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.