by W E Johns
Camp was broken and everything packed in the Auster ready for a quick take-off. Ginger watched the sky impatiently for the first streak of daylight. For something to do he got Mishu to help him to swing the tail of the airplane so that its nose was pointing, as near as he could judge, over its landing-track. There were no obstructions there, and as there was still no sign of a breeze the direction of the take-off didn't matter. Upon such trivial details do vital events depend; for had the machine not been moved the story might have had a different ending.
With the first grey-streak of the false dawn the temperature dropped sharply; and this produced a thin ground mist to blur the scene. Ginger was not unduly concerned. He thought it might delay him for a few minutes; that was all. For he knew that these conditions were quite normal and the mist would be dispersed by the first rays of the sun. And so it transpired. As the sun topped the horizon the mist began to rise like steam, disappearing as it rose.
Ginger took a last look at the copse wherein the Black Elephant and his followers were resting. Nothing moved; but revealed by the vanishing mist, standing at graze about two hundred yards away, was a magnificent gemsbok, its graceful tapering horns rising more than a yard above the conspicuous black and white markings on its face. Ginger paused to admire it, for the beast made a fine picture.
He was turning away when a rifle shot shattered the silence. The gemsbok went down as if struck by lightning. It was on its feet again in an instant, galloping madly towards the very spot where Ginger stood. It was not this that froze him stiff with shock, for as far as the animal was concerned he stood in no danger. It was what followed. From the grass beyond where the gazelle had been standing sprang a man, an enormous native, who, from the rifle he held, had fired the shot. And he was not alone. Beyond him appeared half a dozen others, who dashed forward in pursuit of their mortally wounded quarry. So far they had not seen anything else, but it would not be long before they did.
The gemsbok, blood frothing from its nostrils, tore past Ginger within a score of paces. In its blind panic it paid no attention to him, or the aircraft. But that, Ginger realised, would not be the case with its pursuers. He moved quickly. A shout told him that he had been seen. Mishu, true to his trade, was by this time at Ginger's elbow, rifle held ready, apparently prepared to fight. Ginger had no such intention. With one or two men to deal with the situation would have been different. Seven were too many.
"In you get!" he shouted, and scrambled into his seat.
The next half-minute was pandemonium. The engine came to life as Mishu fell into his seat and slammed the door, nearly spearing Ginger with his assegai in doing so. The next moment the Auster was tearing tail-up through the grass on a course that was not quite as straight as it should have been. What was happening behind Ginger did not know. He didn't look to see. He was too taken up by what he was doing, and the fact that he was asking for disaster by running a stone-cold engine on full-throttle. The machine yawed sickeningly as he swerved to avoid an anthill, and he thought his undercarriage must go. But it stood up to the strain. Then, straight in front, a lioness with two cubs stood up to see what was coming. Ginger lifted the machine over them. It was all he could do. For a ghastly moment it seemed as if the Auster must stall. For a second or two it appeared to hang with its airscrew clawing at the air; then it picked up and the danger was past. Ginger, limp and white from strain, relaxed in his seat.
Reaching a safe height he turned slowly and looked down. The natives were standing, still staring up at him. Some others had come out of the scrub. Of the animal which had caused the trouble, nothing could be seen, although it must be admitted that Ginger wasted no time looking for it. He was too shaken by the speed at which whole thing had happened and the narrowness of his escape. He shuddered as he realised that had the lioness not stood up he must have crashed straight into her and her family, with results it were better not to think about.
That the Black Elephant might leave his hiding-place so early in the morning was a possibility that had not occurred to him—he didn't know why, because there was no reason why the man should remain in cover. The rest was easy to surmise. When the mist lifted Cetezulu must have seen the gemsbok and decided to stalk it, either for meat or for the mere love of killing. Had the Auster not been ready for an instant take-off he would no doubt have killed more than the gemsbok.
What effect the sudden appearance of the aircraft would have on the raiders' plans was a matter for conjecture, but it seemed likely that they would draw the obvious conclusion. Cetezulu would realise that he had been seen, and in all probability, recognised. In that case he would not be likely to linger in the locality.
Running on full throttle Ginger made flat out for Kampala. His one fear was that Biggles might have left the ground for a reconnaissance on his own account.
This turned out not to be the case. Biggles and the others must have heard him coming for they were on the airfield to meet him. Ginger taxied up to them and jumped down.
"You're soon back," greeted Biggles, a question in his tone of voice.
"I've seen him!" cried Ginger.
"Seen whom!"
"The Elephant."
Biggles stared. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. At one time he was only a hundred yards away from me."
"I'd say he was even closer than that," said Biggles in a curious voice. Stepping forward he drew something from the rear of the fuselage, just below the elevators, and held it up. It was an assegai.
Ginger blinked. "By gosh! I didn't know that was there," he gasped.
"You'd have known about it had it cut your elevator control," said Biggles grimly.
"Or if it had struck a few feet further forward," put in Algy.
"Well, at any rate, we've got the blighter's toothpick," declared Bertie.
