Witch's Moon

by Wilton Hazzard

GORDON Quinton rode into Dom Luis in the late afternoon. Native laborers, Ovambos for the most part, were streaming through the town on their way to the mines in Damaraland and Namqualand. On the way out the poor devils usually lost their pay for a year, all of five pounds. Much of the money jingled across the counters of the sharp-eyed Orientals whose shops lined the red, dusty road. And some of it never got that far.

Quinton was thinking of this as he rode toward Ike's Place. His job was to organize and manage gangs of native labor and he was good at it. He was loved by the Ovambos as much as he was hated and feared by the cutthroat gang that made Ike's Place a veritable den of thieves.

The hum of voices and snatches of a bawdy song came to Quinton's ears as he drew rein before the latticed door of the saloon. His lips tightened. It sounded as if the gang were already drinking his boys' money. He rode around to the bar at the back of the hotel.

"Jambo, Membe!" he greeted the black stable boy, "Rub her down good and look after these." He swung out of the saddle. From his saddle horn he took a coiled whip of giraffe hide with a carved, ivory handle and a wrist loop.

"Ah-h-h!" breathed Membe, with his wide eyes fixed on the whip. He remembered the last time Losako, The Whip, had come to Dom Luis.

When Quinton walked into the saloon a tense silence came over the room. Then there was a rustle of movement as the men lining the bar turned to face him, their eyes drawn to the whip coiled in his hand.

At one of the tables close to a window sat a stranger. He was well built, an elderly man with grey hair that contrasted nicely with the brown of his skin. His topee, resting on the table, and white suit stood out among the battered felt hats and dirty shirts, like a mink coat in an East Side pawn shop.

"Go on with your drinking, boys," said Quinton. "The man I'm looking for isn't here yet." On an impulse he walked over to the stranger's table and sat down, shifting his chair so that he faced the doorway.

"Are you the law or some kind of a disease?" asked the other.

Quinton smiled: "We've got all the diseases known to science but damn little law, Mister."

"I'm John Raymer. An American."

"Well, I'm glad to meet a countryman!" said Quinton. "At least I was born there. Folks brought me here when I was an infant. Always wanted to go back but somehow ..." He finished with an expressive shrug.

"I know how it is," Raymer chuckled. "A man sweats for years in the jungle, building up a stake. He makes it and decides to go home. Gets as far as Cape Town, maybe, and finds a lot of attractive, fluffy things, the kind he dreamed of in the bush—amazin' how the money goes!"

"You're no stranger!" Quinton laughed. He liked the other's deep voice—the faint Southern drawl in it and the twinkle in his steady, blue eyes.

"I'm a stranger to these parts," explained Raymer. "But I've worked in the Camaroons—construction engineer. And I had a missionary brother—"

"Excuse me!" Quinton interrupted. "Here comes my man." He arose, transferring the coiled lash of his whip to his left hand.

A HUGE man with a face like a baboon came stomping in. His open shirt showed a mass of ginger hair and a thick, bull's neck growing out of bunched shoulder muscles. He brought his ponderous bulk to an abrupt stop as he caught sight of Quinton.

"Maddon, you stuck up six of my boys and took thirty pounds from them. They worked hard for their money, Maddon. I want it!" Quinton accused sharply.

The big fellow stood hesitant and fingered his thick, protruding lips. Then, something in his eyes hardened.

"I've 'eard about you an' yer bloody whip!" his voice boomed. "If y' try usin' it on me y' cocky blaggard I'll ..."

The lash of the whip uncoiled as if it were alive. There was a crack as loud as a pistol shot. Maddon screamed and blood oozed from between the fingers of the hand he held to his left cheek. His eyes bulged. He let loose a string of vile oaths while his right hand clawed at the holster under his coat.

Crack! The gun was wrenched from his hand as soon as it was clear of its holster; and, like a resilient spring, the lash seemed to coil itself back into Quinton's hand. Freeing his hand of the loop, Quinton tucked the whip into his belt.

"I want the money, that's all!" he said calmly. "Hand it over, Maddon."

Maddon was sweating and breathing hard, working up his nerve. Suddenly he aimed a vicious kick at Quinton's groin:

"Take that, you—ah-h-a!" he finished with a yelp of agony.

Quinton had side-stepped in a flash and had caught the other's hob-nailed boot in his hand. A quick twist and Maddon was sprawling on his face. When he got up he went limping around the circle, his face twisted with pain.

"Aw, come horf hit, Bull!" Cock Biles' voice suddenly piped up. "Bash 'im!" he pleaded. "Y'can do hit! 'E ain't 'arf yer size!"

As Maddon walked around Quinton circled with him, his grey eyes wary. Then he half-stumbled over an out-thrust foot. Maddon rushed him. Quinton went down with his knees doubled up and he drove both his feet into Maddon's stomach. Maddon rolled over, gasping for breath. As Quinton got to his feet the report of a gun thundered in his ears, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass.

Cock Biles was staring foolishly at Raymer, the neck of a broken bottle still clutched in his up-raised hand. Raymer sat at the table without rising, but there was a smoking gun in his hand.

"Nice shooting! Thanks." Quinton grinned at him and went to stand over Maddon who was seated on the floor, holding his stomach with both hands. Quinton uncoiled his whip.

"I don't like to use this, Maddon," he said. "But I want that money and—"

Before he could finish Portuguese policemen were swarming into the saloon, flourishing their long bayonetes.

"Who bang ze gun?" demanded their sergeant, looking around the room nervously. "It is not permitted to bang ze gun. Who?"

Raymer stood up: "I did!"

"Ha!! Arrest him!" ordered the sergeant.

"Sargento," Quinton caught his arm. "One moment, please!"

The sergeant tore himself loose with a squeal of fright: "Seize him!" he yelled at his troop.

Quinton and Raymer were soon hemmed in by a ring of steel. The two men exchanged glances.

"It was the gun," Quinton explained. "They'll stand for anything but shooting."

THE SQUAD of policemen marched them out and down the dusty road toward the Barracoon, as the Portuguese called the barbed-wire compound and collection of lousy huts on the outskirts of the town.

