Slayer by Stealth

Chapter One
THE CLOCK IN the town of Laurenco Marques was just striking midnight at the moment Dan Turcan stepped from the gloom of the arches flanking the Avenida Aquila and hurried toward the plaza. He gained the shadow of the palmetto trees, then came to an abrupt halt, looking keenly about him. Someone had been shadowing him up from the wharf but there was no sign of him now. Reassured, he made his way more leisurely toward the Governor's residence through the Vasco da Gama gardens.

The familiar odors of the jungle—the pleasant ones, were all around him. The heavy sweetness of orchids; of the dusty hibiscus and the sharper fragrance of the red clover blossom. Below the town, with its flat-roofed, white and pink-washed houses, the waters of the bay shone like dull gold under the rusting muzzles of the old fort's cannon—guns that once had bloomed Portugal's maritime supremacy in the ears of the world and the claim to the riches of the fever-sodden hinterland beyond the town.

But times had changed. Portuguese authority was weak even on the coast. Cetshwayo's impis were flashing along the borders. White renegades and black upstarts clutched at rich territories laid waste by massacre. In the chancellories of Europe calculating eyes studied the map of Africa, and in Africa, men slept with a hand on their rifles. Da Cunha, governor of Mozambique, watched uneasily the rapid growth of colonies and republics on his long, vague frontier.

It was like Da Cunha, Turcan thought, to call him to a secret conference at midnight. Everything he did, he did secretly. It was not that he was unscrupulous, he had an hidalgo's pride in blood and honor. It was just consciousness of his country's weakness that made him prefer intrigue where an overt move would provoke a powerful rival. Nor was he entirely wrong in this case, Turcan conceded. If there was a treaty to be signed with a powerful chief, Turcan, the supposedly disinterested American, the poor white hunter, could act for his adopted country without causing so much as the lifting of a political eyebrow. Yes, da Cunha had his points, and that he paid well was not the least of them in Turcan's opinion.

But it wasn't money that had brought him to Laurenco in answer to da Cunha's summons after two years of exile. He wanted to see Ines da Cunha again before she married the noble de Cabral. It would be opening an old wound. He should have ignored the summons, stayed away. But he was a sucker for punishment and—

Turcan lifted his head, a faint metallic sound, dissonant amid the pulsing rhythm of insect throats had reached his ears. He walked on for a few strides, then faced about quickly.

The leaves of an ilex bush bordering on the path rustled and quivered. No white man could have gone to cover so swiftly and silently unless, like Turcan, he had spent half his life in the jungle. The shadows were an invisible cloak for a black skin. Turcan was unarmed but he advanced on the bush, knowing that it was safer to force the black to attack or run.

Moonlight flashed on steel as he neared the bush. Turcan dived at a pair of black, muscular legs and brought his assailant crashing down on the stone path where he lay with the breath knocked out of him.

Turcan got to his feet, picking up his broad-brimmed hat and a short, stabbing assegai that had been aimed at his throat. He recognized Makua's workmanship and looked down on the warrior, his mind probing for a motive for the attack.

His steamer had anchored in the Bay at noon but da Cunha had asked for secrecy and he had remained aboard until a little before midnight. Only someone close to da Cunha could have known of his arrival.

The Makua warrior was getting to his feet. Muscles rippled under his oiled skin and the moonlight glinted on his metal head ring and bangles. Turcan's face was in the shadow of his hat.

"Are you ready to die, O Slayer by stealth?" he asked in the Makua tongue.

The warrior faced him without flinching: "I have no weapon. Otherwise you would die, White man," he boasted,

Turcan snapped the shaft of the assegai across his knee and flung the pieces from him: "What now, warrior?" he challenged.

THE MAKUA sprang at him. Turcan met his rush with his shoulder. His arms twined around the other's waist like flexible bands of steel. The Makua gasped and clawed at Turcan's face as he felt his ribs bend. In the next moment he was lifted and thrown into a flower bed.

He got to his feet slowly and stood with folded arms. Turcan had lost his hat in the brief encounter and the warrior's impassive gaze dwelt on his blond curls.

"It is enough! I know you now, lord," said he.

Turcan's eyes searched the other's face: "So! You did not know me but yet you stalked me as the hunter stalks his quarry. How is that, liar?"

"It is true, lord. Your back was shown to me and I followed as I was told to do. But perchance I would not have done so if I had known that it was you, whose deeds are praised throughout the jungle."

"Who thirsts for my blood?" demanded Turcan.

"His name may not be spoken, lord." And Turcan knew that neither threat nor torture would drag it from the grim-faced warrior.

"This you may answer with honor, warrior," said he. "Is his skin white or black?"

The Makua's teeth showed in a grin: "He is neither white nor black and do not try to smell him out, lord. For if your paths should cross, you would surely die!"

A half-caste? Turcan knew that he had dangerous enemies among the few who knew or guessed that he was da Cunha's agent, but none he could think of that would answer the Makua's enigma. And the warrior's set features told him that further questioning would be met with stubborn silence.

"Return to your master," said he. "Say to him that I pluck out evil at the roots. I will smell him out! I punish the master not the slave. Go, and be witness to my words."

At the Residencia Turcan was conducted down a long hall to da Cunha's study. The bare, flat feet of his white-coated Swahili guide padded over the polished floor of yellow wood. Turcan's footsteps echoed hollowly behind him. He heard voices as the house-boy opened a door to announce him.

Two men rose as he entered. Da Cunha was adjusting his blue tunic which was liberally laced with gold. It fitted his plump figure tightly and his fingers fumbled with the buttons. The other man was as tall as Turcan and dressed in immaculate white. His black hair curled crisply; his lower lip showed full and red above his pointed beard. It was a handsome face but for the eyes which, though large and widely spaced, had a cold, tawny glint in them, an aloofness that robbed the regular features of their charm.

Da Cunha came from behind his desk and extended his hand to Turcan with an affable smile: "Senhor," said he, "I feared that you would not come. When I sent you away, you were angry and your anger is a thing to remember. Perhaps you see now that it was for your own good as well as that of my niece, Senhorita da Cunha."

"Some things are seen better at a distance, Excellency."

"I agree, if you include my niece among those things."

Turcan's eyes flashed: "Excellency, I say again that I made no advances towards your niece."

Da Cunha waved his hand: "No, no! We will not start again!" He settled himself behind his desk. "You know the Senhor de Costa Cabral," he went on. "And since this is as much his business as mine, he will remain with us."

As Turcan's gaze came to rest on de Cabral, there was a noticeable stiffening in the poise of both men.

Lopes Bermudo de Costa Cabral was gall and wormwood for Turcan. It was not wholly because de Cabral was to marry Ines da Cunha. De Cabral lived by the prazzo system—a system by which the districts or prazzos were auctioned off to the highest bidder, the right to levy taxes going with them. De Cabral had an Oriental conception of "squeeze" and he sucked money from his prazzos as a leech sucks blood. Turcan hated the vicious system the other stood for, and he wore his colors on his sleeve.

"I regret it, Excellency," said he. "But I'll have no part of anything de Cabral's mixed up in."

