He stepped to a heavy, well-worn pigskin bag that stood at the foot of his cot and, stooping, took out a fat bottle and a tumbler. He shook a little as he filled the latter to the brim.
O'Grady grinned. "I said one drink, not four."
Slowly Orman raised the tumbler toward his lips. He held it there for a moment looking at it; then his vision seemed to pass beyond it, pass through the canvas wall of the tent out into the night toward the new-made graves.
With an oath, he hurled the full tumbler to the ground; the bottle followed it, breaking into a thousand pieces.
"That's goin' to be hell on bare feet," remarked O'Grady.
"I'm sorry, Pat," said Orman; then he sat down wearily on the edge of his cot and buried his face in his hands.
O'Grady sat up, slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and crossed the tent. He sat down beside his friend and threw an arm about his shoulders. "Buck up, Tom!" That was all he said, but the pressure of the friendly arm was more strengthening than many words or many drinks.
From somewhere out in the night came the roar of a lion and a moment later a blood-curdling cry that seemed neither that of beast nor man.
"Sufferin' cats!" ejaculated O'Grady. "What was that?"
Orman had raised his head and was listening. "Probably some more grief for us," he replied forebodingly.
They sat silent for a moment then, listening.
"I wonder what could make such a noise." O'Grady spoke in hushed tones,
"Pat," Orman's tone was serious, "do you believe in ghosts?"
O'Grady hesitated before he replied. "I don't know—but I've seen some funny things in my time."
"So have I," said Orman.
But perhaps of all that they could conjure to their minds nothing so strange as the reality; for how could they know that they had heard the victory cry of an English lord and a great lion who had just made their kill together?
7. DISASTER
The cold and gloomy dawn but reflected the spirits of the company as the white men dragged themselves lethargically from their blankets. But the first to view the camp in the swiftly coming daylight were galvanized into instant wakefulness by what it revealed.
Bill West was the first to suspect what had happened. He looked wonderingly about for a moment and then started, almost at a run, for the crude shelters thrown up by the blacks the previous evening.
He called aloud to Kwamudi and several others whose names he knew, but there was no response. He looked into shelter after shelter, and always the results were the same. Then he hurried over to Orman's tent. The director was just coming out as West ran up. O'Grady was directly behind him.
"What's the matter with breakfast?" demanded the latter. "I don't see a sign of the cooks."
"And you won't," said West; "they've gone, ducked, vamoosed. If you want breakfast, you'll cook it yourself."
"What do you mean gone, Bill?" asked Orman.
"The whole kit and kaboodle of 'em have run out on us," explained the cameraman. "There's not a smoke in camp. Even the askaris have beat it. The camp's unguarded, and God only knows how long it has been."
"Gone!" Orman's inflection registered incredulity. "But they couldn't! Where have they gone?"
"Search me," replied West, "They've taken a lot of our supplies with 'em too. From what little I saw I guess they outfitted themselves to the queen's taste. I noticed a couple of trucks that looked like they'd been rifled."
Orman swore softly beneath his breath; but he squared his shoulders, and the haggard, hang-dog expression he had worn vanished from his face. O'Grady had been looking at him with a worried furrow in his brow; now he gave a sigh of relief and grinned—the Chief was himself again.
"Rout every one out," Orman directed. "Have the drivers check their loads. You attend to that, Bill, while Pat posts a guard around the camp. I see old el-Gran'ma'am and his bunch are still with us. You better put them on guard duty, Pat. Then round up every one else at the mess tables for a palaver."
While his orders were being carried out Orman walked about the camp making a hurried survey. His brain was clear. Even the effects of a sleepless night seemed to have been erased by this sudden emergency call upon his resources. He no longer wasted Ms nervous energy upon vain regrets, though he was still fully conscious of the fact that this serious predicament was of his own making.
When he approached the mess table five minutes later the entire company was assembled there talking excitedly about the defection of the blacks and offering various prophecies as to the future, none of which were particularly roseate.
Orman overheard one remark. "It took a case of Scotch to get us into this mess, but Scotch won't ever get us out of it."
"You all know what has happened," Orman commenced; "and I guess you all know why it happened, but recriminations won't help matters. Our situation really isn't so hopeless. We have men, provisions, arms, and transportation. Because the porters deserted us doesn't mean that we've got to sit down here and kiss ourselves good-bye.
"Nor is there any use in turning around now and going back—the shortest way out of the Bansuto country is straight ahead. When we get out of it we can recruit more blacks from friendly tribes and go ahead with the picture.
"In the meantime every one has got to work and work hard. We have got to do the work the blacks did before—make camp, strike camp, unload and load, cook, cut trail, drag trucks through mud holes, stand guard on the march and in camp. That part and trail cutting will be dangerous, but every one will have to take his turn at it—every one except the girls and the cooks; they're the most important members of the safari." A hint of one of Orman's old smiles touched his lips and eyes.
"Now," he continued, "The first thing to do is eat. Who can cook?"
"I can like nobody's business," said Rhonda Terry.
"I'll vouch for that," said Marcus. "I've eaten a chicken dinner with all the trimmings at Rhonda's apartment."
"I can cook," spoke up a male voice.
Every one turned to see who had spoken; he was the only man that had volunteered for the only safe assignment.
"When did you learn to cook, Obroski?" demanded Noice. "I went camping with you once; and you couldn't even build a fire, let alone cook on one after some one else had built it."
Obroski flushed. "Well, some one's got to help Rhonda," he said lamely, "and no one else offered to."
"Jimmy, here, can cook," offered an electrician. "He used to be assistant chef in a cafeteria in L.A."
"I don't want to cook," said Jimmy. "I don't want no cinch job. I served in the Marines in Nicaragua. Gimme a gun, and let me do guard duty."
"Who else can cook?" demanded Orman. "We need three."
"Shorty can cook," said a voice from the rear. "He used to run a hot-dog stand on Ventura Boulevard."
"O.K.!" said Orman. "Miss Terry is chief cook; Jimmy and Shorty will help her; Pat will detail three more for K.P. every day. Now get busy. While the cooks are rustling some grub the rest of you strike the tents and load the trucks."
"Oh, Tom," said Naomi Madison at his elbow, "my personal boy has run away with the others. I wish you would detail one of the men to take his place."
Orman wheeled and looked at her in astonishment. "I'd forgotten all about you, Naomi. I'm glad you reminded me. If you can't cook, and I don't suppose you can, you'll peel spuds, wait on the tables, and help wash dishes."
For a moment the Madison looked aghast; then she smiled icily, "I suppose you think you are funny," she said, "but really this is no time for joking."