"How long will they keep us?" Raymer said, after the police had escorted them into a stinking, mud-walled cell which boasted only one bench and a pile of mouldy straw on the floor.

Quinton fished in his pocket, pulled out a few pound notes and thumbed them with a wry smile.

"How much money have you got?" Quinton asked. "It might cost us twenty-five pounds to get out before morning. It depends on the state of his Excellency's pocket book."

Raymer chuckled: "We'll do all right," said he. "We're stayin' at the Mendos Bungalow. I'll bet my daughter is working on 'em right now. It won't be the first time she's bailed the old man out."

Quinton's feet hit the floor: "Your what?" he exclaimed.

"My daughter. We've been stayin' with Mendos for about a week now."

"Well, I'm damned! You shouldn't have brought a girl here."

"I didn't want to."

"She's the boss, eh?"

"Well—wait till you meet her!"

Quinton rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully: 'Usually we don't ask questions in this town. But I'm wondering what brought you here."

"Ever hear of Lotumbe's Tomb?"

"Oh, good Lord! Don't tell me you're after Lotumbe's treasure! Why, there isn't a man in this country who hasn't wasted a couple of years of his life on account of that yarn!"

"It's not a fairy tale," said Raymer gravely. "Let's check your version with mine. As I have it, Lotumbe was chief of the Ovambos in Paul Kruger's day. He collected a sort of tax from all the Ovambos who went to work in the mines. Before a young Ovambo could return to his kraal and settle down, he had to give Lotumbe something—a diamond, maybe, gold dust or a Kruger sovereign. In the course of years the old boy collected a sizeable fortune and when he died, it was buried with him. Where, only a couple of witch doctors knew."

"Check!" said Quinton with a broad grin. "I don't question the yarn. It's known that Lotumbe did collect that tax. But listen, his tomb is somewhere in the Kaokovelds, that means you'd have to comb a mountain range and about ten thousand square miles of jungle for it. And another thing, the chief in that country is a particular friend of mine. Bogembwe is his name. Went to the coast and got himself an education. Well, he wants Lotumbe's gold to finance an irrigation project but he hasn't found it yet. D'you really think you've got a better chance than he has?"

"I know I have, son. As I was goin' to say before you started the fight back there, I've got a missionary brother. He worked in the Kaokovelds for ten years. He converted a witch doctor. Now that witch doctor knew where Lotumbe was buried."

"Sure, but it's one witch doctor you'll have to worry about. That's Nkoi, The Leopard. He's a ju-ju. Scares the hell out of the other natives."

"Sure, I know," replied Raymer calmly. "Nkoi is the witch doctor Brother Joe converted."

"Converted!" Quinton's face flushed with anger. "What are you trying to sell me, Raymer?"

"Well, son, I understand you've just finished a job. I like your style an' you know the country. Now, my proposition is, a half share for Bogembwe, the remainder we'll split between us, providin' the chief is willin'—I don't aim to start trouble. If we don't find the gold, I'll pay wages. How about it?"

Before Quinton could answer the chain on the outside of their door was rattling. The door swung open:

" 'Umble apology, Senhoreta," the turnkey's voice came to them. "Dis plaze make great steenk."

A girl with a mass of red-gold hair stood framed in the doorway. She was tall and the jodhpurs she wore emphasized the slenderness of her build. She had her father's eyes, but at the moment there were sparks of anger in them, and her compressed lips spoiled the softness of her mouth. Her gaze passed over Quinton and flashed at Raymer.

"Father! How could you? After what you promised!"

"M'dear," said Raymer. "I didn't have more than an eyeful! Quinton will vouch for me."

She looked at Quinton in a way that made him feel like something crawling on the floor: "Doubtless! I imagine Mr. Quinton is not particular—"

"Cut that, Jean!" Raymer interposed sharply.

QUINTON was amused to see the change that came over the girl's face. Her eyes moistened and her lips pouted. A tricky wench, he judged, who would have her way by fair means or foul.

"I have been so worried," she said with a faint smile. "Senhor Mendos has been kind enough to arrange for your release. And yours," she added, turning to Quinton. "And since you started the fight, I think that it is only right you pay for the damage done."

"How much did you give him?" asked Quinton, with dismay in his voice.

"One hundred pounds."

"Good Lord!" Quinton gasped. "A hundred quid for a broken bottle!"

"A broken bottle!" she echoed staring.

"That's right, Jean," drawled Raymer. "Fellow was going to hit Quinton on the head with it. I shot it out of his hand. I guess we're stuck for the hundred, my girl."

"Oh, why did you?" she cried. "Why didn't you—"

"Let the fellow smash it on my head, Miss Raymer?" suggested Quinton with a grin.

"Well, it would have been cheaper, and I don't think it could have hurt you much, Mr. Quinton."

The two men walked out into the brilliant star-light. A guard gave them a sleepy: "Boa noite, senhores!" as they passed through the gates of the compound. Thirst urged them down the deserted road in the direction of Ike's Place. The road zig-zagged along the bank of a vlei and followed down into a cluster of mopani trees among which the dying banana fronds showed splashes of red.

As they entered the inky blackness of the grove an owl hooted. The drumming of the bromvoels drowned the sound of their footsteps. After they had covered a short distance, an owl hooted again, so close and so suddenly that Quinton leaped backward, dragging Raymer with him. Suddenly black figures dropped from the trees, rustling as they passed through the leafy branches. In a moment the grove seemed alive with shadowy figures.

Quinton's whip cracked as a naked form leaped toward them. A yelp of pain rang through the grove. Again and again the lash whistled and cracked, beating back their half-seen assailants.

"Run for it!" Quinton yelled at Raymer. "Keep to the trail!"

He led the way, opening a path through an amorphous blur that clawed at him. He left his coat behind him and plunged on through. Raymer came next, whooping and lashing out with his hands and feet to right and left. In a moment they were clear and racing for the open road. They gained it and when they looked back along the trail, there was no sign of pursuit.

Raymer sat down on the road bank, panting:

"Not as good as I used to be," he gasped.

"Hope I'm as good at fifty," Quinton grinned. Then he said with a frown: "You must have told somebody else what you're after."