De Cabral's eyes burned, but his lips smiled: "Your Excellency would do well to acquaint Senhor Turcan with the nature of our mission." His white teeth showed in an insinuating smile, as he turned to Turcan: "You forget, senhor, that we have one thing in common."

Da Cunha looked from one to the other: "So?" said he. "Very well, I shall be brief. Senhor Turcan, my niece has been abducted; she has vanished like—like a puff of smoke. The holy Saints know how and where!"

INES DA CUNHA—Turcan's cheeks burned as the significance of de Cabral's words rubbed salt into his still raw memory of the girl. As he saw her now she was a coquette with seductive lines and dazzling eyes. She had accompanied her uncle on safaris that Turcan had organized and led. No man with red blood in his veins could share the easy companionship of the camp with her and come out unscathed. Turcan had not. But the bluest blood of Portugal flowed in her veins and he had kept his feelings to himself, or fancied he had, nursing his pride in silence.

Feeling the mockery in de Cabral's eyes, he stifled the exclamation that had come to his lips. When he spoke it was with studied calm: "My condolences, Excellency. When did it happen?"

Da Cunha wiped sweat from his bald head: "The devil, you take it coolly! Two months ago, Senhor!"

"Two months!" Turcan was incredulous.

"Yes, senhor. I have sent troops to search. What good is a regiment—an army in this stinking wilderness? Moreover, I have had to recall my soldiers—the moment of troops is apt to be misunderstood in these times. Senhor de Cabral has just returned from a long unsuccessful search. I am at my wits' end. You know the country and the tribes as few men do, I ask you to serve me again, Senhor. Do you accept?"

"Of course, Excellency. But let us start at the beginning."

"Good! My niece vanished on the eve of her nuptials. She was to have married de Cabral on the following day and—"

"One moment, Excellency," Turcan interposed with a gleam in his eye. De Cabral was da Cunha's choice, not the girl's. She was high-spirited and if she had made up her mind to defy her uncle—"What makes you sure that the Senhorita was abducted, Excellency?"

"The devil! What else?" Da Cunha spread his hands.

Turcan smiled: "Is it not conceivable that a woman as used to the jungle as the Senhorita is might prefer its dangers to marriage with de Cabral?"

"Holy Mother—!" De Cabral's anger choked him as he sprang to his feet. Turcan was up in the same instant.

But da Cunha brought his fist down on his desk with a crash.

"Senhors, you forget my presence!" Then, as the two young men returned to their seats and sat glaring at each other, he went on: "Senhor Turcan, you will guard your tongue because de Cabral has my commission in his pocket. He will accompany you on this safari."

"The devil you say" Turcan gasped.

"The devil does not say it, senhor! I, Dom Pedro da Cunha, Governor of Mozambique, say it! I am not concerned with your rivalry. If you are true gentlemen you will set it aside until my niece is found." He rose, adjusting his tight tunic with a decisive jerk.

"Now, Senhors, I shall leave you to discuss your plans and, by the Holy Saints, if I hear any more of your quarreling I'll clap you both in irons!"

After Da Cunha had left them there was a long silence. Turcan was the first to speak.

"I ran into a little trouble in the gardens on my way here" said he. "A Makua with a sticker. Was he a pal of yours?"

"A pal of mine! A Makua? What the devil—" De Cabral's surprise was genuine.

"Never mind," said Turcan. He considered the other with a puzzled expression in his eyes.

"You know that I hate your guts, but you want to go on safari with me where you'll have to sweat, eat and sleep with me. Why?"

De Cabral brought the tips of his white fingers together and eyed Turcan solemnly. Said he: "When I learned that his Excellency had sent for you, it occurred to me that women are emotional creatures, apt to be swept off their feet by the enthusiasm of the moment—by such a sentiment as gratitude, for instance. And that this was as true of Senhorita da Cunha as it was of the others. Do you agree, senhor?"

"Your experience makes me the pupil. Go on."

"Well, I think you are a very competent fellow. If Ines da Cunha is alive, you will find her. And now, I ask you frankly, is that fair competition, senhor?"

Turcan laughed: "I see what you're driving at. You think I'll find the girl and, out of gratitude, she'll throw herself in my arms. Not Ines da Cunha!"

"Nevertheless, I do not feel that I can take the risk. Now I propose that we make a truce until the Senhorita is found. After that, may the better man win! You Americans boast of your sportsmanship. Is mine not a sporting proposition, senhor?"

"It sounds like one, de Cabral." Turcan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The way the old man has things fixed, we haven't much choice. Well, if you're still of the same mind tomorrow, all right. We'll go up river as far as the Carmelite mission at Umzinto. We'll organize the safari there, if necessary."

"If necessary?" De Cabral's eyebrows arched.

Turcan grinned. "I still think the Senhorita ran out on you, de Cabral. If she did, my guess is that she'd go to Umzinto and ask for the protection of the good friars until the old man cooled off. If it wasn't for vanity, you might have thought of that."

De Cabral's tawny eyes glowed; the knuckles of his clenched hands showed white.

"Your tongue has a sting in it, Turcan. When our truce is over, it will be a pleasure to extract it."

"Whenever you feel disposed to try, senhor," said Turcan.

Chapter Two
FIFTY MILES above Laurenco Marques the course of the Komati was blocked by an incomprehensible accumulation of black boulders like the moraine of a glacier. Turcan paid off his Swahili boatmen after unloading their kit on the left bank.

The mission, a station of Carmelite Friars, lay a dozen miles upstream beside a deep pool shaded by monstrous, spreading, cotton-silk trees. There were traces of a trail following the river's bank up to the mission, but the good Friars had waged a losing battle against the prolific jungle growth and native indolence. Turcan and de Cabral were forced to hack their way slowly forward.

Toward evening they came out into a clearing. Columns of smoke curled skyward above the cotton trees. Turcan, walking at some distance ahead of de Cabral, was the first to catch sight of it. He stopped in his tracks looking at the smoke for a moment; then he unslung his rifle; the bolt rattled ominously as he slipped a cartridge into its breach.

De Cabral came to him and touched his arm. "What is it, senhor? The smoke?"

Turcan's eyes were sweeping the clearing: "That and the damned quiet," he replied. "It's about sunset. Shouldn't the mission bells be ringing for vespers, de Cabral?"

"The devil—that is true!" De Cabral looked up at the smoke with his mouth open. "What does it mean?"

"It could mean that the impi has passed this way," Turcan answered. "Ammunition handy, de Cabral?" he asked with a look at the other's face. "There might be a few of 'em still skulking around."

De Cabral loosened his colt in its holster and unslung his rifle: "Ready, senhor," said he, and led the way toward the hill under which the mission stood.

The silence of death was upon Umzinto, the Kraal of Achievement; so-called by the Makua because of the sweat and blood it had cost them to erect its stone walls—stone imported from a sanctuary in Portugal and carried block by block through the jungle. Fire had destroyed the roof of the main building. Its walls were a blackened ruin. The huts that had formed a square facing onto the pool, where the lily and feathery papyrus had grown, were ashes. The giant trunks of the cotton trees were still smouldering. The stench of decay was in the fitful, shifting wind. Vultures rose in flight as the two white men approached and perched like medieval gargoyles in the bare, charred branches of the trees. The hyena and jackal fled to cover.

