Atewy, the Arab, taking advantage of his knowledge of English, often
circulated among the Americans, asking questions, gossiping. They had
become so accustomed to him that they thought nothing of his presence
among them; nor did his awkward attempts at joviality suggest to them
that he might be playing a part for the purpose of concealing ulterior
motives, though it must have been apparent to the least observing that
by nature Atewy was far from jovial.
He was, however, cunning; so he hid the fact that his greatest interest
lay in the two girl members of the company. Nor did he ever approach
them unless men of their own race were with them.
This afternoon Rhonda Terry was writing at a little camp table in front
of her tent, for it was not yet dark. Gordon Z. Marcus had stopped
to chat with her. Atewy from the corners of his eyes noted this and
strolled casually closer.
"Turning literary, Rhonda?" inquired Marcus.
The girl looked up and smiled. "Trying to bring my diary up to date."
"I fear that it will prove a most lugubrious document."
"Whatever that is. Oh, by the way!" She picked up a folded paper. "I
just found this map in my portfolio. In the last scene we shot they
were taking close-ups of me examining it. I wonder if they want it
again—I'd like to swipe it for a souvenir."
As she unfolded the paper Atewy moved closer, a new light burning in
his eyes.
"Keep it," suggested Marcus, "until they ask you for it. Perhaps
they're through with it. It's a most authentic looking thing, isn't it?
I wonder if they made it in the studio."
"No. Bill says that Joe found it between the leaves of a book he
bought in a secondhand book store. When he was commissioned to write
this story it occurred to him to write it around this old map. It is
intriguing, isn't it? Almost makes one believe that it would be easy to
find a valley of diamonds." She folded the map and replaced it in her
portfolio. Hawklike, the swarthy Atewy watched her.
Marcus regarded her with his kindly eyes. "You were speaking of Bill,"
he said. "What's wrong with you two children? He used to be with you so
much."
With a gesture Rhonda signified her inability to explain. "I haven't
the remotest idea," she said. "He just avoids me as though I were some
particular variety of pollen to which he reacted. Do I give you hives
or hay fever?"
Marcus laughed. "I can imagine, Rhonda, that you might induce high
temperatures in the male of the species; but to suggest hives or hay
fever—that would be sacrilege."
Naomi Madison came from the tent. Her face was white and drawn. "My
God!" she exclaimed. "How can you people joke at such a time? Why, any
minute any of us may be killed!"
"We must keep up our courage," said Marcus. "We cannot do it by
brooding over our troubles and giving way to our sorrows."
"Pulling a long face isn't going to bring back Major White or those
other poor fellows," said Rhonda. "Every one knows how sorry every one
feels about it; we don't have to wear crêpe to prove that."
"Well, we might be respectful until after the funeral anyway," snapped
Naomi.
"Don't be stupid," said Rhonda, a little tartly.
"When are they going to bury them, Mr. Marcus?" asked Naomi.
"Not until after dark. They don't want the Bansutos to see where
they're buried."
The girl shuddered. "What a horrible country! I feel that I shall never
leave it—alive."
"You certainly won't leave it dead." Rhonda, who seldom revealed her
emotions, evinced a trace of exasperation.
The Madison sniffed. "They would never bury me here. My public would
never stand for that. I shall lie in state in Hollywood."
"Come, come!" exclaimed Marcus. "You girls must not dwell on such
morbid, depressing subjects. We must all keep our minds from such
thoughts. How about a rubber of contract before supper? We'll just
about have time."
"I'm for it," agreed Rhonda.
"You would be," sneered the Madison; "you have no nerves. But no bridge
for me at such a time. I am too highly organized, too temperamental. I
think that is the way with all true artistes, don't you, Mr. Marcus? We
are like high-strung thoroughbreds."
"Well," laughed Rhonda, running her arm through Marcus's, "I guess
we'll have to go and dig up a couple more skates if we want a rubber
before supper. Perhaps we could get Bill and Jerrold. Neither of them
would ever take any prizes in a horse show."
They found Bill West pottering around his cameras. He declined their
invitation glumly. "You might get Obroski," he suggested, "if you can
wake him up."
