CHAPTER XIV—Buried Alive!They waited for many minutes in absolute silence. Peter Klein was seated at the fire. There also was Fernando, who appeared to have fallen asleep in a sitting position. As for the two boys, they remained near the opening through which the man had passed, straining their ears to catch the slightest sound without.Presently there came the sharp report of a shot. Then all was silent again.Fernando immediately sprang to his feet and walked towards the boys. He must have been sleeping lightly, or else feigning slumber."My brother," said he, "is dead.""Dead!"Both Harry and Braid uttered the word in a single breath."That," said the man, "was the rifle of the sheikh.""How do you know?" asked Harry."For a very simple reason," said the other. "There were two reports, therefore the shot was fired in this direction. If a man fires away from you, you hear but one report, which is like the crack of a whip. But if he fires toward you, you hear two reports, each one of which resembles the 'pop' of a cork. The shot was fired this way. The trigger was pressed by the Black Dog, whose bullet seldom misses its mark. Therefore, in all probability, my brother is gone.""And you speak of it so calmly!" uttered Braid.Fernando smiled. "With us who live on the Coast," said he, "death is an easy matter. Sooner or later we all die; some by murder, some by malaria, some by Black Jack, which is the most deadly fever in the world. Our graves are in the bush. What does it matter whether or not a bullet finds its mark?"The two boys were astonished. They could not understand this strange man's views of life and death."And you have sacrificed your brother's life," asked Harry, "merely to prove that the Black Dog of the Cameroons intended to murder Klein?"Fernando shook his head."I would have gone myself," he answered, "had that been possible. As it is, I can live, at least, for revenge."The full significance of the thing burst upon Harry Urquhart."A wasted life!" he cried."Oh no!" said the man; "a life is never wasted—for the truth."After that they were silent; they remained standing close together by the opening in the wall. Harry felt as if a heavy weight had been placed upon his heart.Without, through the fissures in the wall, they could see the moonshine and the stars. A soft wind which moaned across the desolate and rugged heights was blowing upon the mountain.Presently they were startled by the sound of a voice—a voice that spoke in a whisper."I am wounded," said the voice, "I am wounded almost to death. Fernando, my brother, hold out a hand to me, that I may speak to you before I die."Harry was about to move to the opening, when the elder guide fiercely thrust him back."Do you suffer great pain?" asked Fernando, speaking tenderly, as he approached the fissure on tiptoe."Give me your hand," came the answer in a weak, breathless voice.Instead of a hand, suddenly Fernando thrust his rifle through the opening and fired. The loud report echoed in the shallow vault. A strong smell of cordite was driven to their nostrils.Without, there was a shriek. Harry rushed to the opening and looked through. He saw a white figure flying in the moonlight like a ghost. Fernando—the half-bred Spaniard—threw back his head and laughed the laugh of a fiend."What does all this mean?" cried Braid, turning fiercely upon the man."That was no more my brother," said the guide, "than the dog-fox is brother to the eagle. That man was the sheikh—the Black Dog himself.""It was your brother's voice," said Harry."Indeed!" said the man. "I should know my brother's voice. I tell you once again my brother is dead. The Black Dog slew him; and then, recognizing the man he had killed, he guessed that I, too, was with you, and he came here to kill me, imitating my brother's voice, practising the cunning which has made him feared from the Niger to the Congo. And he has gone with a bullet in his chest.""You did not kill him?" asked Braid."No. He fled, realizing that his trick had failed. But because he killed my brother, Cortes, whom I love, I swear now by the saints that I will avenge my brother's death, that I will send the Black Dog to the shades. Henceforward it is his rifle against mine, his treachery against my wits; it is the fox against the serpent."All this time they had forgotten something of superlative importance. When events of startling magnitude occur in such quick succession it sometimes happens that the obvious is overlooked. And strange to relate, it was Peter Klein—who hitherto had seemed quite incapable of thinking for himself—who was the first to realize the exceeding gravity of their situation. On a sudden he rushed at Fernando like a maniac, and seized him by the arm."You say," he cried, "you are sure your brother is dead?"The man bowed his head."Then, if he is dead, by Heaven, we are buried alive!"
