman shuffled his uneasy feet.
"lord, it will be death to me to carry your proud message to our city, for we ourselves are very proud people, and sakola is a man of greater pride than any."
"the palaver is finished," said sanders, and the little man descended the wooden steps to the sandy garden path.
he turned, shading his eyes from the strong sun in the way that bushmen have, for these folk live in the solemn half-lights of the woods and do not love the brazen glow of the heavens.
"lord," he said timidly, "sakola is a terrible man, and i fear that he will carry his spears to a killing."
sanders sighed wearily and thrust his hands into the deep pockets of his white jacket.
"also i will carry my spears to a killing," he said. "o ko! am i a man of the ochori that i should fear the chattering of a bushman?"
still the man hesitated.
he stood balancing a light spear on the palm of his hand, as a man occupied with his thoughts will play with that which is in reach. first he set it twirling, then he spun it deftly with his finger and thumb.
"i am the servant of sakola," he said simply.
like a flash of light his thin brown arm swung out, the spear held stiffly.
sanders fired three times with his automatic colt, and the messenger of the proud chief sakola went down sideways like a drunken man.
sergeant abiboo, revolver in hand, leapt through a window of the bungalow to find his master moving a smouldering uniform jacket—you cannot fire through your pocket with impunity—and eyeing the huddled form of the fallen bushman with a thoughtful frown.
"carry him to the hospital," said sanders. "i do not think he is dead."
he picked up the spear and examined the point.
there was lock-jaw in the slightest scratch of it, for these men are skilled in the use of tetanus.
the compound was aroused. men had come racing over from the houssa lines, and a rough stretcher was formed to carry away the débris.
thus occupied with his affairs sanders had no time to observe the arrival of the mail-boat, and the landing of mr. hold.
the big american filled the only comfortable seat in the surf-boat, but called upon his familiar gods to witness the perilous character of his sitting.
he was dressed in white, white irregularly splashed with dull grey patches of sea-water, for the kroomen who manipulated the sweeps had not the finesse, nor the feather stroke, of a harvard eight, and they worked independently.
he was tall and broad and thick—the other way. his face was clean-shaven, and he wore a cigar two points south-west.
yet, withal, he was a genial man, or the lines about his face lied cruelly.
nearing the long yellow beach where the waters were engaged everlastingly in a futile attempt to create a permanent sea-wall, his references to home ceased, and he confined himself to apprehensive "huh's!"
"huh!" he grunted, as the boat was kicked into the air on the heels of a playful roller. "huh!" he said, as the big surfer dropped from the ninth floor to a watery basement. "huh—oh!" he exclaimed—but there was no accident; the boat was gripped by wading landsmen and slid to safety.
big ben hold rolled ashore and stood on the firm beach looking resentfully across the two miles of water which separated him from the ship.
"orter build a dock," he grumbled.
he watched, with a jealous eye, the unloading of his kit, checking the packing cases with a piece of green chalk he dug up from his waistcoat pocket and found at least one package missing. the only important one, too. is this it? no! is that it? no! is that—ah, yes, that was it.
he was sitting on it.
"suh," said a polite krooman, "you lib for dem k'miss'ner?"
"hey?"
"dem sandi—you find um?"
"say," said mr. hold, "i don't quite get you—i want the commissioner—the englishman—savee."
later, he crossed the neat and spotless compound of the big, cool bungalow, where, on the shaded verandah, mr. commissioner sanders watched the progress of the newcomer without enthusiasm.
for sanders had a horror of white strangers; they upset things; had fads; desired escorts for passing through territories where the natural desire for war and an unnatural fear of government reprisal were always delicately balanced.
"glad to see you. boy, push that chair along; sit down, won't you?"
mr. hold seated himself gingerly.
"when a man turns the scale at two hundred and thirty-eight pounds," grumbled big ben pleasantly, "he sits mit circumspection, as a dutch friend of mine says." he breathed a long, deep sigh of relief as he settled himself in the chair and discovered that it accepted the strain without so much as a creak.
sanders waited with an amused glint in his eyes.
"you'd like a drink?"
mr. hold held up a solemn hand. "tempt me not," he adjured. "i'm on a diet—i don't look like a food crank, do i?"
he searched the inside pocket of his coat with some labour. sanders had an insane desire to assist him. it seemed that the tailor had taken a grossly unfair advantage of mr. hold in building the pocket so far outside the radius of his short arm.