Rhonda shot a quick glance at him through narrowed lids. "Another
thoroughbred," she said, as she walked away. And to herself she
thought, "That's the second crack he's made about Obroski. All right,
I'll show him!"
"Where to now, Rhonda?" inquired Marcus.
"You dig up Jerrold; I'm going to find Obroski. We'll have a game yet."
They did, and it so happened that their table was set where Bill West
could not but see them. It seemed to Marcus that Rhonda laughed a
little more than was usual and a little more than was necessary.
That night white men and black carried each their own dead into the
outer darkness beyond the range of the camp fires and buried them. The
graves were smoothed over and sprinkled with leaves and branches, and
the excess dirt was carried to the opposite side of the camp where it
was formed in little mounds that looked like graves.
The true graves lay directly in the line of march of the morrow. The
twenty-three trucks and the five passenger cars would obliterate the
last trace of the new-made graves.
The silent men working in the dark hoped that they were unseen by
prying eyes; but long into the night a figure lay above the edge of the
camp, hidden by the concealing foliage of a great tree, and observed
all that took place below. Then, when the last of the white men had
gone to bed, it melted silently into the somber depths of the forest.
Toward morning Orman lay sleepless on his army cot. He had tried to
read to divert his mind from the ghastly procession of thoughts that
persisted despite his every effort to sleep or to think of other
things. In the light of the lantern that he had placed near his head
harsh shadows limned his face as a drawn and haggard mask.
From his cot on the opposite side of the tent Pat O'Grady opened his
eyes and surveyed his chief. "Hell, Tom," he said, "you better get some
sleep or you'll go nuts."
"I can't sleep," replied Orman wearily. "I keep seein' White. I killed
him. I killed all those blacks."
"Hooey!" scoffed O'Grady. "It wasn't any more your fault than it was
the studio's. They sent you out here to make a picture, and you did
what you thought was the thing to do. There can't nobody blame you."
"It was my fault all right. White warned me not to come this way. He
was right; and I knew he was right, but I was too damn pig-headed to
admit it."
"What you need is a drink. It'll brace you up and put you to sleep."
"I've quit."
"It's all right to quit; but don't quit so sudden—taper off."
Orman shook his head. "I ain't blamin' it on the booze," he said;
"there's no one nor nothing to blame but me—but if I hadn't been
drinkin' this would never have happened, and White and those other poor
devils would have been alive now."
"One won't hurt, Tom; you need it."
Orman lay silent in thought for a moment; then he threw aside the
mosquito bar and stood up. "Perhaps you're right, Pat," he said.
He stepped to a heavy, well-worn pigskin bag that stood at the foot of
his cot and, stooping, took out a fat bottle and a tumbler. He shook a
little as he filled the latter to the brim.
O'Grady grinned. "I said one drink, not four."
Slowly Orman raised the tumbler toward his lips. He held it there for
a moment looking at it; then his vision seemed to pass beyond it, pass
through the canvas wall of the tent out into the night toward the
new-made graves.
With an oath, he hurled the full tumbler to the ground; the bottle
followed it, breaking into a thousand pieces.
"That's goin' to be hell on bare feet," remarked O'Grady.
"I'm sorry, Pat," said Orman; then he sat down wearily on the edge of
his cot and buried his face in his hands.
O'Grady sat up, slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and crossed
the tent. He sat down beside his friend and threw an arm about his
shoulders. "Buck up, Tom!" That was all he said, but the pressure of
the friendly arm was more strengthening than many words or many drinks.
From somewhere out in the night came the roar of a lion and a moment
later a blood-curdling cry that seemed neither that of beast nor man.
"Sufferin' cats!" ejaculated O'Grady. "What was that?"
Orman had raised his head and was listening. "Probably some more grief
for us," he replied forebodingly.
They sat silent for a moment then, listening.
"I wonder what could make such a noise," O'Grady spoke in hushed tones.
"Pat," Orman's tone was serious, "do you believe in ghosts?"
O'Grady hesitated before he replied. "I don't know—but I've seen some
funny things in my time."
"So have I," said Orman.
But perhaps of all that they could conjure to their minds nothing so
strange as the reality; for how could they know that they had heard the
victory cry of an English lord and a great lion who had just made their
kill together?