"Not me, son! Even Jean doesn't know. But somebody sure meant to take us apart and I'll bet that ape Maddon knows who."

Quinton shook his head: "If he wants me that bad, he can take a shot at me from behind a rock any time. No, sir, somebody wants you. And believe me, if any of the gang at Ike's Place have got wind of what you told me, you'll have trouble. Plenty of trouble."

"Ike's Place—well, I'm still thirsty," drawled Raymer, getting to his feet. "Let's go!"

The saloon was crowded and murky with tobacco smoke and the stench of paraffine oil that came from the blackened lamp. Fat, slovenly Ike found them a table in a corner.

"Maddon and Cock Biles treked out," he announced, when he came back with four bottles of cool beer.

After the first bottle Raymer said, "What about Biles and Maddon?"

Quinton shrugged: "Don't know much about Maddon; he's a new man here. But Cock Biles is an old-timer. I don't know what he does for a living. He comes and goes and he's always got money. A lot of people would like to know where he gets it, including Senhor Mendos, but nobody has caught up with him yet. Now, about that hundred pounds, Mr. Raymer. I've only got a month's pay coming to me—"

"Glad to hear it! You'll have to work for me."

"Well, I'm bound to say that I think you're wasting good money. But if you're set on it, I'll take you into the Kaokovelds, and you can talk it over with Chief Bogembwe."

"Good! When can we start?"

"Tomorrow at sunset, if you want to."

"I want to."

"Good! I'll ride over to the Ovambo village right now. Should be back with the boys about noon."

They went outside. Quinton led his horse around to the front.

"By the way," he said as he mounted, "You're not thinking of taking Jean with ns?"

Raymer shook his head: "She doesn't know it yet, but we're going to leave her at Indaba on the British side. I've written to the District Commissioner about it. She can argue with him."

"Hmm." said Quinton. "For a stranger you know your way around."

"Brother's friend. Joe built up quite a reputation for himself."

QUINTON was back before noon but he had no boys with him. The first time the Ovambos had refused to work for him. If his best friend had robbed him of his last dollar, he would not have felt it more keenly.

Raymer came out to meet him as he dismounted before the Mendos bungalow.

"Are you sure you didn't mention the Kaokoveld to anyone?" Quinton asked.

"Dammit, no!" Raymer swore. "I'm old enough to know when to keep my mouth shut!"

"Well, I'm damned if I can understand why my Ovambos turned me down!"

"Maybe Maddon and Biles have got something to do with it."

Quinton shook his head: "They couldn't turn the Ovambos against me. No, I know the symptoms. My boys are scared. There's something wrong and I don't like it, Raymer."

"You're under no obligation to me. You don't owe me a plugged dime."

"That's a matter of opinion," Quinton grinned. "I want you to make it known that we're headed for Indaba. You're working for a Cape Town mining syndicate, understand?"

"Sure! I got the idea."

"Good! We'll detour South of Indaba; slip into the Kaokoveld by the back door. I'll get porters. I'll have to use any of the riff-raff I can pick up in the native quarters. But get some sleep; we'll trek at sundown."

Two days later Quinton was riding beside Jean Raymer. Their road was the dry bed of a river, with high banks covered with tall, burned grass on either hand. Behind them the safari straggled out in a broken line, the porters picking their way over the boulders and loose gravel. Away to the North-east the Kaokovelds brooded over a stretch of green jungle, their peaks wrapped in a mysterious veil of mist. Indaba was about a day's march South-east.

The girl had Quinton's whip in her hand, examining the finely carved handle: "Losako, The Whip," said she "What a name! How did you get it?"

"The Ovambos gave it to me," Quinton replied with a slight frown.

"I suppose it's because you punished them with this." She returned the whip to Quinton.

Quinton flushed. Why did she have to think the worst of him? "No, quite the contrary, in fact. I took it from a Boer who was whaling an Ovambo with it, and I gave him some of his own medicine. Suddenly one of the Ovambos who were watching, jumped up and pointing at me, shouted: 'Losako!' There you have it. And once they give you a name, it sticks."

Suddenly Quinton's horse reared. A shot rang out, and before it had echoed, the crackle of small arms sounded all along the left bank of the river bed. Quinton sprang clear of his mount as the stricken beast sank under him. He caught the bridle of the girl's plunging horse, and dragging her from the saddle, forced her down behind the quivering belly of his dying mount.

In a moment the deep channel was a chaos of screaming blacks and bursts of musketry. The porters had dropped their loads and were trying to scramble up the steep right bank. They rushed at the bank, clawed their way a few feet upwards and then slid down again. Mad with fear, they surged towards a spot where one of their fellows had found a good foothold and in a moment a melee swirled around the spot. Quinton knew that nothing could stem the panic.

A pall of smoke drifted along the right bank. Grim-faced, gun in hand, Quinton crouched and waited for a head to show above the tall grass.

Raymer came galloping up from the rear, riding low in his saddle. Quinton watched his progress with a puzzled frown. Slugs were buzzing overhead like bees, but no one had been hit.

"Get Jean on my horse!" Raymer shouted as he vaulted from the saddle.

A high-pitched twang like that of a plucked steel string sounded above the loud reports of the muskets. Raymer's horse whinnied and rolled over.

"That," observed Quinton, "was a Mauser. And the guy behind it can shoot!"

"Shootin' at our horses but not at us, eh?" said Raymer with quick comprehension. "Guess we're kind of fenced in, son."

The firing stopped suddenly. Quinton pointed to where the grass bent and swayed as if disturbed by an undercurrent.

Then he said: "They're creeping up on us!"

A HORN blared on their left. The warriors answered it in a thunderous shout. As their battle-cry rolled across the veldt, painted shields flared above the yellow grass and the sun flashed on steel. Like a black wave, the massed warriors swept down on them, their white plumes tossing like spindrift whipped up by the wind.

Jean screamed and covered her face with her hands. Raymer raised his rifle, but Quinton caught his arm.

"That wouldn't do us any good right now," he explained coolly.

In silence they watched their porters herded together. A line of warriors advanced upon them; then fanned out into a circle, crouching behind their shields with out-thrust spears, and closed in slowly.

