Part 14 (1/2)

”Well, he'll have to fight,” said Billy with bloodthirsty determination.

”I for one am not going to stand calmly by and have my throat cut, or worse still be taken prisoner by this old Muley-Ha.s.san.”

Old Sikaso glanced approvingly at him.

”Well spoken, Four-eyes,” said he; ”spoken like a son of a warrior.”

Billy's ears tingled at the compliment, which was really in the old African's opinion the highest that could be paid to a man or a boy, and hurried off to wake ”the bugologist” as be disrespectfully termed the professor. To his surprise, for he more than half expected an outbreak, Professor Wiseman did not appear particularly concerned at the news that Diego, and Muley-Ha.s.san were--as the boys had every reason to believe--at that moment advancing on the camp.

”I will dress myself with all alacrity,” he said, ”and join you in your tent, but I must say I don't believe in all this witchcraft.”

”Will this Muley-Ha.s.san be well armed?” asked Billy, in a voice which was rather shaky, of their black friend.

”Plenty rifles,” was Sikaso's brief reply.

”Don't you want a rifle or at least a heavy caliber shotgun?” asked Billy.

The old warrior laughed and swung his mighty axe round his head till the blade flashed like a continuous band of steel and the air whistled at the cleavage of the sharp edge. Then he began to sing softly a war-song which may be roughly rendered in English thus:

”At dawn I went out with my axe into the red fight; Like the gra.s.s before the fire, like the clouds before the wind, I drove them. I, Sikaso, I drove them.

There were rivers that day; but the rivers were red.

They were the rivers of the blood of my enemies; With my war-axe I killed them.

This is the song of mighty Sikaso, and his terrible axe of death.”

Although the boys of course did not understand the words, the fierce voice in which the old warrior intoned the chant made them realize what a terrible foe he was likely to prove in battle. But now as Sikaso brought his song to a conclusion and rested his axe on the ground, leaning on its hilt, he suddenly stiffened into an att.i.tude of close attention.

”Hark, my white brothers!” he cried, ”the war-eagles are gathering for the slaughter.”

But the slight sound the keen ears of the savage had caught without difficulty was longer in making itself manifest to the two white boys. After a few minutes of listening, so intense as to be painful, they likewise, however, distinctly heard the regular, rhythmic dip of paddles coming down the river.

”There are six war canoes full of them,” announced, Sikaso, with almost a groan, after he had given close attention to the sounds.

”Alas, my white brothers, there is little use of our giving battle.”

”Well, I for one am not going to give up without dropping a few of the cowardly wretches,” cried Billy.

”Nor I,” echoed Lathrop, enthused by Billy's brave example.

The old warrior's eyes kindled as he gazed at the two brave young Americans, each clutching his rifle and waiting for the moment to arrive when they could use them.

”If we only had had time to throw up a stockade, my brothers, we might have driven them off yet,” he cried.

”Well, we'll give as good an account of ourselves as possible,”

declared Lathrop.

And now began what has been acknowledged to be the most trying part of any engagement, from a duel to a battle--the waiting for hostilities to begin. It seemed that an interminable time had elapsed from the moment that they heard the first ”dip-dip” of the paddles to the sharp crack of a twig sounded in the jungle directly ahead of them. The snapped branch told them that the enemy's outposts were reconnoitering to see that the camp was actually, as it seemed to be, wrapped in sleep.

Apparently the scout, whoever he was, was soon convinced of the fact that the adventurers were slumbering, for he advanced boldly from the dark sheltering shadows of the jungle and emerged into the bright moonlight which flooded the clearing in which the camp stood.