"Tell us what happened," requested Biggles.
Ginger complied, trying to be coherent.
"That's fine!" was all Biggles had to say when he had finished. "Let's get weaving. We know where he was. We'll soon see if he's still there."
He walked towards the other machines.
CHAPTER 4
TRICKED
"How about letting the police know where he is?" suggested Algy, as they reached the Mosquito.
"I'd rather make sure we know exactly where he is before we do that," answered Biggles. "A few miles mean little in the air, but they make a lot of difference when you’re on the floor. We should look silly if we brought a ground force all this way and then had to admit that the Elephant had pulled his disappearing trick. Never mind about the Auster, Ginger. It's too slow. We shan't need it, anyway. You and Algy can come with me in the Mosquito. Bertie can follow on in the Proctor with Mishu."
"What's the drill if we catch up with the blighter?" enquired Bertie. "Do we knock spots off him? Or do we just watch him?"
"We'll give him a rattle," replied Biggles. "He's done a lot of hunting. It's time he had a taste of what it feels like to be hunted."
"Absolutely," agreed Bertie. "I am with you every time. There's no future in kid glove stuff when you're dealing with cut-throats. No, by Jove!"
Inside a quarter of an hour both machines were in the air. Biggles, with Algy and Ginger, pushed on, squeezing every possible revolution out of his engines, with the result that the Proctor was soon a speck in the sky far behind.
The first uneasy feeling that the job of locating enemy was not going to be just "a slice of cake" came over Ginger when, gazing ahead, he failed to pick up the Lake, although by his reckoning they should now be within sight of it. He couldn't understand it, for such a vast landmark could hardly be missed. Staring, he made out what appeared to be a layer of low cloud, or ground mist, which blotted out the ground. He couldn't understand this, either, for now that the sun was well up all such moisture should have been dissipated. Presently he conveyed his doubts to Biggles. "What's all that murk ahead?" he asked in a puzzled voice.
"Smoke," answered Biggles laconically. "It
can't be anything else."
"Smoke!" echoed Ginger, still not understanding. "From what?"
"The grass," returned Biggles. "It's on fire. Natives may have done it in the ordinary way. They burn off the dead grass from time to time to encourage new growth. But somehow, I don't think that was the idea on this occasion. It would be too much like coincidence. I suspect that artful rogue, the Elephant, was responsible. It would be just the sort of trick that he would think of. That dry grass would burn like petrol, and run for miles. The deuce of it is, there's no wind to carry the smoke away."
Very soon there was no doubt about it. Smoke it was. It became possible to smell it, even at the two thousand feet at which the Mosquito was flying. Sometimes the fire itself could be seen ahead of the smoke, a two-mile long river of yellow flame from which rolled up a great white cloud, in the form of an umbrella, many miles in diameter, completely concealing what lay below. Somewhere underneath the pall, Ginger had no doubt, was the Elephant, making a forced march to a more secure retreat.
"The scoundrel must have guessed you would recognise him, and took the tip to pull out," remarked Biggles.
For a minute, Ginger, in his disappointment and chagrin, didn't know what to say. The truth was all too clear. The Black Elephant, living up to his reputation, had been too smart for them. "By now, he'll be on his way out of the district," he opined, gloomily.
"He will be firing more grass as he goes," agreed Biggles. "And he'll go on doing that, no doubt, while he can hear aircraft, or until darkness makes it unnecessary."
He went on through the smoke to the lake. Here the air was clear, of course, but its placid surface was unbroken by a mark of any sort. "There's no point in wasting time here," said Biggles, and turned back over his course.
There was nowhere else to look. The fire was spreading, giving the impression that the whole country was on fire. Great areas of charred earth, where the fire had burnt itself out although it was still smouldering, could be glimpsed through a quivering haze. Farther on, clear of the conflagration, animals of many sorts could be seen moving to safe ground.
"We might as well go back to base for all the good we’re likely to do here," said Biggles at last. "Call Bertie and tell him it's no use. We'll rally on the airfield and talk about it."
The Mosquito retraced its course to Kampala. Bertie, who had turned the Proctor on receipt of Biggles's signal, touched down shortly afterwards. They all went to the bungalow where Biggles lit a cigarette and turned his attention to the map.
"What a miserable flop!" muttered Ginger disgustedly.
"Don't let it depress you," Biggles told him. "It was a wonderful stroke of luck to get on the track of the gang right away. To put a rope on the Elephant on the same day was rather a lot to expect. We've lost him for the moment. No matter. We know roughly where he is so it shouldn’t be difficult to pick up his trail again. He has probably worked out by now that aircraft are looking for him, which in one way is a pity. On the other hand, it will keep him on the jump. Let him do his fifty miles a day. That won't help him much. We can do the same distance in ten minutes, and he knows it. That fact alone should give him something to think about."
"He may turn off now in another direction," said Algy.
"He may, but I don't think he will," answered Biggles thoughtfully. "That is, unless we press him too hard. He must have been working on a definite plan and I'd say he’ll stick to it if he can. He may try to speed things up a bit, but that needn't worry us."