"They're Ovambos!" muttered Quinton. "Ovambos!" he repeated incredulously.

"You've been keepin' bad company," drawled Raymer. "I don't like the look of your friends."

Quinton was pointing to a spot above the heads of the warriors. A white man was scrambling down the bank.

"Maddon!" Quinton said.

Raymer gave him a quick, understanding look: "You're in real trouble, son."

The circle opened and Maddon stood before them, his rifle ready.

"Drop your guns!" his voice boomed.

Quinton obeyed. With a shrug Raymer also flung down his rifle.

Four Ovambos jumped forward. They bound the wrists of both men behind their backs.

"What's on your mind, Maddon?" Quinton asked.

"I'll show yer!" Maddon took a pace forward and kicked Quinton's feet from under him. Then he walked over to Quinton's horse and came back with the whip in his hand.

Quinton gritted his teeth as the lash fell across his shoulders. When the blood spurted, Maddon's hatred became a frenzy. Bestial grunts came from between his thick, slobbering lips. Soon Quinton's shirt was in ribbons; his back a mass of raw flesh.

"You beast! You coward!" The girl's voice came to Quinton's ears. "You wouldn't dare face him—" She screamed as the lash struck her.

Quinton struggled to his knees: "Maddon, I'll kill you for that!" he gasped.

"Ain't 'ad enough yet, heh!" Maddon gloated. "I'll lift your bleedin' 'ide, I will!"

He pushed Quinton over with his foot and raised the whip to strike again. But the lash was caught in a strong, black hand and jerked with a force that toppled Maddon over.

"Another lash and you die!" said a deep voice in English.

Maddon faced about with an oath but backed away as the new-comer advanced upon him.

Through eyes glazed with agony, Quinton saw a tall, muscular Ovambo come to a stand in the centre of the ring. He wore the head dress of a chief,

"Bogembwe—you!" muttered Quinton. "Why—" The circle of faces whirled around him. He shook his head and gasped with the pain that came with movement.

With a cry the girl ran to him and dropped to her knees beside him. She pillowed his head on her lap.

"Want to say," Quinton whispered clinging desperately to consciousness, "You have the prettiest legs—ah!" He fainted.

Quinton spent the next few days in a kind of coma. The fever had come to add to his misery, but it was the normal kind: recurrent shakes and temperatures. He lay on his stomach in a litter when they were on the march and the chant of the porters and swaying of the hammock became a rhythm of agony. Vaguely he knew that his life was in the hands of Jean Raymer. She was always beside him, to shield his lacerated back from the sun and to brush off the flies. When they made camp, she was there to dress his wounds and quench his thirst.

Years of clean, hard living made him an easy patient. Once the danger of infection was past, the fever left him and he healed rapidly. On the fourth day of their march he declared himself able to go on foot.

They were half a day's march behind the main column. Twenty young Ovambos formed their guard. From Jean, Quinton learned that her father and Maddon were with the main column. Just before starting on the following morning, the head man of the guard came to Quinton: "Losako," said he. "It is Bogembwe's will that you go unbound. But it is death for me if you escape."

"I will not disgrace you, warrior," said Quinton. "When Bogembwe was my friend, he would not have killed a man for so small a thing."

"Perhaps he would not do so now, Losako. Nkoi wills it."

"Nkoi! So, it is the Leopard's claws you fear, warrior! How is that? Is Nkoi chief in the Kaokoveld?"

The head man's face froze: "I have spoken," said he.

AN HOUR later they were winding across the veldt toward a brooding, tangled mass of jungle. They followed the line of least resistance, a river bed which would become a torrent when lightning rent the black clouds gathering over the Kaokovelds. They passed marshy pools from which the egrets, disturbed by their approach, rose like feathers shaken from a pillow in the wind. The ground was strewn with hippo dung and the grey, ghostly forms of baboons glided among the rocks.

Quinton and the girl were trudging along side by side, when she suddenly asked: "Where are they taking us?"

"Bogembwe's kraal would be a good guess," he replied, "It's in the Kaokoveld foot-hills. We should make it by sun down tomorrow."

"But why? What have we done?"

Quinton answered her with a question: "Do you know what your father came here for?"

"Oh, it's about something Uncle Joe told him. He's always going off somewhere to build dams and bridges and leaving me behind. He didn't want to bring me along this time, but I changed his mind."

"Uncle Joe—a missionary?"

"Yes." She laughed. "Knowing father, that hardly seems possible, does it? The funny part is they look so much alike. There's only a year between them and if Uncle Joe were to shave his beard, you couldn't tell them apart."

"Ah!" exclaimed Quinton, and stopped short, as understanding came to him. Some Ovambo had recognized Raymer, mistaken him for his missionary brother, perhaps. And The Leopard, a back-sliding convert, remembering the secret he had once divulged, had pounced upon them. Now he could understand why his Ovambos had refused to go on safari with him and why Bogembwe had come so far from his own territory to ambush them. But what connection could there be between Maddon, Cock Biles and Nkoi? And then the realization that the knowledge Raymer possessed was likely to cost their lives, struck him with the force of a blow. The Leopard would use his claws; silence the tongue.

He glanced up as the head man strode up to him:

"Why do you stand here, Losako?" the man asked with a suspicious frown.

"The woman wished to rest, warrior."

"So soon?" the head man looked disgusted. "Do not take her to wife, Losako," he advised. "She is lazy and could raise but a sorry crop. March, Losako!"

"What did he say?" asked the girl.

"Well, he said that I'd be a lucky man if I got you for a wife."

"Oh, really!" She flashed a happy smile at the dour-faced head man.

Quinton lapsed into gloomy silence and trudged on.

Before noon they entered the shade of the forest, a hot-house shade, damp and sultry. Streamlets linked the pools in the river-bed, and as they forced their way deeper into the jungle, the linked pools became a sluggish river fed by the mists that shrouded the mountains.

Then the trail they followed began an abrupt ascent. The noise of the river increased in volume. By sunset they were up on a plateau with miles of parkland stretching out before them, and rolling up to the foothills like a green tide.

Instead of making camp, they rested for only an hour. Just before night came, they marched into Bogembwe's kraal called Lotumbe, after Bogembwe's grandfather, the fabled Croesus of Ovamboland.