The two white men surveyed the desolation, their eyes cold, their lips bloodless.

De Cabral was the first to speak: "Mother of—!" he swore. "Could she be among that carrion?"

Turcan winced. For him a man was a man, alive or dead; black or white. It flashed through his mind that Ines de Cunha would not be carrion—no, the fact that Lopes le Costa Cabral loved her, made her more than mortal flesh. His eyes flashed with anger, then a vision of Ines da Cunha as he had last seen her, smiling, vividly alive, rose before his eyes. His throat tightened and he swallowed hard.

"We'll make a search," said he.

The two separated, de Cabral moving off toward the rear of the ruined main building; Turcan toward the front, picking his way slowly along the path to the pool. As he went, his eyes explored the debris. He saw no discarded weapons. The people of the mission had little warning. The dead lay close to where the doors of their huts had been, as if struck down as they rushed out at the first alarm. He paused, looking down upon the body of a dead Makua, apparently the only loss suffered by the raiding impi. The warrior had died of strangulation; strong hands had throttled the life out of him. Turcan thought of Father Furtado, the powerful chaplain of the station. His eyes scanned the ground.

A TRAIL like that made by a body dragged over the ground, led them toward the pool. A white-robed figure lay face down among the reeds at the margin of the pond, its lower half submerged in the water. Turcan dropped on his knees beside the body. Blood had soaked through the white habit. It was still wet. Gently Turcan turned the body over. As he did so, the monk groaned. In the mud-caked features Turcan recognized Father Furtado. The monk's eyes opened and fixed on Turcan's face in a glassy stare.

"It is I, Turcan, Father." He pillowed the dying man's head on his knee.

A wan smile came to the monk's cracked lips; his big hand closed on Turcan's. He breathed deeply, marshalling his remaining strength. His lips moved. Turcan bent his head to catch the words: "They came and were gone like a tempest, my son. Killing—killing—"

"There is one yonder who will slay no more, Father," said Turcan.

The monk shut his eyes. "God forgive me! But when I saw him lay hands on her—"

He coughed hollowly.

"The Senorita da Cunha?" prompted Turcan.

The monk nodded. "She came for protection from an unholy marriage. She feared—"

"She is not dead, Father?" Turcan was urgent. He knew the monk was near his end.

"They carried her off—many of the able-bodied men and women—into bondage. The half-caste Bosigo's impi from the prazzo Angoche—"

The grip on Turcan's hand tightened. Bloodless lips moved in silent prayer. Turcan stayed till the life left the monk's great body in a gasping sigh.

When Turcan got to his feet he saw de Cabral making his way toward him. He went to meet the other with cold eyes and tight lips.

"Did you discover anything?" de Cabral asked.

"I did," said Turcan with his eyes fixed on the other's face. "I learned that the impi was spewed out of Angoche, one of your prazzos, de Cabral."

The Portuguese leaned his weight on his rifle, studying Turcan's face: "So!" he said at length. "I gather that you hold me responsible for it."

"Impis were raiding before your time and mine, de Cabral. But if I was the law, I'd hang you for it, nevertheless. If you'd left them enough to live on, they might not have gone berserk."

De Cabral smiled coldly. "Let us leave it at that, senhor. What of the senhorita de Cunha?"

"The good father said she was taken by the impi along with the able-bodied men and women."

"Then we follow the impi," said de Cabral.

Turcan smiled: "No amount of money would persuade the tribesmen hereabouts to follow it. Besides, have you thought what they would do to the tax collector of Angoche if they got their hands on him?"

De Cabral laughed: "Are you trying to frighten me, Turcan? Appearances have misled you. I can't be got rid of so easily. I have his Excellency's commission to act for him. We will send the first nigger we come across back to Laurenco Marques with news of the raid. To do otherwise would be to lose precious time. If we can't get porters, we follow the impi alone."

Turcan smiled inwardly. He wondered how long the Portuguese dandy would stand up to the fast gruelling trek that was ahead of them. Yet he recognized de Cabral's logic; moreover he saw that he needed de Cabral since the raid had cut him off from the supplies he had hoped to obtain at Umzinto. He was another rifle; another back to carry a load, at least for a time. De Cabral had shown no weakness so far. He—Turcan glanced at his companion sharply. De Cabral's eyes were intent on his face and he felt uncomfortable, as if his thoughts had been read.

"All right," said he and, turning on his heel, led the way back up the hill.

They made camp in a glade on the other side of the kopj. As darkness came the vultures, hyenas—the whole scavenger pack of the jungle fought over their obscene feast. Over the red embers of their fire Turcan talked, more to shut his ears to the bedlam on the other side of the hill, than for the want of companionship.

"As I told you," he was saying, "I was attacked by a Makua at Laurenco. He said he was hired by a man whose skin was neither black nor white. Now Father Furtado spoke of a half-caste called Bosigo—""

"Holy Saints!" De Cabral slapped his thigh. "A half-caste—Bosigo!"

Turcan's eyes narrowed: "D'you happen to know the man, senhor?"

De Cabral looked surprised. "No," he shrugged. "But I see a connection between your attacker and Bosigo. But go on, senhor. What other conclusion have you drawn? For instance, where is the impi heading?"

Turcan's lips twitched. De Cabral would have to do better than that if he wanted him to believe that he had never heard of Bosigo before.

"My guess is that the impi will trek north and West. Bosigo is doing a little slaving on his way. He'll raid more kraals. That will make his spoor easy to follow and it will delay him. We may catch up with him within three or four days. After that—well, we'll cross the bridge when we come to it."

"Hm-m," de Cabral mused. "I am inclined to agree, but for one thing. What would rouse the Government more than this attack upon Umzinto. It is a small station. He could not have hoped for many captives. It makes him a fool, senhor."

Turcan shook his head. "Not if he knew Ines da Cunha was there. His Excellency was ready to negotiate before he knew his enemy. Ines da Cunha is his safe conduct to wherever he's going. She's as good as a grant to settle wherever he pleases in Mozambique."

De Cabral was gazing into the fire, a frown between his eyes: "Yes," he said slowly. "It does fit together. He sent one of his Makuas to attack you because he knew your reputation and was afraid." He spread his hands. "But how could he know of your coming?"

Turcan shrugged. "A house-boy at the Residency maybe. They get to know more than most Whites suspect."

De Cabral's smile was sardonic. "It is gratifying to know that you do not lay the fault at my feet, senhor."

"I'm giving you doubtful benefit," Turcan retorted. "If you'd known Ines da Cunha was here you'd have dragged her back to the altar with or without her consent."

De Cabral laughed softly. "By the Saints, you are right! That I would have done. And that I intend to do, senhor Turcan."

"Not if she doesn't want you!" said Turcan.

De Cabral unrolled his blankets and yawned: "That," said he. "Is another bridge that we will cross when we come to it."