"here it is!"
big ben handed a letter to the commissioner, and sanders opened it. he read the letter very carefully, then handed it back to its owner. and as he did so he smiled with a rare smile, for sanders was not easily amused.
"you expect to find the ki-chu here?" he asked.
mr. hold nodded.
"i have never seen it," said sanders; "i have heard of it; i have read about it, and i have listened to people who have passed through my territories and who have told me that they have seen it with, i am afraid, disrespect."
big ben leant forward, and laid his large and earnest hand on the other's knee.
"say, mr. sanders," he said, "you've probably heard of me—i'm big ben hold—everybody knows me, from the pacific to the atlantic. i am the biggest thing in circuses and wild beast expositions the world has ever seen. mr. sanders, i have made money, and i am out of the show business for a million years, but i want to see that monkey ki-chu——"
"but——"
"hold hard." big ben's hand arrested the other. "mr. sanders, i have made money out of the ki-chu. barnum made it out of the mermaid, but my fake has been the tailless ki-chu, the monkey that is so like a man that no alderman dare go near the cage for fear people think the ki-chu has escaped. i've run the ki-chu from seattle to portland, from buffalo to arizona city. i've had a company of militia to regulate the crowds to see the ki-chu. i have had a whole police squad to protect me from the in-fu-ri-ated populace when the ki-chu hasn't been up to sample. i have had ki-chus of every make and build. there are old ki-chus of mine that are now raising families an' mortgages in the middlewest; there are ki-chus who are running east-side saloons with profit to themselves and their dude sons, there——"
"yes, yes!" sanders smiled again. "but why?"
"let me tell you, sir," again big ben held up his beringed hand, "i am out of the business—good! but, mr. sanders, sir, i have a conscience." he laid his big hand over his heart and lowered his voice. "lately i have been worrying over this old ki-chu. i have built myself a magnificent dwelling in boston; i have surrounded myself with the evidences and services of luxury; but there is a still small voice which penetrates the sound-proof walls of my bedroom, that intrudes upon the silences of my turkish bath—and the voice says, 'big ben hold—there aren't any ki-chu; you're a fake; you're a swindler; you're a green goods man; you're rollin' in riches secured by fraud.' mr. sanders, i must see a ki-chu; i must have a real ki-chu if i spend the whole of my fortune in getting it"; he dropped his voice again, "if i lose my life in the attempt."
he stared with gloom, but earnestness, at sanders, and the commissioner looked at him thoughtfully. and from mr. hold his eyes wandered to the gravelled path outside, and the big american, following his eyes, saw a discoloured patch.
"somebody been spillin' paint?" he suggested. "i had——"
sanders shook his head.
"that's blood," he said simply, and mr. hold jerked.
"i've just shot a native," said sanders, in a conversational tone. "he was rather keen on spearing me, and i was rather keen on not being speared. so i shot him."
"dead?"
"not very!" replied the commissioner. "as a matter of fact i think i just missed putting him out—there's an eurasian doctor looking him over just now, and if you're interested, i'll let you know how he gets along."
the showman drew a long breath.
"this is a nice country," he said.
sanders nodded. he called his servants and gave directions for the visitor's comfortable housing.
a week later, mr. hold embarked for the upper river with considerable misgiving, for the canoe which sanders had placed at his disposal seemed, to say the least, inadequate.
it was at this time that the ochori were in some disfavour with the neighbouring tribes, and a small epidemic of rebellion and warfare had sustained the interest of the commissioner in his wayward peoples.
first, the n'gombi people fought the ochori, then the isisi folk went to war with the akasava over a question of women, and the ochori went to war with the isisi, and between whiles, the little bush folk warred indiscriminately with everybody, relying on the fact that they lived in the forest and used poisoned arrows.
they were a shy, yet haughty people, and they poisoned their arrows with tetanus, so that all who were wounded by them died of lock-jaw after many miserable hours.
they were engaged in harrying the ochori people, when mr. commissioner sanders, who was not unnaturally annoyed, came upon the scene with fifty houssas and a maxim gun, and although the little people were quick, they did not travel as fast as a well-sprayed congregation of .303 bullets, and they sustained a few losses.
then timbani, the little chief of the lesser isisi, spoke to his people assembled:
"let us fight the ochori, for they are insolent, and their chief is a foreigner and of no consequence."
and the fighting men of the tribe raised their hands and cried, "wa!"
timbani led a thousand spears into the ochori country, and wished he had chosen another method of spending a sultry morning, for whilst he was burning the village of kisi, sanders came with vicious unexpectedness upon his flank, from the bush country.
two companies of houssas shot with considerable accuracy at two hundred yards, and when the spears were stacked and the prisoners squatted, resigned but curious, in a circle of armed guards, timbani realised that it was a black day in his history.