The village was more than the usual haphazard collection of bee-hive huts surrounded by a mud wall. It was a small, well-built town, with cultivated ground on all sides. On one side it was bounded by the river and on the other, by a rocky krantz and steep cliffs, the deep shadows of their abrupt descent contrasting with the burned grass of the plateau above. Everywhere there were signs of planning. Quinton, who knew the town well, saw in it the symbol of one man's bitter struggle to lift himself and his people above the dark, bloody rule of witchcraft.

As they marched down the broad, well-kept road that ran through the centre of the town, their guards broke up into two squads and separated Quinton from the girl. They were led away to separate huts.

Food was brought to Quinton by a firm-breasted Ovambo girl. She giggled and talked, flirted with him scandalously but would answer no questions. Anxious as Quinton was to learn what had become of Raymer and Madden, he did not press for answers. Patience was the highest wisdom in Ovamboland and apparent unconcern, the surest way to knowledge.

WEARY after the long trek, and still sore where the lash had bruised his ribs, Quinton lay down on the hide couch as soon as the girl left him. But worry stayed with him. It pursued him through his dreams in the form of a gigantic leopard with flaming eyes—through mud that clung to his feet and through a jungle of lianas that reached out to check his flight like so many vibrating tentacles.

Quinton awoke with the roll of the drums in his ears. A shaft of sunlight stabbed into the blackness of the hut through its low doorway. Everywhere there was the rustle of movement. Splay feet padded along the road past his doorway. The drums kept up their incessant clamor, calling the Ovambos to the large, open space before their chief's house where the ceremonial dances were held and judgments given.

Presently Quinton was called out into the sunlight. He walked briskly towards Bogembwe's house with two armed Ovambos following closely at his heels.

All the villagers, men, women and children, were packed into the square. A path opened for Quinton as he approached and he came to stand in a pool of sunlight hemmed in by black, sweating bodies. Raymer and his daughter stood facing the chief's house.

Bogembwe sat on a stool under the sloping eaves of his house, backed up by the Elders of the clan. His body guard of young warriors made an imposing array; their white plumes contrasting nicely with the black sheen of their muscular bodies. Their long bladed spears butted to the ground, painted shields resting against them.

The witch doctors stood apart—a weird group, grotesque, a composite of all the evil that could befall an Ovambo. Their hideous masks smelled of fresh pigment, attesting to the importance of the occasion. Their necklets of human bones rattled when they moved. Quinton's eyes passed over them and came to rest on the young chief.

"Are we no longer friends, Bogembwe?" Quinton asked in English.

"You have brought enemies into my country, Losako," the chief answered in his own tongue.

Quinton pointed to Raymer and the girl: "What harm can these two do to the Ovambos? One man and a woman? What of the other? I do not see him here. Is he your friend? Did he not steal from the Ovambos? Who punished him? You saw with your own eyes how he—"

"I see with the eyes of The Leopard!" the other cut him short.

"Ha-a-ah!" the witch doctors chorused their approval.

Quinton's eyes widened. Bogembwe, bending his proud spirit to the will of a wizard! He couldn't believe it.

"Does Nkoi say that I am your enemy?" he asked.

"He said so, Losako. But I and the Elders would not believe it. We said that if you brought enemies into our country, you did so without knowing it. And we sent Nkoi's messenger back to the mountain yonder. You will do well to leave Lotumbe before he returns, Losako."

"And what will be done with my friends?" demanded Quinton.

"They must die!"

Quinton looked at Raymer and Jean and felt a tumult of sudden fear.

"Have you gone crazy, Chief?" he cried in anger. "You're under British rule. You know what will happen if you allow these two to be killed!"

Bogembwe rose, scowling at him. He pointed to Raymer: "Why did he come here, Losako? I will tell you. He came to steal. Did we ask him to do this? No. But because of it, Nkoi says, kill. The witchmen say, kill, kill! And my young men sharpen their spears. If the English come, there will be fighting. I cannot help it!"

Quinton turned to face the witch doctors. His face twisted into a grimace of disgust.

"Ah-a-ah!" A sharp gasp ran through the ranks of the warriors and ended in an angry growl.

But Quinton's anger had carried him beyond fear: "Who is this Nkoi?" he demanded, his voice ringing clearly. "How is it that no man has seen his face? It is because he is a cheat and a fool. And he will destroy the Ovambos!"

Bogembwe strode up to him, his eyes flashing with anger.

"Be quiet, you fool!" Then his deep voice addressed the Elders: "Losako is angry with us because he cannot help his friends. Could he be otherwise and be the Losako the Ovambos know as a true friend?"

The Elders jabbered among themselves for a few moments. Then a white-haired fellow, their spokesman, stepped forward:

"It could not be otherwise, O, Chief." He announced their decision. "But let the truth be shown to Losako, so that his anger will be turned from us."

"Let it be so, Wise Ones!" Bogembwe affirmed. "I will talk with him later." He turned to Quinton: "Go in peace, Losako! I give you my hand."

AS THEY clasped hands Quinton felt a piece of paper pressed against his palm. He closed his hand upon it. Raymer and the girl were staring at him. Jean gave him a faint smile. Raymer's expression was enigmatical. They couldn't know, he thought, that he held their chances of life in the palm of his hand. Perhaps Jean thought he was leaving them to their fate. He wanted to talk to them, but Bogembwe's eyes warned him away.

As soon as Quinton reached the seclusion of his hut, he opened the note Bogembwe had given him. All it said was "Walk East through the village at moon-rise."

Quinton put a match to the paper and frowned as he watched it burn. At least it was clear that witchcraft had undermined Bogembwe's authority and he dared not openly oppose the verdict of his witch doctor. What could he do in secret? Quinton jumped to his feet and ground the charred paper under his heel in sudden, impotent anger. It was incredible that seven words could spell out the only hope he had of saving Jean Raymer—the girl he would marry if she would have him. But it was so. There was nothing he could do without Bogembwe's help—without it, Raymer and his daughter would die before sun-rise. Nor was it likely that he, a witness, would be allowed to live to tell the tale. Poison in his food, or a bullet from Maddon's Mauser, perhaps.