THEY MADE an early start on the following day. Turcan planned to follow the Impambanyoni. The stream joined with the Komati several miles below Komati Poort, a narrow pass through the mountains into the Transvaal. Above the fly and swamp country native kraals were more numerous. And since the population was correspondingly denser, it was the logical route for Bosigo and his slave column to follow. Moreover, in the Transvaal there was a ready market for slaves or apprentices, as the Boers called them.

They passed through the ruins of Umzinto. The vultures were still fighting over the bodies of the slain. De Cabral was in the lead. Turcan saw him stop suddenly. De Cabral's colt flashed from its holster. As Turcan ran up to him he fired twice.

"Ugly—!" said he. He gave Turcan a queer smile. "That makes two less of them," senhor," he added and walked on.

Turcan looked toward the spot from which the birds had risen in flight, measuring the distance with his eye. It was all of twenty paces. Curious, he walked over to the spot and looked down on two headless vultures. There was a grim smile on his lips when he turned to follow de Cabral. The Portuguese talked and dressed like a dandy, but there was nothing effeminate in the way he handled his weapons. Nor did he, Turcan felt sure, do anything without some dark purpose behind it. His demonstration of marksmanship was more than mere braggadocio; it was a covert warning—his way of saying that two were going into the jungle, but only one was going to come out.

The first village they came to—a small one—was deserted. Its inhabitants had obviously fled into the bush. For Turcan it meant that they were on the right track. Evidently the villagers had been warned of Bosigo's approach and had scattered. The two white men searched the half dozen huts for food. Turcan was careful to leave payment in coin for what was taken on the hearth of the head man's hut. Then they began their march again, following a westerly bend of the river.

A dense cloud of smoke shot through with flames rolling up out of the forest, warned them that they were close upon the heels of the impi. It was the third day of the trek and they had climbed to an eminence commanding a view of the valley of the Impambanyoni, where it made a sweeping bend southward. They looked down upon the roof of the jungle sloping away to the East like a patchwork carpet. The burning kraal lay on the near side of the bend, about five miles distant. For a moment the two men watched the smoke in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. De Cabral broke the silence: "Soon we must cross the bridge you spoke of, Senhor," said he.

Turcan nodded assent: "It looks like a fair-sized kraal. They could muster three or four hundred warriors. That means Bosigo's in strength."

"True, or he would not have attacked," de Cabral agreed. "And now we approach the end of our trek; I wonder what two men can do against an impi!"

Turcan smiled. "It's too late to think of that," said he. "We won't do anything the impi knows about, that's sure."

De Cabral looked at him curiously. "You have a plan, senhor?"

Turcan shook his head. "We'll go down to the kraal. If there's anyone alive we may learn something."

Chapter Three
THE VILLAGE had been a strong one. It had occupied both banks of the river. Fire had destroyed the half on the Northern bank of the river. The other half still stood on the opposite bank upon a huge, fiat outcrop of rock. The river, bursting full-born from its womb in the Longwe Mountains, swept around it and leaped over the red rock in a crystal stream; the boulders that barred its impetuous dash to the sea, had been fretted into weird shapes and formed a natural ford of stepping stones.

A six-foot stockade of thorn bush woven between pointed stakes had encircled the village with the river flowing between. The fire had burned down to the edge of the water and had leaped across, but only that part near the banks had been destroyed. In places it looked as if it had been hacked down to prevent the spread of flames. Most of the huts were still intact.

Everywhere on the one side of the stream, was the debris of battle; a warrior's plume trampled in the dust; painted shields and assegais lay where they had fallen from the stricken warriors' hands. But there was not a body to be seen. This puzzled Turcan until his eye was caught by a white ostrich plume bobbing among the rocks in the river. A closer look showed the body of a Makua warrior wedged between the rocks. The story was not hard to read. Bosigo had stormed the North side of the village. The villagers had retreated to the South Side. Bosigo had attempted to pursue them but had met with a decisive check at the river. Bosigo would not have stopped to fling the bodies into the river; the villagers had done that for the same reason that they had stamped out the fire. They meant to return. They were still a tribe—a fighting unit.

As if to confirm his deductions, a tom-tom throbbed suddenly. Turcan listened, striving to localize the sound. He placed it about two miles upstream on the South bank. He turned to de Cabral.

"These fellows have given Bosigo a bad mauling and they're not through with him yet. Maybe we've found the bridge we're looking for."

De Cabral's eyebrows arched: "Is reading the drums one of your accomplishments, senhor?"

Turcan ignored his sarcasm: "Bosigo is still on this side of the river; the villagers are on the other. I'm going to cross over and see what they're up to."

They crossed the river, jumping from stone to stone. A shaded path led along the bank between gigantic cotton woods and fragrant bedamier trees with mango-like flowers. There was a wild beauty about the place. Turcan had visited the kraal once before, years ago. As they pushed their way forward, he strove to recall its name. It did not occur to him until they came to a streamlet that fed a deep pool of clear water. The water-lily and lotus floated upon its surface and around its margin; among the reeds huge balls of amber and orange-colored blossoms scented the air. Then Turcan remembered Amanzimtoti, the Place of Sweet Waters.

A little way beyond the pool the beat of tom-toms burst upon them and presently the wild refrain of a war chant. Night had come swiftly. Through the thinning trees they saw flashes of fire-light and black, leaping figures. There was raw, naked beauty in the scene; a joyous play of muscles; a frenzy of savage exaltation. The two white men watched the dancers from behind a clump of bush; then Turcan led the way into the clearing.

No one noticed their approach until they came within the circle of fire-light. A woman pointed and screamed. Silence followed. The circle of dancers opened before them. On the far side of the ring a tall figure rose from among a group of white-plumed Indunas. He came toward them with lithe, swinging stride; his white plumes tossing and the tails of his leopard skin whipping about his muscular legs. He was young, in the first years of his manhood. He stood before the two white men, eyeing each of them closely. His gaze came to rest on Turcan. He raised his assegai: "I know you," said he.

TURCAN studied the young chief's face, weaving the threads of memory: "I know you, chief," said he at last. "But when I knew you before your father wore the leopard-skin and the weapons you carried were toys."

"It is so, lord." His eyes flashed proudly. "But now I wear his kroos. I hold his weapons. It was not child's play at the river yesterday."

"My eyes saw that, Umbesi."

Umbesi's teeth showed in a wide grin: "Oh, you have not forgotten us, lord," said he.

"Are true men as the red berries on the vine, that they should be forgotten, chief?"

Umbesi's grin broadened: "It is true that they are not," said he.

"You did men's work at the ford, Umbesi."

The youngster needed no more prompting. He struck a savage blow at an imaginary foe: "Many died at the river," he boasted. "We drove them back like cattle. They did not know us!" His voice rose. "They did not know that we, the Zamaro, are the spawn of Chaka, the Elephant, the—"

Spears flashed in the moonlight. Young warriors pressed about their chief; their applause, a long-drawn "Aie-e-e" drowned his voice.

Umbesi swaggered: "We drove them back," he shouted. "They are hyenas! They skulk in the bush across the river—"

"And what does Umbesi do?" Turcan stemmed the torrent.

"He follows the hyena to see that he does not cross to his side of the river, lord."