"i only saw this, lord," he said, "that bosambo has made me a sorrowful man, for if it were not for his prosperity, i should never have led my men against him, and i should not be here before your lordship, wondering which of my wives would mourn me most."
"as to that, timbani," said sanders, "i have no means of knowing. later, when you work in the village of irons, men will come and tell you."
timbani drew a deep breath. "then my lord does not hang me?" he asked.
"i do not hang you because you are a fool," said sanders. "i hang wicked men, but fools i send to hard labour."
the chief pondered. "it is in my mind, lord sandi," he said, "that i would as soon hang for villainy as live for folly."
"hang him!" said sanders, who was in an obliging mood.
but when the rope was deftly thrown across the limb of a tree, timbani altered his point of view, electing to drag out an ignominious existence. wherein he was wise, for whilst there is life there is scope, if you will pardon the perversion.
to the village of irons went timbani, titular chief of the lesser isisi, and found agreeable company there, and, moreover, many predecessors, for the isisi folk are notoriously improvident in the matter of chiefs.
they formed a little community of their own, they and their wives, and at evening time they would sit round a smouldering log of gum wood, their red blankets about their shoulders, and tell stories of their former grandeur, and as they moved the loose shackles about their feet would jingle musically.
on a night when the houssa sentries, walking along raised platforms, which commanded all views of the prisoners' compound, were unusually lax, timbani effected his escape, and made the best of his way across country to the bush lands. the journey occupied two months in time, but native folk are patient workers, and there came a spring morning, when timbani, lean and muscular, stood in the presence of sakola, the bush king.
"lord," said he, though he despised all bushmen, "i have journeyed many days to see you, knowing that you are the greatest of all kings."
sakola sat on a stool carved crudely to represent snakes. he was under four feet in height, and was ill-favoured by bush standards—and the bush standard is very charitable. his big head, his little eyes, the tuft of wiry whisker under his chin, the high cheek bones, all contributed to the unhappy total of ugliness.
he was fat in an obvious way, and had a trick of scratching the calf of his leg as he spoke.
he blinked up at the intruder—for intruder he was, and the guard at each elbow was eloquent of the fact.
"why do you come here?" croaked sakola.
he said it in two short words, which literally mean, "here—why?"
"master of the forest," explained timbani glibly, "i come because i desire your happiness. the ochori are very rich, for sandi loves them. if you go to them sandi will be sorry."
the bushman sniffed. "i went to them and i was sorry," he said, significantly.
"i have a ju-ju," said the eager timbani, alarmed at the lack of enthusiasm. "he will help you; and will give you signs."
sakola eyed him with a cold and calculating eye. in the silence of the forest they stared at one another, the escaped prisoner with his breast filled with hatred of his overlord, and the squat figure on the stool.
then sakola spoke.
"i believe in devils," he said, "and i will try your ju-ju. for i will cut you a little and tie you to the top of my tree of sacrifice. and if you are alive when the sun sets, behold i will think that is a good sign, and go once again into the ochori land. but if you are dead, that shall be a bad sign, and i will not fight."
when the sun set behind the golden green of the tree tops, the stolid crowd of bushmen who stood with their necks craning and their faces upturned, saw the poor wreck of a man twist slowly.
"that is a good sign," said sakola, and sent messengers through the forest to assemble his fighting men.
twice he flung a cloud of warriors into the ochori territory. twice the chiefs of the ochori hurled back the invader, slaying many and taking prisoners.
about these prisoners. sanders, who knew something of the gentle ochori, had sent definite instructions.
when news of the third raid came, bosambo gave certain orders.
"you march with food for five days," he said to the heads of his army, "and behold you shall feed all the prisoners you take from the grain you carry, giving two hands to each prisoner and one to yourself."
"but, lord," protested the chief, "this is madness, for if we take many prisoners we shall starve."
bosambo waved him away. "m'bilini," he said, with dignity, "once i was a christian—just as my brother sandi, was once a christian—and we christians are kind to prisoners."