For a long time Quinton sat on the hide couch revolving plans. The mumble of the drums broke in on his thoughts. He went out. The Ovambos were leaving the square. From behind the trunk of a tree, he watched Raymer and Jean led away, hemmed in by young warriors whose spears flashed above the heads of a pack of women and children who cursed and spat upon the condemned pair.

Quinton made no attempt to follow them. The less concern he showed the better for Bogembwe's plan—if he had a plan.

Slowly the sun inclined from its zenith, climbing down through an eternity to the crest of the krantz that brooded over the town, and where, in some rocky cavern, Nkoi, The Leopard, watched and flexed his claws.

At moon-rise the ritual drums began to throb. Soon the deep bass voices of the warriors were chanting tonelessly, while the women kept time by clapping their hands. The leaping figures of dancers circled the fire that blazed in the centre of the square. Coming from his hut, Quinton glanced up and down the straight road. It was deserted. Bogembwe had chosen a good time for their tryst.

Quinton sauntered down the road and reached the Eastern outskirts of the town. He was about to retrace his steps when he heard his name called softly. Bogembwe was standing in the shadow of a tree. He whispered:

"We have two hours, perhaps three. Follow me." Without a word of explanation he started to run down a trail that twisted between the boles of great trees.

About a quarter of a mile beyond the outskirts of the village, they came to a clearing surrounded by a stockade of sharpened stakes as thick as a man's thigh and interwoven with thorn lianas.

"The man and woman are here," announced Bogembwe as they came to a stand before a narrow gate of thorn bush,

"Guards?" asked Quinton tensely.

The Chief smiled .grimly: "Who enters here needs no guard, Losako, The fence guards him against the lion and the leopard."

The stakes enclosed a circle of ground, a flat arena. A row of saplings, stripped of their lower branches, stood in the centre like slender flag poles. Two of them were bent over bow-like with their tips lashed to stakes driven into the ground. On their knees, bound to these same stakes, were the drooping figures of Raymer and his daughter. Quinton knew that when the hour of execution came, the saplings would be lashed to the hair of the victims. And when their necks were stretched taut, a fellow with a machete would take a swing at it—the spring of the sapling would finish the job.

With a cry he ran toward them, his knife flashing in his hand. While he slashed the girl's bonds, Bogembwe freed Raymer. Raymer swayed to his feet but Jean lay very still in Quinton's arms, her face white in the moonlight, her breathing scarcely audible.

"How long have they been here?" Quinton asked anxiously.

"Since an hour before noon."

"Without water?"

"Give her a little." Bogembwe thrust a skin bag into his hand.

Quinton forced a few drops between the girl's bloodless lips. She moaned but did not open her eyes, Raymer knelt beside Quinton, forcing back the girl's eyelids as he said: "She'll be out for an hour at least."

Quinton noticed that Raymer's hand shook: "You all right?" he asked.

"Never mind me, son. Just get her out. You can have anything I've got. I've been through hell, watching her suffer. These black devils—"

"There's one standing beside you, Raymer," Quinton interrupted him coldly. "We're a long way from out yet. If we do get out, you'll have him to thank for it."

Raymer got to his feet: "Chief," he began, offering his hand.

But Bogembwe stood with folded arms and his eyes flashed in the moonlight: "I do nothing for you," he said bitterly. "What I do, I do for my own people. If they killed you, soldiers would come. My people would not understand it. They would think that the soldiers had come, as you have come, to steal and spit upon the things they honor. They would throw themselves against the soldiers' guns and they would die. Your brother was a better man than you, Gold-seeker. He knew where the gold of my fathers was hidden, but he would not touch it. Nor would he betray the trust black devils had in him. He kept their secret. But you—"

"Anger is before your eyes, Bogembwe," interposed Quinton quietly. "You cannot see my friend as he is. He would have taken nothing without your consent. It was agreed between us—"

Raymer checked him with a touch on his arm: "I had that comin' to me," said he, and turned away.

"We must go," urged Bogembwe. "If the woman cannot walk, carry her." He turned and strode off toward the gate.

RAYMER and Quinton lifted the girl between them and followed in his wake. They skirted the village and came out on a trail that ran along the bank of the river. After they had gone some distance, Jean declared herself able to walk with the help of her father. Quinton moved ahead and fell into step beside Bogembwe. "What became of the other white man, Maddon?"

Bogembwe pointed to the krantz that loomed out above them: "He is Nkoi's friend. He went to the lair of The Leopard and that is where we are going, Losako, because my young men dare not follow us there."

"True," Quinton agreed. "They would catch us before sunrise. How many are up yonder?"

Bogembwe shrugged. "Who knows? As you know Nkoi dwells there with his servants. He shows himself to no man and he speaks with the mouth of his messengers. He is a shadow. The tricks of the witch doctors I understand, and I know how to deal with them. But this Nkoi, I do not understand him and I fear him, Losako. How can a man fight a shadow?"

"He is more cunning than the others, that is all, Bogembwe. He knows that the greatest fear is of the thing unseen."

"It may be so, Losako. Well, because of what I have done this night, I am a doomed man. But I am not eager to die. If we are to live, we must root out this wizard."

"True, Bogembwe!" Quinton approved with a grim smile. "We get the wizard or the wizard gets us!"

An hour later they were toiling upward among the red rocks and dwarf aloes ascending the hill by a series of terraces like a gigantic stairway. There were stretches of narrow-leafed grass and scattered patches of bush lurking among the huge sand-stone boulders. The spoor of a lioness and two cubs crossed their trail and a mountain reibok stood out in silhouette on a pedestal of eroded red rock. Vast cloud masses hovered over the crags of the Kaokovelds, the bright moon was behind them and drew an outline of dazzling light along their black edges. A flash of lightning illuminated their interior with a fitful transparency. The crash of distant thunder shook the solid hill.

Quinton and Bogembwe reached the plateau before Raymer and the girl. They stood looking about, dwarfed by the huge boulders and slabs of sand-stone which were fretted into weird shapes by wind and rain. A few hundred yards ahead of them the sheer face of a cliff loomed and seemed to present an impassable barrier.