Turcan's smile was disparaging: "Is that enough, O spawn of Chaka?"

Umbesi scowled. He looked crest-fallen: "What more could be done?"

Turcan moved close to him so that no other ears might catch his words. Said he softly: "I, too, am at war with Bosigo. He has slain Government people. Show me his camp and I will show you how to put your name in every man's mouth."

Umbesi blinked at him owlishly. He bellowed a command. The tom-toms began their rhythmic beating; Dust rose beneath stamping feet.

De Cabral caught Turcan's sleeve as he turned to follow Umbesi: "What is all this palaver?" he wanted to know. "Nigger gibberish has no meaning for me." He made it sound as if understanding was degrading.

Turcan shook his arm free: "Go find a place to sleep," said he. "You'll know soon enough."

Umbesi led Turcan to the bank of the river. At a point several hundred yards upstream he pointed across the swift water. No more than a hundred yards separated them from Bosigo's outposts. The light of watch fires flickered among the trees, but it was a mile downstream that Turcan found what he was looking for—the slave train and the cattle. Evidently they were camped deeper in the jungle at some distance from the river's bank. No fires were visible.

Above the lowing of the cattle he heard snatches of a song sung in chorus—a plaintive air in which he thought he recognized the twenty-third Psalm. The singers would be the natives captured at Umzinto. Was Ines da Cunha among them? Or a mile upstream with the impi? Perhaps no more than a few hundred yards separated him from the girl who, during the long trek through the jungle, had come to sweeten the day-dreams from which he had sought to banish her.

Turcan's eyes swept over the swift river. He thought of swimming it to reconnoitre the camp. But he could think of no disguise that could make an African out of a white man. Discovery would be certain. After a while he beckoned Umbesi to him. As the young chief squatted beside him he said: "There are many cattle yonder, Umbesi. It is a pity that they should fill the bellies of Bosigo's warriors. He will grow strong on the meat."

Umbesi grunted: "Some of our cattle are among the herd, lord."

"If I were with Bosigo yonder," Turcan continued, "And you were with the cattle, Umbesi, could I see you?"

Umbesi laughed: "No, lord, a man could not see so far through the trees."

"True, Umbesi. And it is also true that if twenty warriors swam the river they could drive the cattle back to the ford and Bosigo would not see it."

The young chief sprang to his feet: "We would be swift and silent. He could not hear us!"

Turcan smiled: "We will make sure that he does not. You will gather your people. An induna will lead them upstream. Bosigo will see them. He will follow them to learn the meaning of it. He will send a runner back to the herdsmen to tell them to break camp and follow him. But we will be between Bosigo and the herd. We will catch the runner. The herdsmen will not know that Bosigo is marching, and when the gap between them and Bosigo is wide, we will strike. Is it good, Umbesi?"

"Oh, it is good—good!" Umbesi stamped the ground in his excitement. "The indunas will not whisper among themselves; saying that I am too young for the leopard-skin."

Turcan patted his shoulder: "Go, show them your wisdom!" he urged. "And when the council is over, come to me."

"I go, lord."

Turcan made his way back to the clearing. He found de Cabral snoring beside one of the fires, in spite of the uproar swirling about him. He shook the Portuguese awake.

De Cabral listened, bleary-eyed, while Turcan outlined the plan of attack. When Turcan had finished he sat scowling into the fire, evidently turning the plan over in his mind. Turcan was not surprised when he said: "I do not approve of your plan, senhor."

"Show me a better," challenged Turcan.

De Cabral stroked his beard: "How far are we from Ressano Gareia, senhor?"

"Thirty or forty miles, south-east."

De Cabral nodded: "So I thought. I have his Excellency's commission. We will use it. You will go to Gareia and return with soldiers."

Turcan's eyes widened. "I'm damned if that doesn't sound like an order," said he.

"It is precisely that, senhor."

TURCAN threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, the devil, you say! Look, de Cabral. Ines da Cunha wouldn't live five minutes after Bosigo saw the first soldier. She's his safe conduct; his protection against the very thing you suggest. I thought you understood that."

De Cabral squinted at him. "That is your theory. But you speak of theory as if it were fact, you are so damned cock-sure! Perhaps your enthusiasm for the heroic role you have cast for yourself blinds you to who is in authority here."

Turcan's smile was provocative: "I hadn't thought of that," said he. "But now I wonder if it's your idea to send me to Gareia and act out the part yourself."

De Cabral got to his feet with an oath. He tapped his breast pocket: "Must I remind you of his Excellency's commission?"

"Both you and his Excellency can go plumb to hell! I'm crossing the river before morning."

De Cabral's eyes narrowed. His colt flashed from its holster: "No, Senhor." The softness of his voice heightened the menace in it. "You have been insubordinate! You have outlived your usefulness!"

He broke off with a start. Umbesi returning from the council, had crept up behind him. The broad blade of his assegai pricked de Cabral's spine.

"What is your will, lord?" he asked over de Cabral's shoulder.

"Drop your gun, de Cabral," said Turcan.

De Cabral's eyes blazed. He bit his lips until the blood came. Umbesi's blade bored into his flesh. The gun dropped from his hand. Turcan kicked it from him. He smiled but his grey eyes were cold.

"Now, Senhor," said he, "You were saying?"

De Cabral folded his arms. "No," said he. "Men of my blood do not settle their differences by beating each other with their fists. We prefer cold steel."

"There's a good deal of that around," observed Turcan, and smiled as he saw the other's color change. "But I've no desire to kill you. I would rather have had you come with me tonight; but now, you'll understand, I couldn't risk showing you my back. You'll leave your weapons here and stay on this side of the river, under guard. If things go wrong, I'll answer for it."

De Cabral's face twisted into a grimace of hate: "My time will come, Turcan. Holy Saints! I swear I—" He choked with impotent rage as Umbesi's spear urged him away.

By midnight Umbesi's people were winding out along the river's bank. Turcan had asked for noise and Umbesi had taken him literally. The line of march was a tumult. Tom-toms throbbed; the voices of women and children shrilled above the bass of the warriors' chant and, as distance stretched the disorderly mass, the wild song lost its rhythm and broke up into toneless uproar.

Chapter Four
HALF A mile upstream Turcan, Umbesi and twenty young Zamaros halted at a bend in the river where the current was not so swift. As the uproar of the marchers faded, Turcan led his little band down to the river. One warrior was posted as a guard. Turcan left his rifle and ammunition in his care; then he stripped and waded out into the cold stream. Umbesi and his warriors followed him, one by one.

Swimming on his back, with his clothes and a colt held over his head, made the going hard for Turcan. The current bore him downstream, and he gained the opposite bank far below his starting point. A halo of mist ringed a pale disc of a moon. Turcan shivered as he dressed. A damp fog was settling over the river; he could see only a few feet along the bank. The hoot of an owl told him that Umbesi had landed above him. He picked his way forward in the direction of the sound. Warriors appeared out of the surrounding gloom. Soon all were gathered about their chief and Turcan.