They waited for many minutes in absolute silence. Peter Klein was seated at the fire. There also was Fernando, who appeared to have fallen asleep in a sitting position. As for the two boys, they remained near the opening through which the man had passed, straining their ears to catch the slightest sound without.
Presently there came the sharp report of a shot. Then all was silent again.
Fernando immediately sprang to his feet and walked towards the boys. He must have been sleeping lightly, or else feigning slumber.
"My brother," said he, "is dead."
"Dead!"
Both Harry and Braid uttered the word in a single breath.
"That," said the man, "was the rifle of the sheikh."
"How do you know?" asked Harry.
"For a very simple reason," said the other. "There were two reports, therefore the shot was fired in this direction. If a man fires away from you, you hear but one report, which is like the crack of a whip. But if he fires toward you, you hear two reports, each one of which resembles the 'pop' of a cork. The shot was fired this way. The trigger was pressed by the Black Dog, whose bullet seldom misses its mark. Therefore, in all probability, my brother is gone."
"And you speak of it so calmly!" uttered Braid.
Fernando smiled. "With us who live on the Coast," said he, "death is an easy matter. Sooner or later we all die; some by murder, some by malaria, some by Black Jack, which is the most deadly fever in the world. Our graves are in the bush. What does it matter whether or not a bullet finds its mark?"
The two boys were astonished. They could not understand this strange man's views of life and death.
"And you have sacrificed your brother's life," asked Harry, "merely to prove that the Black Dog of the Cameroons intended to murder Klein?"
Fernando shook his head.
"I would have gone myself," he answered, "had that been possible. As it is, I can live, at least, for revenge."
The full significance of the thing burst upon Harry Urquhart.
"A wasted life!" he cried.
"Oh no!" said the man; "a life is never wasted—for the truth."
After that they were silent; they remained standing close together by the opening in the wall. Harry felt as if a heavy weight had been placed upon his heart.
Without, through the fissures in the wall, they could see the moonshine and the stars. A soft wind which moaned across the desolate and rugged heights was blowing upon the mountain.
Presently they were startled by the sound of a voice—a voice that spoke in a whisper.
"I am wounded," said the voice, "I am wounded almost to death. Fernando, my brother, hold out a hand to me, that I may speak to you before I die."
Harry was about to move to the opening, when the elder guide fiercely thrust him back.
"Do you suffer great pain?" asked Fernando, speaking tenderly, as he approached the fissure on tiptoe.
"Give me your hand," came the answer in a weak, breathless voice.
Instead of a hand, suddenly Fernando thrust his rifle through the opening and fired. The loud report echoed in the shallow vault. A strong smell of cordite was driven to their nostrils.
Without, there was a shriek. Harry rushed to the opening and looked through. He saw a white figure flying in the moonlight like a ghost. Fernando—the half-bred Spaniard—threw back his head and laughed the laugh of a fiend.
"What does all this mean?" cried Braid, turning fiercely upon the man.
"That was no more my brother," said the guide, "than the dog-fox is brother to the eagle. That man was the sheikh—the Black Dog himself."
"It was your brother's voice," said Harry.
"Indeed!" said the man. "I should know my brother's voice. I tell you once again my brother is dead. The Black Dog slew him; and then, recognizing the man he had killed, he guessed that I, too, was with you, and he came here to kill me, imitating my brother's voice, practising the cunning which has made him feared from the Niger to the Congo. And he has gone with a bullet in his chest."
"You did not kill him?" asked Braid.
"No. He fled, realizing that his trick had failed. But because he killed my brother, Cortes, whom I love, I swear now by the saints that I will avenge my brother's death, that I will send the Black Dog to the shades. Henceforward it is his rifle against mine, his treachery against my wits; it is the fox against the serpent."
All this time they had forgotten something of superlative importance. When events of startling magnitude occur in such quick succession it sometimes happens that the obvious is overlooked. And strange to relate, it was Peter Klein—who hitherto had seemed quite incapable of thinking for himself—who was the first to realize the exceeding gravity of their situation. On a sudden he rushed at Fernando like a maniac, and seized him by the arm.
"You say," he cried, "you are sure your brother is dead?"
The man bowed his head.
"Then, if he is dead, by Heaven, we are buried alive!"