Quinton was thinking of Maddon and his rifle. But Bogembwe troubled by less tangible fears, touched his arm and said:

"It is an evil place to come to at night."

"A man with a rifle among the rocks would be more dangerous in daylight, Bogembwe. Is there a path beyond the cliff?"

"Only the witch doctors know. Who but wizards and men doomed as we are, would come to this place?"

"A white man in search of gold, Bogembwe."

"Ah, but he is Nkoi's friend."

Quinton smiled grimly. "If Nkoi can keep his friendship when once he has seen the gold, even I will believe that Nkoi is a wizard."

Raymer's voice called to them as he came up over the rim of the escarpment. Jean clambered up beside him. White skin showed through, revealing rents in her shirt and jodhpurs and blood where the thorns had torn her flesh. She was too exhausted by the climb to talk and stretched herself out with a groan under a thorn bush.

"This is it!" said Raymer. "It's just as Joe described it."

Quinton was chewing on the biltong Bogembwe had produced from his bag and did not speak. But at length he said: "Bogembwe and I will go on. You'll have to stay here with Jean."

Raymer started to protest but Quinton cut him short: "She can't go on. Besides, your white shirts would show like a light among the rocks, and Maddon can shoot too damn straight!"

A FEW yards beyond their starting point, they left the trail and worked their way toward the face of the cliff in swift rushes from rock to rock. Quinton cursed as the moon came out from behind clouds. It was a witch's moon—a moon to make the jackals howl.

Soon the black shadow of the cliff spread over them. Bogembwe pointed silently as Quinton came to stand beside him. The face of the rock reflected the flickering light of a fire. Without exchanging a word they crouched and crawled toward it.

They had covered another twenty yards when the orange flames showed between gaps in the rocks. The outlines of two figures were seated before the fire. The skin of one showed white and Quinton recognized Maddon's burly torso. The other was a small weazened person, wearing a leopard skin, the head and claws hanging loosely from his shoulders.

"Nkoi!" breathed Bogembwe.

As they watched, another figure emerged from the mouth of the cave and crept toward them, his black skin almost invisible in the shadow of the cliff. Quinton watched his approach with a puzzled frown. Evidently the fellow was trying to pass the fire without being seen.

As the black approached the circle of fire-light, he sprang upright and made a dash for the cover of the rock. Quinton saw Maddon spring to his feet. The black was within ten yards of them when a spurt of flame flashed before Quinton's eyes. The runner coughed, turned a somersault and lay still. The jackals stopped their howling. The report of the rifle reechoed along the face of the cliff and was swallowed in the breathless silence of the night.

Maddon was advancing upon them, his rifle held at the ready, evidently coming to see the effect of his shot. The wizard, Nkoi, remained by the fire, peering out into the shadows.

A grim smile came to Quinton's face as he watched Maddon's cautious approach. Nkoi and Maddon's rifle were the things that worried him most and he saw that luck was offering him a chance to rid himself of both.

"They do not know we are here, Bogembwe," he whispered tensely. "The white man is mine; the wizard is yours!"

"Ah-h!" Bogembwe sighed and faded into the shadows.

Quinton crawled forward on his belly and crouched behind a rock a few feet from the spot where the black had fallen. The crunching of Maddon's boots on the loose gravel stopped. Quinton heard him grunt as he bent over his victim; then the crunching started again as he turned away. Quinton slid around the rock and sprang at his back.

The force of his rush knocked Maddon off his feet. He dropped his rifle as he pitched forward and uttered a hoarse croak of fear. Unable to check his momentum, Quinton tripped over the other's legs and sprawled on top of him. Maddon yelped and writhed in a frenzy of terror, evidently believing himself attacked by some beast. With a roar he struggled to his feet, lifting Quinton with him. Quinton jumped clear.

Maddon gasped in relief as he stared at Quinton. "I thought you was a leopard!"

"It might add up to the same thing, Maddon."

"You ain't got your bleedin' whip, Mister!" Maddon's teeth showed in an ugly, confident grin. His hand slid down to his holster. But he was built like an ox and as slow as one. The gun was kicked from his hand as soon as he got it clear of the leather, and Quinton had hit him twice while he mouthed an oath. Swift and sure-footed, Quinton circled the other's huge bulk, avoiding the powerful arms that clutched at him and striking hard blows whenever the other passed from shadow into moonlight. Inside of a few minutes he had the hairy, baboon face mashed into bloody pulp. But it was man versus gorilla. Maddon was still on his feet and Quinton realized with a thrill of dismay that Maddon was taking all he could give, deliberately wearing him down, waiting for a chance to close and crush him in a bear-like hug.

Suddenly Maddon sprang at him. Quinton struck desperately. He felt the other's huge hand clutch his shoulder and twisted away, leaving his coat behind him. Maddon lurched after him, the steel of a hunting knife flashed in his hand. Instinctively, Quinton drew his own knife from its sheath.

FOR A moment the two men looked at each other and the light in their eyes was as cold as the glint of moonlight on the steel in their hands. It was an instinctive pause such as comes when the warm, pulsing heart feel the approach of death.

Maddon's snarl broke the spell. He flung himself at Quinton, his knife sweeping upward in a murderous arc, aimed at his stomach. Quinton felt the blade burn his flesh as, in one swift movement, he parried the stroke with his left arm and sidestepped. He drove his knife at the other's body, but Maddon caught his wrist in his hand, twisting the knife from his grasp. In a last despairing effort Quinton crashed his free fist into Maddon's face. He felt the shock of the blow up to his shoulder and it stopped Maddon. He staggered back a pace and Quinton rushed in, striking with right and left. Suddenly Maddon doubled up, sat down and then rolled over on his stomach.

Dazed and gasping for breath, Quinton turned away, vaguely wondering what had happened to Bogembwe. As he stumbled in the direction of the fire, something whizzed past his ear. He faced about with a startled cry. He heard Maddon gasp and saw him fall back with the shaft of a spear sticking out of his chest.

Bogembwe stepped out of the shadow: "Losako," said he, with a reproachful shake of his head, "Did he knock the wits out of you? In another moment his knife would have been in your back."