As had been arranged Umbesi and three warriors went upstream to intercept Bosigo's runner. The remainder grouped themselves about Turcan, shivering in the chill night air. He directed them to start a fire in a hollow in the river's bank. He knew their fear of the jungle at night and he turned their minds from it with tales of hunting and war. While they talked he was able to snatch an hour's sleep.

Umbesi and his companions returned an hour before dawn.

"It is done, lord," said the young chief. "Bosigo marches up river as you said he would."

"Good!" said Turcan. "Bring the runner. I will talk with him."

Umbesi and the warriors looked at each other.

"Aie!" said Umbesi. "Only the witch men can talk with him now, lord."

Turcan shook his head reprovingly: "It was stupid to spear him, Umbesi. How will you learn your enemy's strength if you silence the tongue that would tell you?"

Umbesi hung his head and stood silent.

"Go now," said Turcan. "Make your men ready. See to it that they are silent when we come to the slave camp or I, too, will think that you are too young to wear the leopard-skin."

The light was better in the morning. The mist which had overcast the sky turned into a nimbus of clouds. Umbesi led the way back along the trail broken by Bosigo's impi. His Zamaros dogged his heels, gliding swiftly between the gnarled mopani and spiked clumpjies. The lowing of cattle and the thin spirals of smoke from dying fires warned of their near approach to the herd.

Looking down on the kraal, Turcan thought that there was a look of permanence about it. The herdsmens' hut which stood in the centre was well built and he could see that the ground had been staked for more huts. But he counted only twelve Makua squatting about the fires. Against the bush wall on the far side thirty or more blacks, men and women, lay huddled together in sleep. The women were fully clad, a sure sign of missionary influence and Turcan had no doubt that they were the singers he had heard the night before. Was Ines da Cunha among them? Turcan's pulse quickened. If his luck was still with him, he'd have her safe on the other side of the river in less than two hours. Then the military could deal with Bosigo and his impi.

The Zamaros, crouched behind clumps of thorn bush, were showing signs of restlessness. The muscles under their velvet skin tensed and their grim faces set into fierce lines as Turcan drew his colt and spun its cylinder.

He led them forward, bent double, dodging from bush to bush until the kraal's wall was between them and the dozing Makua. He waited until Umbesi had marshalled them into a compact group, then nodded to the young chief.

Umbesi led the dash across the gap that separated them from the thorny gate of the kraal. Their battle-cry: "Bu-la-la! Bu-la-la!" shattered the silence as they burst in and rushed upon the amazed herdsmen.

Several of the Makua with the wits scared out of them, broke and ran for the opposite gate with a dozen Zamaros yelling at their heels.

Turcan saw two Makua go down under Umbesi's flashing spear. The others flung down their weapons and waited passively for the death stroke.

"Let them live!" Turcan's voice rang out over the yells of the victors.

Umbesi looked shocked; he stared at Turcan with his assegai poised: "Where is your wisdom, boy?" asked Turcan. He pointed to the Makuas. "There are hands to weed your meale patch. Spears to defend you if you treat them well."

Umbesi lowered his spear: "Makua dogs! Stir up the fires; prepare food!" he ordered.

Turcan smiled. Umbesi was a good type, he thought. He walked over to the group on the far side of the kraal. The hope of finding Ines da Cunha died still-born as Turcan's gaze swept over the full-bosomed native women. He singled out one he had seen at the mission: "Mary Agu," said he. "I seek the Senhorita Cunha."

THE NEGRESS shook her head: "She is not here, senhor. We have not seen her since we were taken from Umzinto. I think she is with Bosigo. May the devils of hell roast his yellow skin! What will be done with us now, senhor?"

"The Zamaros are your friends. They will guide you to Ressano Gareia. Make ready to leave."

He turned away abruptly as the group fervently began to call down blessings on his head. He walked toward the central hut with his head bent. The gall of disappointment ran through his veins like a numbing drug. He felt suddenly, overwhelmingly tired.

Turcan looked up as Umbesi came running towards him: "A runner has come from my people," panted Umbesi.

"What does he say, Umbesi?"

"The White lord whom they guarded has gone."

"Gone! Where?" demanded Turcan.

"He broke from his guard and swam the river, lord."

Turcan's lethargy dropped from him like a cloak. It flashed across his mind instantly that de Cabral would not cross the river to reach Ressano Gareia. He had gone over to Bosigo! He had meant to do so from the beginning. There was some connection between the two. Turcan knew that de Cabral would do anything for money and power. He was convinced that the sneering young nobleman had sold himself over to Bosigo. Turcan caught Umbesi's arm in a hard grip.

"The White lord has betrayed us, Umbesi. Bosigo will turn back. We will be but twenty against him. See now, the women cannot swim the river. We must go back to the ford at Amanzimtoti. Call your warriors quickly, Umbesi. Quickly!"

"But the cattle, lord?"

"Leave them, Umbesi. If we are not across the river soon we will all be food for the hyenas!"

Despite Turcan's driving, an hour was lost before he got the Zamaros on the march. Bosigo, he reasoned, would not send the whole of his impi in pursuit. Fifty picked warriors, perhaps. It was all a question of time, and the time it had taken de Cabral to get to Bosigo was an indeterminable factor. Moreover, he had only a rough idea of the distance to the ford.

As the sun climbed over the trees Turcan scanned the trail with anxious eyes. The river seemed to wind interminably. Whenever he asked Umbesi how far they had still to go, the answer was the same: "Not far now, lord."

But a little before noon as they rounded a sharp bend he recognized the clearing where Umbesi had camped. Looking downstream he saw the first of the women making her way cautiously across the causeway of stones.

It was slow work. Some of the women balked at the crossing and had to be carried over the slippery stones. There was a dip in the trail near the bend formed by a shoulder of rock. Turcan walked toward it. As he reached the top he saw white plumes tossing above the scrub. In a moment the first of the Makuas came into full view, swinging around the bend with a swift, running gait. Turcan dashed back to the ford. The last of the mission people were crossing over. He fired a shot from his colt to draw Umbesi's attention.

"Swim, Umbesi!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Swim for it!"

He saw the Zamaros dash for the river and plunge in. The first Makua came over the ridge and catching sight of Turcan, charged down with a wild yell. He pitched forward as Turcan began to shoot. His fall did not check the others. They swept down on Turcan like a wave. He emptied his gun into them, then ran for the river. An assegai whizzed past his ear. A knobkerry thudded at the nape of his neck. A torrent roared in Turcan's ears and swept him into oblivion.

When Turcan first became conscious he noted the fetid stench of putrid flesh and the itching sting of vermin. He lay, bound hand and foot, upon the hide of an animal not long dead. Nothing was visible in the blackness, but as he writhed convulsively, he caught a glimpse of moonlight. Against its pale radiance he traced the vague outline of the curved roof above him.

For a time he lay still. Outside he could hear the river tumbling over the rocks and the murmur of many voices. From their number he judged he was in Bosigo's camp. He thought bitterly of de Cabral's treachery. Would he use da Cunha's authority—whitewash the blood spilled at Umzinto and sign a shameless treaty for the release of Ines da Cunha?