"but, lord bosambo," persisted the other, "if we kill our prisoners and do not bring them back it will be better for us."
"these things are with the gods," said the pious bosambo vaguely.
so m'bilini went out against the bushmen and defeated them. he brought back an army well fed, but without prisoners.
thus matters stood when big ben hold came leisurely up the river, his canoe paddled close in shore, for here the stream does not run so swiftly.
it had been a long journey, and the big man in the soiled white ducks showed relief as he stepped ashore on the ochori beach and stretched his legs.
he had no need to inquire which of the party approaching him was bosambo. for the chief wore his red plush robe, his opera hat, his glass bracelets, and all the other appurtenances of his office.
big ben had come up the river in his own good time and was now used to the way of the little chiefs.
his interpreter began a conversational oration, but bosambo cut him short.
"nigger," he said, in english, "you no speak 'um—i speak 'um fine english. i know luki, marki, john, judas—all fine fellers. you, sah," he addressed the impressed mr. hold, "you lib for me? sixpence—four dollar, good-night, i love you, mister!"
he delivered his stock breathlessly.
"fine!" said mr. hold, awestricken and dazed.
he felt at home in the procession which marched in stately manner towards the chief's hut; it was as near a circus parade as made no difference.
over a dinner of fish he outlined the object of his search and the reason for his presence.
it was a laborious business, necessitating the employment of the despised and frightened interpreter until the words "ki-chu" were mentioned, whereupon bosambo brightened up.
"sah," interrupted bosambo, "i savee al dem talk; i make 'um english one time good."
"fine," said mr. hold gratefully, "i get you, steve."
"you lookum ki-chu," continued bosambo, "you no find 'um; i see 'um; i am god-man—christian; i savee johnny baptist; peter cut 'um head off—dam' bad man; i savee hell an' all dem fine fellers."
"tell him——" began big ben.
"i spik english same like white man!" said the indignant bosambo. "you no lib for make dem feller talky talk—i savee dem ki-chu."
big ben sighed helplessly. all along the river the legend of the ki-chu was common property. everybody knew of the ki-chu—some had seen those who had seen it. he was not elated that bosambo should be counted amongst the faithful.
for the retired showman had by this time almost salved his conscience. it was enough, perhaps, that evidence of the ki-chu's being should be afforded—still he would dearly have loved to carry one of the alleged fabulous creatures back to america with him.
he had visions of a tame ki-chu chained to a stake on his boston lawn; of a ki-chu sitting behind gilded bars in a private menagerie annexe.
"i suppose," said mr. hold, "you haven't seen a ki-chu—you savee—you no look 'um?"
bosambo was on the point of protesting that the ki-chu was a familiar object of the landscape when a thought occurred to him.
"s'pose i find 'um ki-chu you dash[#] me plenty dollar?" he asked.
[#] give.
"if you find me that ki-chu," said mr. hold slowly, and with immense gravity, "i will pay you a thousand dollars."
bosambo rose to his feet, frankly agitated.
"thousan' dollar?" he repeated.
"a thousand dollars," said big ben with the comfortable air of one to whom a thousand dollars was a piece of bad luck.
bosambo put out his hand and steadied himself against the straw-plaited wall of his hut.
"you make 'um hundred dollar ten time?" he asked, huskily, "you make 'um book?"
"i make 'um book," said ben, and in a moment of inspiration drew a note-book from his pocket and carefully wrote down the substance of his offer.
he handed the note to the chief, and bosambo stared at it uncomprehendingly.
"and," said big ben, confidentially leaning across and tapping the knee of the standing chief with the golden head of his cane, "if you——"
bosambo raised his hand, and his big face was solemn.
"master," he said, relapsing into the vernacular in his excitement, "though this ki-chu lives in a village of devils, and ghosts walk about his hut, i will bring him."
the next morning bosambo disappeared, taking with him three hunters of skill, and to those who met him and said, "ho! bosambo; where do you walk?" he answered no word, but men who saw his face were shocked, for bosambo had been a christian and knew the value of money.
eight days he was absent, and big ben hold found life very pleasant, for he was treated with all the ceremony which is usually the privilege of kings.
on the evening of the eighth day bosambo returned, and he brought with him the ki-chu.
looking at this wonder big ben hold found his heart beating faster.
