Was
this a people to stand in his way, to claim the protection and
sympathy of foreign governments against their own bond, that they
might keep their land for misuse and their bodies for debauchery?
He looked backwards and listened. As yet there was no sign of any
of his followers and there was no telling how long these antics
were to continue. Trent looked to his revolver and set his teeth.
There must be no risk of evil happening to the boy. He walked
boldly out into the little space and called to them in a loud voice.
There was a wild chorus of fear. The women fled to the huts - the
men ran like rats to shelter. But the executioner of Bekwando, who
was a fetish man and holy, stood his ground and pointed his knife
at Trent. Two others, seeing him firm, also remained. The moment
was critical.
"Cut those bonds!" Trent ordered, pointing to the boy.
The fetish man waved his hands and drew a step nearer to Trent, his
knife outstretched. The other two backed him up. Already a spear
was couched.
Trent's revolver flashed out in the sunlight.
"Cut that cord!" he ordered again.
The fetish man poised his knife. Trent hesitated no longer, but
shot him deliberately through the heart. He jumped into the air
and fell forward upon his face with a death-cry which seemed to
find an echo from every hut and from behind every tree of Bekwando.
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