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THE LEAGUE OF THE LEOPARD

HAROLD BINDLOSS




[Illustration: "AT DAWN THEY WERE STILL RIDING"--_Page 230_]




THE LEAGUE OF THE LEOPARD

BY HAROLD BINDLOSS

AUTHOR OF "PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN," "THE LONG
PORTAGE," "RANCHING FOR SYLVIA," ETC.

WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR
BY CARLTON GLIDDEN

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

_June, 1914_




CONTENTS

 Chap.                                  Page
     I.  A DANGEROUS BEQUEST                1
    II.  AN UNDERSTANDING                  15
   III.  AT THE ELBOW POOL                 30
    IV.  THE POACHER                       43
     V.  THE TRYST AT HALLOWS BRIG         56
    VI.  DANE'S SILENCE                    71
   VII.  A WARNING                         85
  VIII.  TREACHERY                         96
    IX.  TEMPTATION                       110
     X.  RIDEAU'S BARGAIN                 125
    XI.  THE TRAIL OF THE LEOPARD         137
   XII.  WEALTH IN SIGHT                  149
  XIII.  PESTILENCE                       163
   XIV.  AN EVENTFUL DECISION             177
    XV.  THE BOARDING OF THE KABUNDA      189
   XVI.  ILLUMINATION                     202
  XVII.  IN NEED OF HELP                  214
 XVIII.  MAXWELL'S CONFIDENCE             227
   XIX.  THE DANGEROUS SENORITA           240
    XX.  MAXWELL'S LAST MARCH             251
   XXI.  RELIEF                           262
  XXII.  ON TO THE COAST                  274
 XXIII.  AN EYE FOR AN EYE                285
  XXIV.  THE ESCAPE                       297
   XXV.  THE HEART OF BONITA CASTRO       311
  XXVI.  REWARDED                         320




THE LEAGUE OF THE LEOPARD




CHAPTER I

A DANGEROUS BEQUEST


It was very hot in the little West African factory where trader Niven
lay dying. The sea breeze had died away, and though sunset drew near, it
was not yet time for the spicy airs from the inland forest to mitigate
the temperature. The dust lay still in the sun-scorched compound, about
which the palm fronds hung motionless, and only the roar of breakers on
the beach broke through the drowsy silence.

Two white men lounged in cane chairs upon the veranda which encircled
the building. Both were limp, gaunt of frame, and pallid in face,
because the climate they lived in is particularly unhealthy. Neither had
enjoyed much education, or felt the lack of it in the trade they
followed, while the cocktail jug on the little table betokened their
favorite relaxation. Redmond and Gilby were West Coast traders who lived
far remote from intercourse with their fellows, except for the two
French rivals with whom they periodically quarreled. They concerned
themselves with little beyond the well-being of their factory, and
indulged each appetite on opportunity, knowing that on the morrow they
might suddenly die. Yet they had their strong points, including a
tenacious regard for their employers' interests, which led them to toil
twelve hours daily when sick of fever if trade was good, and sometimes
defy the French authorities, and an inconsistent generosity, as the
result of which they had camped in the store shed, and turned over their
own quarters to the man who stood behind them, and his stricken
companion. The former was of very different type.

"You have done your best for the poor devil," said Redmond, glancing
regretfully from him toward the empty jug. "But if I know anything about
coast fever--and I ought to--Niven will get his release to-night. Still
rambling about that fortune, I suppose?"

Carsluith Maxwell nodded, and Gilby commented meditatively: "It may be
all a fever fancy, and it may be true. Niven was well known in this
afflicted colony years ago, and there is gold up yonder. In fact, right
away from here to the Volta you can find the color in the rivers, but
there's very little of it that will pay for the washing, and few British
mining companies that distribute much in dividends. Still, the old
Portuguese took a good deal out, if the tales are true, and one gets
small lots now and then put up in quills."

Redmond laughed maliciously.

"The last quills Gilby took in contained brass filings, and the firm
wrote off their nominal value against our commission. Gilby had been
drinking cocktails all that day. He may be right about the gold, but
it's my firm opinion that unless the French send up a strong column and
root out the Leopards, no white man will ever find it. You have heard
about them, Maxwell?"

Maxwell was a man of discretion, and though he had ventured beyond the
fringe of the Leopards' country, he only said:

"I don't know much about them. Do you?"

