"I get any trouble," Cannon said, "I give this one another mouth."
Wilson grinned. "You might as well give up, Hanson," he said. "You two aren't up for it. You're hurt, and you haven't got the guts for it."
"We're not giving up anything," Hanson said. "Let him go, fat man."
"Not likely," Cannon said. "Wilson, you come over here."
Wilson got up confidently, started toward Cannon. Billy brought the stock of the captured rifle around quickly and caught Wilson hard enough in the forehead to knock him down again. Wilson raised up on one elbow and rubbed the goose egg that had already appeared on his forehead.
"You sonofabitch," Wilson said.
"Now, now," Billy said. "No use to talk bad. Lay down now so Billy not have to shoot hole in your head."
Wilson settled back, but his eyes blazed.
Small's eyes blinked open, then went wide when he realized the position he was in.
"Easy," said Cannon to Small, "get nervous, you're likely to get some kind of cut. Hear?"
"I hear," Small said.
"Let him go," Hanson said.
"I let him go, you shoot me," Cannon said.
"You don't, we're going to shoot you," Hanson said. "You let him go, we'll let you live. Tie you up, but let you live."
"I don't think so," Cannon said, and he pressed the knife tight against Small's throat. A necklace of blood appeared on Small's neck, ran onto his bare chest. "I might just cut him anyway. Just for the hell of it. I done had two guys in their underwear give me trouble. The first one, this wild man, Wilson and me, we done him in. This one, he's gonna die too."
"The ape-man is alive," Small said.
"Th' hell he is," Cannon said.
"I was with him earlier today. He is very much alive."
"That cinches it then," Cannon said. "I ain't gonna wait around for him to show up."
With a quick jerk of his wrist, Cannon cut Small's throat, bolted off the trail and into the thickness of the jungle.
Small collapsed as if he were a marionette being gently lowered on strings. He fell to his knees, then backwards, his legs tucked under him as if he were about to be folded and placed in a trunk.
"Small!" Hanson yelled.
Billy fired after Cannon, two quick shots, but the shots were wild and the man darted deeper into the underbrush and out of sight.
Hanson rushed over to Small, dropped the rifle, and tried to hold the cut on Small's throat together with his hands. It was useless. It was too deep. The blood gushed through Hanson's fingers like milk through a sieve.
Small tried to talk, but his voice only gurgled. Hanson lowered his ear to Small's mouth so that he might hear. He thought what he heard Small say was: "Not in my drawers."
Small's body went limp. Hanson lowered him to the ground, gently. Hanson glared at Wilson. He picked up the rifle and pointed it at him. Sweat was popping off Hanson's forehead and his teeth were clenched. He could hardly get the words out. "One word. Just one. And I fertilize the dirt with your brains."
Wilson glared, but held his tongue. He had his eyes on Hanson's trigger finger. It was vibrating.
Billy said, "Watch him, Bwana. I get the other one." Billy went into the jungle after Cannon.
Night dipped down full and complete. The moon rose up like a shiny balloon. Hanson sat beside the. body of Small, his rifle pointed at Wilson.
Out in the jungle, in the dark, Billy stalked Cannon.
Earlier, when Jean first heard the movement in the dungeon, without really thinking, she said, "Who's there?"
There was a long moment of silence, then came "Nyama. I am Nyama and soon I die."
Jean squinted into the darkness. Her eyes were adjusting, and she could see the shape of the speaker. A woman.
"You speak English," Jean said.
"Missionaries," Nyama said. "I can read too. And quote Bible verses. You like to hear them?"
"Not just now," Jean said. "Maybe you can teach them to me later. . . how did you get here? What missionaries? Missionaries to this city?"
"No," Nyama said. "Of course not. I am from the high forest land. One day these people of Ur raided us and I was one of those they stole away. I do not know if any of the others of my people who were brought here are still alive. I think not."
"How long have you been here?"
"I do not know. Long time in the city of Ur. But here, in this place. Not long. Since Kurvandi tired of me."
"Kurvandi?"
"He is the King of Ur. One in a long line of Kurvandis. I was brought here to be one of his wives, and he forced me. . . I made him miserable. Finally, he had me brought here. Soon, I die. But, I had it to do again, I would still make him miserable. I prefer this to his bedchambers, not like to be treated like a breeding cow. You are lucky he did not like your looks."
"I don't know if that makes me feel insulted or happy."
"Let me have a look at you," Nyama said.
"That won't be easy in the dark," Jean said.
"I am accustomed to darkness. But here, come." The woman took Jean by the elbow, led her toward the closed door.
Around the edges of the door a bit of light seeped in, and Jean could feel fresh air from the outside. The air not sweet, but it certainly smelled better than the air in the cell. The light and air heartened her a little.
"You are quite pretty," said Nyama, her face close to Jean's."
"And so are you," Jean said. It was an honest evaluation. Nyama was indeed quite beautiful.
"I am surprised he did not want you for one of his women," Nyama said. "Perhaps it's because he views pale skin as inferior."
"Why does he want to have me killed?" Jean said. "I didn't come here of my own free will. I've done nothing the people of Ur. True, I would have come here way. . but why must they kill me? Kill us?"
"He has his reasons," Nyama said. "But without reasons, he would kill us anyway. He eventually kills everything. He is mad. They are all mad. Full of the glory of great city and their gods ... one thing, though. Their god, unlike missionary god, you can see. I have seen it. It is mad like Kurvandi. A horrible god."
"You have seen their god'?"
"Yes."
"Is it a statue . . an oracle?"
Nyama sighed. This was followed by a long silence. Finally, "No. I do not believe any of that. Statues are statues, and oracles are old men and women with their fingers in bird guts. I believe what I see. And I have seen this god."
"A moving, breathing god?"
"Do not patronize me," Nyama said. "That is the word, is it not? Patronize?"
"I'm sorry," Jean said. "I didn't mean to. . ."
"Yes, you did."
"But a moving, breathing god?"
"Missionaries believed in a god I could not see. Wanted me to believe in it. I could not. But Urs, they believe in god you can see. I have seen it. Makes more sense, a god you can see. But still, god or not a god, I do not care for it. It is a god of death and destruction. Very ill-tempered."
"Are you saying it's to this god we will be sacrificed?"
"In one way or another. They kill in honor of the god and his moves, and they give the god offerings that it kills for itself."
"You said in honor of its moves. What does that mean?"
"It moves in all manner of ways," Nyama said. "Every way it moves, the move brings death. It has a dance of death, and when it dances, people die. Very bad deaths. Very bad. Those that are not given to the god, they are sacrificed in its name."
Jean and Nyama moved away from the light and to a stone bench. The smell was not so bad in this corner, and Jean found she needed to sit. She was exhausted. Grief and fear made her exhaustion even more complete.
Jean and Nyama sat beside one another and talked. Nyama's English was very good, and soon Jean had some idea what Ur was all about.
It seemed the Urs were a people descended from a great and glorious culture. Ur had been a great city before Solomon was king. It was a city of wealth am riches, and once all of Africa had been under its rule.