AS THE rays of the sun slanted over the trees, two stalwart Makuas entered his hut. They dragged him out and slashed his bonds. They led him forward.

Everywhere about him there was feverish activity. Axes rang on timber; machetes slashed out in the bush. A staked wall of unusual strength and construction was being built around the campsite. It was clear to Turcan that Bosigo contemplated permanent settlement on the banks of the Impambanyoni. Bosigo's house resembled a European bungalow more than a native hut. It had windows, cane doors and at least three separate compartments. Turcan was led into the central room.

Bosigo sat on a stool beside a crude table. A leopard skin was draped over his powerful, naked shoulders. He wore hide trousers and shoes. His white skin showed a yellowish tinge blotched with black, and behind his small black eyes lurked the bitter hatred of the outcast. Turcan's gaze turned from him, passed over de Cabral, standing at the other end of the table, and came to rest on the lovely face of the girl who stood by his side.

Turcan saluted her after the Portuguese fashion, with a stiff bow saying: "I had hoped to meet you under happier circumstances, Senhorita."

Except for the worn appearance of her clothes, Ines da Cunha looked none the worse for her long trek from Umzinto. She wore a bodice with puffed sleeves trimmed with lace that had once been white, and a long full skirt with a waist-line that Turcan could span with his both hands. She courtesied to him as sedately as if she were in the reception hall of the Residencia.

"You are not too late to be of service to us, if it pleases you, senhor," said she.

Chapter Five
HER "US" sounded ominous in Turcan's ear. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the scowl on Bosigo's face. He had given the half-caste no more than a casual glance and guessed that Bosigo felt that more was his due. He would have gone on talking if the half-caste had not interrupted him.

"Senhor," said Bosigo in a booming voice and in good Portuguese: "You may wonder why you are alive."

"It is something to wonder at," answered Turcan, "With so many dead in your path."

Bosigo eyed him up and down, appraisingly. "So you are the great Turcan," he said, "Who plucks out evil at the roots. I am ashamed to think that once I feared you."

"It was not I you feared," Turcan retorted. "But the hangman's noose I might string around your neck. You've still got reason to fear justice, Bosigo."

The half-caste's laugh seemed to come from the pit of his stomach. "I do not fear the justice you speak of. It is a thing to be bought and sold. Already I have reached an agreement with the Senhor de Costa Cabral, who is his Excellency's emissary and from whom I have bought justice before. Our agreement is set down on this paper." He handed a folded yellow sheet to Turcan.

"Do not scowl upon it, senhor," said he, as Turcan began to read with a frown between his eyes. "You owe your life to it. I have let you live so that you might carry it to the Excellency and, when he has signed it, return with it to me. As you will see, for the release of Ines da Cunha, I demand a grant of land here, and that I, Bosigo, be recognized as chief—paramount over the tribes within its bounds."

'For the release of the Senhorita Ines da Cunha and her betrothed husband, the Senhor Lopes Bermudo de Costa Cabral...'

Turcan read aloud. He glanced up, his eyes intent upon the girl's face: "Is this true, Senhorita?"

"Her signature is affixed to the document," de Cabral spoke for the first time and the triumph in his eyes made Turcan's spine bristle.

"The Senhorita can speak for herself," said Turcan curtly.

"That I am to marry the Senhor de Cabral has been known to you for some time, Senhor," said she.

"So it has!" said Turcan. "But if is also known that you fled to Umzinto on the eve of your marriage. Why?" he demanded.

Ines da Cunha's eye-brows arched: "Your question is indelicate, senhor. On the eve of marriage a woman may feel the need of spiritual guidance."

Turcan smiled: "You must have been in sore need of it, to stay two months, Senhorita," he commented dryly.

The girl's eyes flashed to de Cabral's face and back to Turcan. There was something tense and unnatural about her bearing.

"Is it your wish," asked Turcan, "that I carry this paper to his Excellency, your uncle?"

The girl pouted her red lips: "It is my wish to return to civilization," she affirmed. "The filth and dirt of savages sickens one. I cannot sleep for the fear of wild beasts. The Senhor de Cabral has had the wit to arrange for my release. If you, senhor, have any feeling for my sex, you will hurry to my uncle and complete the good work which the Senhor de Cabral, because he is held hostage, cannot do for himself."

Turcan stared at the girl with a puzzled expression. He saw the face and form of Ines da Cunha, but it was as if he looked upon another person. When last he had known her, she had loved the freshness of the open veldt and the mysterious gloom of the great forest. He had seen her join in tribal ceremonies and nurse native children to health. Bosigo's voice recalled his thoughts.

"Are you satisfied?" demanded the half-caste.

Turcan smiled thinly: "That is not for me to say. His Excellency will accept or reject your terms as he sees fit."

"But you will take the treaty to him?"

Turcan shrugged: "I was hired to find his niece and to bring about her release. It is not the way I would have chosen, Bosigo."

"Good!" Bosigo grinned at him. "It would have been different but for the treachery of de Cabral, eh, senhor? But what is done, is done. I will give you today for rest. Tomorrow you leave. Do not think of escape; warriors will go with you. Say to his Excellency that I have spies. If he sends soldiers I shall know it almost as soon as he gives the order and the Senhorita da Cunha will die!"

As Turcan turned to leave he flashed a quick look at the girl's face. But she had turned to speak to de Cabral, her red lips smiling. His thoughts were profane as he marched out into the sunlight, between his guards.

IN THE pulsing softness of the jungle night, Ines da Cunha made her way toward Turcan's hut. She looked more like a white savage than the first lady of Mozambique. She had discarded the voluminous dress and, for still greater freedom of movement and silence, she had ripped the silken frills from her underskirt and made a kilt of it. She wore veldschorn laced to her ankles; her long hair was braided and bound with a kerchief.

She made her way swiftly, gliding from shadow to shadow, sometimes crawling where the moonlight cut a swath of soft light between the huts or silhouetted the statuesque form of a Makua guard.

A guard had been placed over Turcan; but his charge was deep in the sleep of near-exhaustion. With the natural slackness of his kind, he had wandered over to a nearby fire, drawn there by the savory smell of roasting buck and the laughter of his companions. The girl slipped through the hut's small opening and groped her way toward Turcan, guided by his deep breathing.

Turcan woke as cold steel touched his bound wrist.

"Hurry, senhor!" Ines whispered in his ear. "Before the guard returns."

A throb of relief—of heartfelt joy, made Turcan's voice husky. He caught her hand in the darkness: "If I doubted you for a while—"

The girl's fingers touched his lips lightly: "I take pride in my skill as an actress, senhor. But I think Lopes must be suspicious." Then she explained how she had permitted herself to become engaged to de Cabral, in order to provoke Turcan into proving to her uncle his real superiority as a man.

Turcan felt the convulsive quiver of her shoulders. After a pause, he said, "De Cabral's no fool. We had better be on our way, Senhorita."

"To Ressano Gareia? Is it far?" she asked.

"Across the river to Umbesi first. Without you, Bosigo loses the game, Senhorita. You don't know Umbesi, but Bosigo does. They met by the river a while ago and if they meet again it won't be by Bosigo's choice."