"It was stupid, but thanks, Bogembwe." Quinton leaned back against a rock, breathing deeply: "What of Nkoi?" he asked.

Deep laughter mumbled up from Bogembwe's stomach: "Oh-ah, The Leopard! Come, Lasako," he said, still chuckling: "Come and look upon Nkoi!'

Quinton followed him out into the circle of fire-light. The crumpled, painted body of Nkoi lay before the fire, his hands were bound. Bogembwe ran forward and picked up the scrawny body by the neck and buttocks, showing the face to Quinton.

"Behold! The Leopard!" said he.

"Cock Biles!" Quinton stared with his mouth open. Then he asked: "Is he dead?"

"No. But I think he all but died of fright when he saw me, Losako." He shook the little cockney as a terrier shakes a rat, as he bellowed: "Ho, Wizard! Awake!"

"Blimey!" gasped Biles from between chattering teeth.

"Truly," observed Bogembwe, "Fear is an evil thing. I, Chief of the Ovambos, have feared this thing. Aie! All the Ovambos have feared him and we dared not disobey the commands his messenger gave us. Ho! What will the Elders say? What will the witch doctors say when I show them this?"

Quinton chuckled: "You are wise, Bogembwe. Show The Leopard to them just as he is and witchcraft will die in the Kaokovelds. Shame and laughter will kill it. But put him down, there may be others."

"There were others, Losako."

"Maddon done it!" whined Biles. "They was in the cave—six of 'em. Shot 'em down like dawgs, 'e did, as they tried to sneak hout. Wot did I 'ave against 'em? They was me pals. I tried to stop 'im. I takes houth on hit, guv'nor!"

Disgust twisted the corners of Quinton's mouth as he looked down on the snivelling Cockney. He was thinking of the mysterious trips Biles had made out of Dom Luis, always returning with money.

"He's been bringing the gold out in small lots for years," he said to Bogembwe. "Then for some reason he decided to bring it all out and he brought Maddon in to do what he didn't have the guts to do himself. But what happened to Nkoi? And where did he get the nerve to play the part—"

"Right, guv'nor!" Biles' voice cut in eagerly. "I knows where the gold is 'id! And if yer keeps yer mouth shut about—"

"You'll talk, Biles," said Quinton coldly. "Or I'll leave you to the Ovambos."

"No!" Biles pleaded.

"Let's have it then."

"I only did wot any bloke as 'ad the chawnce would 'ave done," Biles began. "It 'appened ten years ago. I wus workin' fer a parson at the mission 'ouse what used to be near 'ere before it was burned hout. Joe Raymer wus the parson's nyme.

"One day this 'ere Nkoi comes to us. And, one night I 'ears Nkoi talkin' to the parson. Tellin' 'im abowt Lotumbe's gold, 'e were. The parson 'e don't want hit! Hit belongs to the Hovambos, 'e says.

"Well, I sees me chawnce. I makes a pal orf Nkoi. I shows 'im 'ow to do a few tricks with the chem'cals in the dispens'ry. So 'e offers to tayke me hup the mountain. But that ain't sayfe, an' I don't like hit. Then I 'its upon the hidea orf dressin' meself hup like 'im."

"What happened to Nkoi?"

"When we was comin' hup 'ere one night, 'e fell down an' broke 'is bleedin' neck, that's wot!"

"I see," commented Quinton dryly.

"No yer don't! 'E wus 'elpin' me get the gold hout right under the ruddy wizards' noses. D'yer think I wanted ter risk me 'ead doing' orf hit alone?"

"And what about Maddon?"

"I got 'im to get rid 'o Raymer, the bloke I saw at Ike's Playce."

"So you set the Ovambos onto us," Quinton finished.

"No!" squealed Biles. "Hit wus Maddon. Hit wus 'is hidea, so 'elp me!"

Bogembwe and Quinton both faced about quickly as the crunch of a boot sounded on the gravel. Raymer's white shirt showed in the darkness. He had Maddon's rifle in his hand. The girl came into sight a few paces behind him.

"Ha!" said Bogembwe. "Here is another with a nose for gold!"

Raymer smiled and handed the rifle to Quinton as he said: "Heard a shot and came over. Been listenin' for the last five minutes."

Quinton waited until the girl came up to them, then stooped and took a burning brand from the fire. "We'll take a look inside the cave."

"Up, Wizard!" Bogembwe heaved Biles to his feet. "Show us the way."

They followed Biles and Bogembwe, each with a burning brand in his hand. Quinton saw the dead forms of two of the witch doctors who had fallen to Maddon's rifle and steered the girl past them. The stench of tom-cats stung his nostrils as they filed into the damp blackness of the cave. Quinton thought of lions and moved up abreast of Bogembwe.

The flickering light of the torches revealed soot-blackened walls. There were patches of color which, on closer inspection, proved to be crude drawings of animal life, the work of ancient cave-dwellers.

" 'Ere hit is!" Biles' voice brought them to a stop. He pointed down to a number of hide bags stacked against the rock wall.

As they gathered around the hoard, Quinton slashed one of the bags with his knife. Gold poured out of the slit, Kruger sovereigns, Portuguese milreis and among them a few rhombic stones that burned with an inward fire.

Quinton gave Raymer a quizzical look: "Well, this is the end of the trail, Mr. Raymer. I waive my share and my wages."

"White man," Bogembwe's deep voice addressed Raymer: "If you had not come, I would have lost it all. Also, because of your coming, my people will be free from the evil of witchcraft. Take what you can carry, white man. I give it to you."

"Well," said Raymer, "I sure came a long way to get it and I don't figure to go back empty-handed. Maybe we can talk business, Chief. Our friend, Losako, told me that you wanted to do some irrigatin'. You'll need a dam and a reservoir. Well, that's my job. I'll stay and build it."

Quinton was examining a golden sovereign with an absent smile. It reminded him of Jean's hair and he was thinking that it would take Raymer a long time to build a dam—long enough for the witchery of African moonlight to work its magic during the nights that would follow, when he would walk with her down the forest trails and across the sweet-smelling veldt. He looked up at the girl. Her lips parted and she smiled. Somehow he knew that she had been thinking of the same thing.