"my god!" he said, and his profanity was almost excusable.
for the ki-chu exceeded his wildest dreams. it was like a man, yet unlike. its head was almost bald, the stick tied bit-wise between his teeth had been painted green and added to the sinister appearance of the brute. its long arms reaching nearly to its knees were almost human, and the big splayed feet dancing a never-ceasing tattoo of rage were less than animal.
"lord," said bosambo proudly, "i have found the ki-chu!"
the chief's face bore signs of a fierce encounter. it was gashed and lacerated. his arms, too, bore signs of rough surgical dressing.
"three hunters i took with me," said bosambo, "and one have i brought back, for i took the ki-chu as he sat on a tree, and he was very fierce."
"my god!" said big ben again, and breathed heavily.
they built a cage for the ki-chu, a cage of heavy wooden bars, and the rare animal was screened from the vulgar gaze by curtains of native cloth.
it did not take kindly to its imprisonment.
it howled and gibbered and flung itself against the bars, and bosambo viewed its transports with interest.
"lord," he said, "this only i ask you: that you take this ki-chu shortly from here. also, you shall not show it to sandi lest he be jealous that we send away from our country so rare a thing."
"but," protested mr. hold to the interpreter, "you tell the chief that mr. sanders just wants me to catch the ki-chu—say, bosambo, you savee, sandi wantee see dem ki-chu?"
they were sitting before the chief's hut on the ninth day of the american's visit. the calm of evening lay on the city, and save for the unhappy noises of the captive no sound broke the sabbath stillness of the closing day.
bosambo was sitting at his ease, a bundle of english banknotes suspended by a cord about his neck, and the peace of heaven in his heart.
he had opened his mouth to explain the idiosyncrasies of the commissioner when——
"whiff—snick!"
something flicked past big ben's nose—something that buried its head in the straw of the hut with a soft swish!
he saw the quivering arrow, heard the shrill call of alarm and the dribbling roll of a skin-covered drum.
then a hand like steel grasped his arm and flung him headlong into the hut, for sakola's headman had come in person to avenge certain indignities and the city of the ochori was surrounded by twenty thousand bushmen.
night was falling and the position was desperate. bosambo had no doubt as to that. a wounded bushman fell into his hands—a mad little man, who howled and spat and bit like a vicious little animal.
"burn him till he talks," said bosambo—but at the very sight of fire the little man told all—and bosambo knew that he spoke the truth.
the lokali on the high watch tower of the city beat its staccato call for help and some of the villagers about answered.
bosambo stood at the foot of the rough ladder leading to the tower, listening.
from east and south and north came the replies—from the westward—nothing. the bushmen had swept into the country from the west, and the lokalis were silent where the invader had passed.
big ben hold, an automatic pistol in his hand, took his part in the defence of the city. all through that night charge after charge broke before the defences, and at intervals the one firearm of the defending force spat noisily out into the darkness.
with the dawn came an unshaven sanders. he swept round the bend of the river, two hotchkiss guns banging destructively, and the end of the bush war came when the rallied villagers of the ochori fell on the left flank of the attackers and drove them towards the guns of the zaire.
then it was that bosambo threw the whole fighting force of the city upon the enemy.
sanders landed his houssas to complete the disaster; he made his way straight to the city and drew a whistling breath of relief to find big ben hold alive, for big ben was a white man, and moreover a citizen of another land. the big man held out an enormous hand of welcome.
"glad to see you," he said.
sanders smiled.
"found that ki-chu?" he asked derisively, and his eyes rose incredulously at the other's nod.
"here!" said mr. hold triumphantly, and he drew aside the curtains of the cage.
it was empty.
"hell!" bellowed big ben hold, and threw his helmet on the ground naughtily.
"there it is!" he pointed across the open stretch of country which separated the city from the forest. a little form was running swiftly towards the woods. suddenly it stopped, lifted something from the ground, and turned towards the group. as its hands came up, sergeant abiboo of the houssas raised his rifle and fired; and the figure crumpled up.
"my ki-chu!" wailed the showman, as he looked down at the silent figure.
sanders said nothing. he looked first at the dead sakola, outrageously kidnapped in the very midst of his people, then he looked round for bosambo, but bosambo had disappeared.
at that precise moment the latter was feverishly scraping a hole in the floor of his hut wherein to bank his ill-gotten reward.