Turcan cautiously poked his head out of the hut's opening. The guard was squatting before a fire, gorging himself with meat. Others slept on the ground around him. Turcan called to the girl softly and they fled swiftly through the shadows. Circling the huts, they climbed the partially-built stockade and came out upon the bank of the river. After a pause for breath, Turcan led the way downstream.

He was worried. The girl slowed the pace and he did not know how far it was from Bosigo's kraal to the ford at Amanzimtoti. At any moment their escape might be discovered. Bosigo would guess that they would make for the ford and it would be easy for him to head them off there.

At a narrow bend in the river where the tall reeds grew out into the stream, he stopped and pointed to the opposite side: "We'd be safer on the other side," he said. "I know you can swim, Senhorita."

The girl looked across to the far bank; "The current is swift but it is not far," she observed.

Turcan looked at her doubtfully: "I'll make a float of reeds," said he. "We'll swim together."

The girl's eyes flashed at him in the darkness: "Very well, go make your float," said she.

Turcan was busy with his knife when a bundle fell at his side. Startled, he looked up quickly. A white, nymph-like form flashed across his line of vision. In an instant it disappeared among the reeds. Turcan stared with his mouth open. Then he saw her swimming strongly for the opposite bank. He grabbed up the bundle of clothes she had thrown to him and started for the bank. The snapping of a twig brought him face about with his nerves taut.

De Cabral stood a few paces from him. The two men stood silent for a moment, their eyes locked. De Cabral's face showed white about his jaws and Turcan knew that he was looking at death.

"We have come to the bridge that only one of us may cross, senhor." De Cabral's voice was vibrant. "You will stay on this side."

TURCAN did not answer for a moment. His face was expressionless but his pulse raced and the blood pounded in his ears. Impulse prompted him to fling himself upon de Cabral; to gamble on a miss. But a picture of the headless vultures at Umzinto flashed before his eyes. The fleeting seconds were like a bridge across oblivion, crumbling at his feet. De Cabral was gloating,

"I don't think we have come to that bridge yet," said Turcan coolly. "If the Senhorita da Cunha has made her choice, I am not aware of it."

De Cabral smiled mockingly: "Am I to believe that you took her by force? I am not the fool she took me for. I saw what was in her mind. I watched and followed. It was never my plan that you should live; it was Bosigo's. He saw advantage in it, I can see none, senhor."

"What advantage do you see in shooting me, de Cabral, with a witness to the fact across the river?" asked Turcan.

De Cabral laughed softly. "You have always under-estimated me, Turcan. I do not intend to kill you and be hanged for murder. Bosigo will do the killing when I take you back."

"And the Senhorita da Cunha?" Turcan asked.

"A naked white woman in the jungle—she will not go far. Later, when I have made my escape from Bosigo, I will find her. A delightful discovery, eh, senhor?" He said it in a way that made Turcan bristle. But the muzzle of his colt was steady. De Cabral leered at him. "I owe much to your cleverness, but now I have no further need of it. Start walking back up the path, senhor."

Turcan stood his ground. There was a faint smile on his lips. "You talk too much, de Cabral," said he. "You made a mistake when you followed us alone. You should have brought your executioner along with you. I choose to die here, with a witness."

A look of surprised bewilderment made de Cabral's expression comical.

Turcan laughed, but his muscles were tense. He edged forward.

DE CABRAL'S face was bloodless. His eyes shifted nervously. Turcan did not give him time to think. He talked rapidly.

Turcan cut him short. "A man can choose to die, you forget that, de Cabral. You'd kill, but you haven't got the guts to face—"

De Cabral stooped suddenly and grabbed up a heavy branch at his feet. In the same moment Turcan leaped in and kicked the gun from his hand. With a yelp of pain and rage, de Cabral swung at Turcan with his club. The branch broke over Turcan's right shoulder, paralyzing his arm. De Cabral came at him, kicking and flailing his fists. Turcan went down. Intent upon beating his victim into unconsciousness, de Cabral turned to look for his club. The numbness was leaving Turcan's arm. When de Cabral turned, he was getting to his feet unsteadily. The Portuguese rushed at him. Turcan ducked under a savage blow; his arms wound around the other's waist. They crashed to the ground and rolled toward the river's bank.

Once they broke apart and circled each other, gulping the cool air into their parched lungs. De Cabral was maneuvering to get Turcan into the path of moonlight, himself into the shadow. Turcan stalked him warily toward the river's bank. De Cabral sprang as Turcan's foot caught in a vine. He faked falling and his arms whipped around de Cabral's waist and lifted him bodily. As he braced himself to throw, the overhanging bank crumbled under his feet and they slid into the swift stream. Sinking rapidly, Turcan fought to break the strangle-hold de Cabral had about his neck. He felt a sickening jar as the current dashed him against a shelf of rock. The grip about his neck slackened as he came to the surface with bursting lungs. Then, he saw de Cabral's body roll over the shelf and go bobbing downstream.

THE FIGHTING madness left Turcan. He started to run down the bank with the vague idea of saving de Cabral. But his bruised legs stiffened. He fell. The muscles of his legs were knotted with cramp.

It was some time before Turcan felt able to swim the river. He walked back upstream, found the girl's scanty clothes, then he waded out into the icy water. When he reached the other bank, he stretched his aching limbs and rested. Then he thought of Ines da Cunha, huddled naked among the reeds. He went in search of her, calling her name softly.

A splash drew him toward the water's edge. A white arm parted the reeds and a pair of very angry eyes flashed up at him over the rim of the bank. "My clothes, if you please, senhor," she snapped.

Turcan grinned down at her. "I know how you feel," said he. "I'll drink the damn river before I'll swim it again."

Turcan withdrew a bit. Evidently the girl had hidden herself so well that she had seen nothing of the struggle on the opposite bank. When she came out, shaking the water from her long black hair, she was still angry.

"It is the last time, senhor—" She broke off as she caught sight of Turcan's swollen face and his left eye that was all the colors of a jungle flower.

"The Senhor de Cabral," Turcan explained laconically.

The girl caught his arm, her eyes bright with alarm.

"Lopes! Where is he now?"

Turcan pointed to the river. Ines da Cunha looked at his set face and asked no more.

They reached Ressano Gareia just before dawn on the following day. Umbesi's boatmen had brought them to within ten miles of the settlement.

IT WAS a flustered young Commandant who came from his bed to greet them. Turcan smiled. The young fellow was finding it hard to reconcile the girl who stood before him in such brazen dishabille with the lady he had danced with at the Residencia.

"I remember you, Senhor Vincente," Ines said. "Do you recall dancing with me?"

He bent over her hand. "That is something a man could not forget, but I do not understand."

She interrupted him. "t am anxious to meet the women of your post, for obvious reasons, senhor. My future husband, the Senhor Turcan, will explain."

"Your future husband!—The Senhor Turcan!" stammered the Commandant. "But I—"

"Your surprise is natural, senhor," said she, smiling at Turcan. "Senhor Turcan, I believe, was not aware of it himself until this moment. Do you think he will refuse me, senhor?"

A gleam came into Turcan's eyes. "He definitely will not."