Dennis Wheatley - The Rape Of Venice

As the grotesquely masked old man stood with arms outspread before the Chief, Roger drew his pistol and shot him in the back.

The result of his act was beyond his wildest hopes or expectations. The pistol flashed, its loud report shattered the tense silence that had fallen on the assembly. The Witch Doctor gave a screech, threw up his clawlike hands and collapsed at the foot of the pile of skulls. He gave one convulsive jerk that threw his mask off and sent him rolling over on his back. Then he lay still, his wizened face contorted in a grin of death.

Next moment pandemonium broke loose. The Chief's wives sprang to their feet; screaming and fighting, they tumbled over one another to get back inside the great hut. The warriors, the whites of their eyes rolling with terror in their painted faces, leapt away from the captives, turned and mingled with the crowd of women, older men and youths who were already stampeding away between the huts. With wails of fear and lamentation, as though expecting their village was about to be destroyed by a succession of thunderbolts, they fled helter skelter into the jungle.

Within two minutes there was not a soul to be seen except the Chief and five of a group of elders who had been squatting near him. They were now all on their feet and, although too brave to run, huddled round him eyeing Roger with mingled fear and amazement.

Roger had thought that if he killed the Witch Doctor there was a chance in a hundred that instead of being slaughtered immediately they might gain a night of grace while another Witch Doctor was installed and, perhaps, in the early hours while the tribe was sleeping, kill any sentries that had been set to guard them and escape into the jungle. But the moment panic seized the tribe, it flashed upon him that they could never have seen a fire-​arm; so, to them, he had worked a greater magic than any ever accomplished by his victim.

As the terror-​stricken natives fled, his mind became a whirlpool of jostling thoughts. This heaven-​sent reprieve could be only temporary, unless he used it rightly. On that the saving of their lives still hung. And he must act quickly. If he showed hesitation or weakness now, the ascendancy that had been so miraculously thrust upon him would be lost, and lost for good.

They had a free field for escape. No one would dare to stop them if they walked quickly off. But what then? They would be no better off in the jungle than they had been on the shore that morning when the fisherman had found them. He had his second pistol and that, too, was loaded. He could threaten the Chief with it. But to what useful purpose could he threaten him? And for how long could he keep up the threat? Soon, some of the braver warriors might recover from their panic and come creeping back. It needed only one well-​aimed spear, thrown from the cover of the huts, and he would be as dead as the Witch Doctor.

With sudden resolution he took a few steps forward. Reversing the empty pistol he went down on one knee, smiled at the Chief and, holding the weapon by the barrel, offered it to him.

Astonishment, suspicion, pleasure chased one another over the big negro's bloated features. Smiling he stepped forward to accept the proffered gift. But Roger stood up, waved him back, returned the pistol to his belt then, still smiling, drew his sword.

With its sharp point he began to rip a series of furrows in the hard trampled dirt of the ground. First he drew a tall gateway with towers on either side of it, then long lines on either side to represent walls, and above one of them the dome and minaret of a mosque, such as he had seen in pictures of Eastern cities.

The Chief and his elders looked on with puzzled expressions, but as soon as Roger had done he resheathed his sword and proceeded to explain in a series of gestures. With a sweep of the hand he included Clarissa, Bodkin and himself, then he pointed first at his picture of a town, then up river. Next he tapped the pistol and pointed at the Chief. Even a child could not have mistaken his meaning. 'Send us to a town and the magic weapon is yours.'

The thick red lips of the Chief parted in a grin. Three’ times he brought his head forward in a slow nod and the spreading crown of ostrich feathers upon it waved gently to and fro. Pointing to himself he said 'Kobo' several times, and Roger in turn pointed to himself saying 'Brook'. Then Chief Kobo issued a sharp command to one of his elders. The old man blew upon a conch shell that was slung from his waist and. within a few minutes, the members of the tribe, still showing much nervous apprehension, began to trickle back into the clearing.

As soon as a good part of the tribe were reassembled, the Chief began to bellow at them, evidently reproving them for their cowardice, but a few moments later he said something that was greeted with a great shout of laughter. In an instant, the whole atmosphere had changed and, their fright forgotten, they were chattering away like happy children.

The Witch Doctor's body was carried away and Kobo, now treating Roger, Clarissa and Bodkin as honoured guests, made them sit beside him while cooking pots and calabashes were brought from the huts.

The feast that followed lasted far into the night. All the cooked food was very highly spiced and, from fear of offending their host, the guests had to eat something from each pot offered to them; but they made their main meal off fruit. At intervals there were dances, first by the stamping warriors, then by the young women, and finally one in which a long line of each sex swayed, postured and stamped facing each other. During the dances the white liquid was passed round and Roger warned his two companions to drink sparingly of it.

That was just as well, for it was palm spirit beaten up with ground cereal and highly intoxicating.

At length Kobe, now decidedly drunk, called a halt to the festivities. With a rolling gait he escorted his guests to their hut, then staggered away among his equally tipsy warriors. Even so, Roger feared that they might yet lose their lives through treachery, or by some relative of the Witch Doctor's seeking to revenge him while they slept; so he arranged to share watches for the rest of the night with Bodkin, and took the first himself.

As silence gradually settled over the village, he told himself that they were very lucky to be alive, but he could not help wondering a little grimly what other perils fate had in store for them, and reflecting on their very small chance of ever again setting foot in England.

His fears of a treacherous attack proved groundless. Next morning the village slept late but, soon after rousing, a group of shy, frightened women brought them fruit, drink and flowers. When they had eaten, a tall warrior with a headband and a single ostrich plume rising from it took them again to Kobo, who was once more seated on his throne of skulls.

The Chief pointed in turn at the drawing on the ground that Roger had made the night before, at the tall warrior, and at Roger's pistol. But Roger had no intention of giving up the pistol yet. Shaking his head, he pointed in turn at the drawing, the pistol and the warrior, conveying that he would give the weapon to the man only when they reached the town.

For some minutes, Kobo scowled and kept repeating his gestures, but each time Roger shook his head; so at length the hulking negro gave in and beckoned up a group of his people who were standing some way off. The group consisted of six more warriors and four women. Each of the women held the end of one of a pair of poles, between the middle sections of which were plaited rushes forming the seat of a backless carrying chair.

Kobo signed to Roger to take the seat, but he, greatly relieved that Clarissa would not have to make the journey on foot, gave her his hand and settled her in it. His act called forth looks of puzzled disapproval, but ignoring them he indicated that they were now ready to start. For a moment the Chief rested his heavy hand on Roger's shoulder. He did the same to that warrior with the single ostrich plume, and repeated the word 'Immu' three times; so they took that to be the man's name. Then he nodded his befeathered head, and 'Immu' raising his spear aloft, led the way by a main path through the huts out of the village.