"He does not," said Gilby. "Neither does any white man; unless perhaps
it's Rideau, or Niven. They are supposed to be members of one of the
secret leagues run by the bush magicians in connection with the cult of
the Ju-Ju; and if you want to know just what kind of devil a Ju-Ju is,
you need not ask me. Anyway, from what one hears, those fellows can't be
all impostors. They could apparently give our amateur necromancers
points in hypnotism, and what they don't know about poisons is not worth
learning. They're no fools at bush politics either; and have managed to
run Shaillu's kingdom, and keep white men out of it pretty successfully.
It is believed that Shaillu would be glad to rule it without them, in
his own way."

Maxwell knew all this, and a little more which his informant apparently
did not; but he made no comment, and asked only one question:

"Who is Rideau?"

"He says he is a Frenchman," answered Gilby. "One would suppose that he
ought to know; but after a dispute about the count of some monkey skins,
Clancy of Axim once asked in public if there was not a dash of the tar
brush in him, and was taken ill suddenly that night--which may, of
course, have been a coincidence. In any case, he goes trading inland;
and though he brings down a little gum, nobody knows exactly what he
buys or sells. As you have heard, it's a ghastly country, and there's a
heavy penalty for supplying <DW65>s with modern rifles. The little
French commandant would give a good deal to fix a charge on him."

"Thanks. I will remember if I meet him; but it is about time I returned
to my patient," said Maxwell, and the other two looked after him until
he disappeared round a corner of the dwelling.

"A curious man," Gilby commented. "He's probably like the parrot, for he
says very little. Still, it is not everybody who would have turned back
with his expedition on the very odd chance of saving a crazy countryman.
It is just possible, however, he was glad to, after the bushmen had
scared him."

"African parrots never think, unless it's about the pricking inside
them," said Redmond. "You wouldn't either, if a <DW65> had fed you with
broken glass, so you'd die as soon as he'd sold you, and keep the demand
up. You're wrong, as usual, in other ways, too. If I'm a judge of
character, there are no <DW65>s in Africa who could scare that man."

Meanwhile Maxwell had seated himself on the opposite veranda, and, after
a glance at a trestle couch which showed him that Niven was apparently
asleep, was gazing out to sea. He was close on the age of thirty, of
average stature, but spare and sinewy. His sallow face had been further
darkened by the African sun, and though now its expression and that of
the dark eyes was thoughtful, it was the face of a resolute man.
Carsluith Maxwell was also, in a somewhat somber fashion, a handsome
man; and though some of his fair acquaintances described him as too
silent, and others as too sardonic, all agreed that he was interesting.
Maxwell described himself as an individual of unsettled habits, born
with fastidious tastes and no means to gratify them--which, he said,
explained his wanderings in search of a fortune. He did not add that his
chief ambition was to restore to its former prosperity an old Border
stronghold which, with every acre of its grass parks and stony plow-land
heavily encumbered, stood behind the shores of Solway. Carsluith
Maxwell, who some day would be master of Culmeny, had inherited more
than a trace of the silent grimness of the old moss-troopers from whom
he sprang.

Turning presently, he saw that Niven was wide awake and looking out to
sea. Their acquaintance had been brief, and dated from the night when
Niven reeled into the camp of a small French expedition, alone,
fever-stricken, and half-crazy. Seeing that he would die in the forest
when the expedition continued its march, Maxwell abandoned his
prospecting journey and turned back to the coast with him. The African
malaria often attacks a white man's brain as well as his body; and
during most of the time Niven had talked erratically. Now, however,
Maxwell noticed that he appeared sensible and sane.

"Good to come back to, isn't it?" he said, glancing at the sea, athwart
which the track of the sunset beat luridly. "I used to long for it in
the forest when Lyle and I first set up the one factory which ever stood
more than twelve months in Shaillu's country. That reminds me! I have a
good deal to tell you, and, considering that I may not last out
to-morrow, it's high time I began. I have given you a good deal of
trouble, but you may not regret it when I have done."

"I shall not regret it in any case," said Maxwell quietly. He was seldom
emphatic in speech.

"You are like Lyle, and that's partly why I'm going to tell you. He and
I went up into Shaillu's country long ago, and the Leopards tried to
poison us. They wanted no white men there, and did not like free trade.
They also tried other ways; but if our lives were in our own hands, we
held them tight--and any man might face the devil with a partner like
Lyle. You will understand presently why I'm commencing at the beginning.
Well, we nursed each other through fevers, and twice stood behind