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"Cazi Moto is back there in the Thirst," suggested Kingozi, "and many others. And there is no water." "I will go, bwana, and take the shenzis with me." He set about gathering the water bottles and gourds that had not been emptied. Mali-ya-bwana and, unexpectedly, a big Kavirondo of Kingozi's safari, volunteered. The rest prepared to continue the journey. But another delay occurred.
About sundown the sultani would depart, followed shortly by the last straggler of his people. The succeeding hours were clear of shenzis, for either the custom of the country or the presence of strangers seemed to demand an n'goma every evening. In the night stillness sounds carried readily.
"And then you get your ivory and make the magic pass, and presto! it is in Mombasa," she said, with a faint sarcasm. "You mean I have not men enough to carry out ivory. Well, that is true. But you see my habit is to get my ivory first and then to get shenzis from the people roundabout to act as porters," he explained to her gravely. Apparently she hesitated, in two minds as to what next to say.
The common porters were indeed shenzis wild men picked up from jungle and veldt as they were needed; and not at all of the professional porter class to be had at Mombasa; Nairobi, Dar-es-salaam, or Zanzibar. Simba's eyes passed over them contemptuously, but rested with more interest on the smaller body of askaris, headmen, and gun bearers.
He called Mali-ya-bwana to him. "Talk to these shenzis," said he. Mali-ya-bwana talked. His speech was not eloquent, nor did it flatter the Leopard Woman, but it was to the point. "My bwana is a great lord," said he. "He is master of all things. He fights the lion, he fights the elephant. Nothing causes him to be afraid. He is not foolish, like a woman. He knows the water, the sun, the wind.
There remain now nine days to wait until we must bring this m'zungu to Bwana Kingozi at the manyatta of M'tela." "It is indeed great magic," agreed Mali-ya-bwana. "How many days is the manyatta?" "I do not know. These shenzis should know; but they talk only monkey talk. Here, let us try." He drew one of the prisoners one side. "M'tela," he enunciated slowly.
Perhaps your men are no longer tired: perhaps you will get the shenzis. That is not my affair. You understand?" The answer came in an eager chorus. He ran his eye over them again. "You," he indicated, "stand forward. Of what tribe are you?" "Monumwezi, bwana." "Your name?" The man uttered a mouthful of gutturals. "Again." He repeated. "That is not a good name for me. From now on you are Jack."
And after two weeks you must send two men to M'tela's to find me, and to tell me where you are hidden. Now is all that understood? You, Simba, tell me what you are to do." "Mali-ya-bwana, myself, six men and these shenzis travel to where the safari of Bwana Nyele marches. When we are near that safari we tie up the two shenzis. Then we get Bwana Nyele and tie him up in a secret camp.
Ten minutes of this bored her to the point of extinction. She could not understand how Kingozi managed to survive ten hours day after day. Only once was he absent from his post, and then for only a few hours. He went out accompanied by Simba and a dozen shenzis, and shot a wildebeeste. The tail of this an object much prized as a fly whisk he presented to his majesty.
They slouched along at his heels, sullen and careless, but when they felt the impact of Kingozi's cold glare, they straightened to attention. Kingozi ran his eye over them. "Where are the other four?" he demanded. "Three are in the shenzis' village. One says he is very tired." "Take Mali-ya-bwana and Cazi Moto. Take the leg chains. Bring that one man before me with the chains on him.
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