CHAPTER XII—The Mystery of the Running Man

On the instant the greatest disorder prevailed. As at a stroke the iron discipline of Potsdam vanished, and despite his uniform and training, and the curses of the German non-commissioned officers, the Cameroon native became the untutored savage once again.

In the panic of the moment the native soldiers took to their heels, evidently under the impression that they had been surprised by a British force. And, as they ran, shots rang out repeatedly from somewhere in the midst of the shrubbery that grew on the farther side of the gorge.

There was no question that the invisible man who commanded the ravine from his hiding-place upon the mountain-side was a marksman of repute. He fired in haste at running figures, and more than once his bullets found their mark. The German-trained soldiers vanished as by a conjuring-trick, disappearing round an angle of the gorge.

All this had happened in the space of a few seconds. Harry, taking his field-glasses from their case, scanned the mountain that overtopped the ravine, endeavouring to discover the form of the mysterious and terrible marksman who had created such alarm.

Nowhere was any living soul to be seen. The mountain-side was as silent as the grave. In the forest itself, hundreds of birds welcomed the dazzling sunlight with the gladness of their songs.

"Who was it?" asked Jim.

"It must have been Cortes or Fernando," answered Harry, "but I can see no sign of them. I expect one or the other will show himself in a minute."

They waited for several minutes. At last Urquhart could bear the suspense no longer. He lifted his hands to his mouth and let out a long-drawn shout.

His voice was echoed from the hills, which were now wrapped in clouds, but no voice came back in answer.

"I can’t understand it," he exclaimed.

Braid admitted that the whole thing was something of a mystery, for which he could offer no sort of explanation.

And then, on a sudden, they saw a white-clad figure dashing over the rocks. It was a man who came down from the mountain-side, fleet and sure of foot. Upon his head he wore a turban. He was dressed in robes of flowing white, and in his hand he carried a rifle.

Harry directed his field-glasses upon this extraordinary figure. Beyond the fact that he was a tall man with a great black beard, he could see little or nothing, by reason of the prodigious pace at which the man was travelling. One thing, however, was perfectly certain: that this man—who apparently was the marksman who had so effectively scattered the Germans—was not one of the half-caste guides.

The running man came closer and closer, and the boys thought at first that he was about to approach to within speaking distance of themselves. But he turned off sharply to the left and disappeared in a belt of trees almost as suddenly as he had come.

They waited for some minutes, thinking that he would show up again; but that was the last they saw of him for some days, and it was not until then that they discovered who he was. He came and vanished like a thunderbolt that spreads destruction in its path. His rifle had spoken at dawn, and almost every shot had been the signal for the death of a human being. He came, and killed, and vanished. He was a three-day mystery of the wild hills of the German Cameroons.

Throughout that morning they knew not what to do. They were without guides; they had practically no provisions; and they had not the least idea where they were or in which direction they should go.

Soon after midday the two boys held a consultation, admitting Peter Klein to their counsels. But the ex-spy was no help to them; he was incapable of giving advice. They told him of the man they had seen that morning, the white figure on the mountain-side, but he only gaped and shook his head. It was as if the physical and moral strain he had undergone had actually made him mad.

Harry clung to hope as a drowning man lays hold upon a spar. He pointed out that they were helpless without their guides, and argued that it was wisest to remain where they were, in case either of the half-castes should repair to their meeting-place and find them gone.

That night they lit a fire in the forest, and seated around this they roasted some bananas—or rather plantains—they had found growing in the bush. After they had eaten these, Harry and Klein lay down to sleep, Jim Braid consenting to keep watch during the earlier hours of the night.

When the moon had risen, and a mighty stillness reigned in the forest, Jim Braid, who sat upon a boulder with his rifle upon his knees, heard on a sudden a short cough immediately behind him. He turned quickly in alarm.

Both Harry and Klein were sound asleep, and, seated on the ground immediately between them, calmly biting the end from a cheroot, was the figure of Fernando.

"You!" cried Braid, as soon as he could find his voice.

"Even myself," said the half-bred Spaniard. "Had I been a German, I could have killed all three of you."

"You were as silent as a snake," said the other.

The man chuckled.

"Before I was a trader," said he, "I was a hunter of big game."

It was then that Braid awakened Harry and told him the news. The boy was heartily glad to see the guide, whom he had certainly believed to be dead.

"And your brother?" he asked.

"My brother is safe," said the man. "You did wisely to remain here. You could never have got back to Calabar. The country swarms with German troops."

"Then what are we to do?" asked Harry.

"Go north," said Fernando. "Go north at every risk, to Maziriland. My brother has already struck out across the mountains. He and I know of a place where they will never find us. I have come here to take you there. Cortes awaits us. We must start at once. There is no time to lose."