"The question is, old boy, what are we going to do about it right now?" asked Bertie, polishing his eyeglass.
"After we've had a bite of lunch we'll carry on with the hunt," Biggles told him. "I'm not going to sit here doing nothing. We know the Elephant was heading north. The chances are he'll keep going north. We'll cut across his track. Sooner or later we shall spot something to work on. I still think that somewhere in front of him there must be a big herd of looted cattle. He's not likely to abandon it. We'll keep an eye open for it."
"What about these smoke fires?" queried Ginger dubiously. "If he keeps up that game it will defeat us."
"On the contrary, it would, in the end, defeat him," asserted Biggles.
"How d'you make that out?"
"The smoke will tell us where he is, which is the last thing he'll want us to know. He's not such a fool that he won't realise that. He could afford to pull the trick this morning because he had nothing to lose by it. We already knew where he was. When he thinks he's given us the slip he'll think twice before he even lights a cooking-fire. Aside from that, he'll have to pass through country where it isn't possible to burn the ground. Africa isn't all grass. If he keeps going north it won't be long before he's in the big mountain country, and there he's likely to strike rain. It's the time of the year. Rain would put his fires out, even if he could light one. No, I'm not worried about his smoke trick."
"If he gets into the rain forests on the lower slopes of the Mitumba and Ruwenzori ranges we should have a nice job to find him, let alone winkle him out," muttered Algy.
"It may not be as difficult as all that," argued Biggles. "He couldn't get through the actual forests—certainly not with a herd of cattle. He'd have to follow native paths or game tracks. Naturally, we shall watch them. Have a good look at the map, all of you. It will give you an idea of what we shall be flying over presently if the Elephant continues to push on north. He may not get as far. We may be able to trim his tusks before he hits the mountains. Incidentally, he'll have to go through them, or round them. There's no question of getting over them. Some of them have never been climbed. Even in this part the world the snow never melts above sixteen thousand feet, and some of these African pimples have snow on them all the year round. That should give you an idea of how high they are. But let's go and have a bite and we'll get on with the work."
Biggles said little during lunch. When the meal was finished he returned to the map, the others going with him. "I've been thinking about this business," he resumed. "In country of this size it's obviously going to be difficult to work to a time-table; but we shall have to adopt some sort of method or we're likely to go round in circles indefinitely. To rely on luck to hit the trail is too chancy. Very well. We know where the Elephant is, or was, this morning. We also know that he was heading north. We can safely assume that there was nothing haphazard about that. Our black friend knew where he was going. It's reasonable to suppose that he'll stick to his arrangements as long as it's possible. According to his previous operation he and his followers are due to fade out for a while, either to have a rest or dispose of their loot—possibly both. For this purpose they must have a hide-out. They can't keep moving all the time. Very well. Every time the Elephant has disappeared he was last heard of in Northern Uganda. I shall assume, therefore, that the hide-out is in that area, or to the north of it. At present he is well to the south of it. If our guess is right, it follows that he will continue to move north—as fast as possible no doubt, if he has realised that we are after him."
"That may induce him to make a detour," suggested Algy.
"I think he will have to be forced pretty hard before he'll do that," declared Biggles. "To turn east would mean forcing a passage through the sheer jungle of the Belgian Congo. To veer west would mean entering the more thickly populated regions near Lake Victoria. Between these areas lies the West Rift Valley, which, as you can see from the map here, lies more or less in the shadow of big mountain systems. He's not likely to tackle those. There's another reason why he'll stick to the valley, which brings me back to my old argument. He'll need water for the cattle. Through the valley he has a string of lakes—Kiva, Edward, George and Albert. At the far end he strikes the Victoria Nile—water all the way. I'm convinced that is the route Cetezulu intended to take, and he'll stick to it if he can. Anyway, I shall work on that assumption and start watching that line of country. Our westerly limit will be the mountains. They're roughly a hundred and fifty to two hundred miles from where we stand here.
The area to be watched is about five hundred miles long, so it will mean a lot of work. The thing to look for is a big herd, or several small herds, of cattle, moving north. We can photograph anything that looks suspicious and examine it at home under the magnifying-glass."
"Why not try to pin him down at the northern end of Lake Tanganyika?" suggested Ginger. "He can't have got as far as that yet."
"Because that's just what he'd expect us to do," answered Biggles. "By putting up that smoke-screen he has virtually told us that he knows he's been spotted, and that being so he'll play foxy until he thinks he's out of the danger zone—lying in thick cover all day and moving fast by night, as he has on previous occasions. We can suppose that he knows every inch of the ground, having been over it several times before. It would require an army of men to form a cordon through which he couldn't pass without being seen. No, our only chance of spotting him is from up topsides, and the best opportunities for that will come when he thinks he's safe and tries to make up for lost time."
Biggles turned to Mishu, who was standing by, follow the conversation intently, "What do you think about it, Mishu?" he enquired.
The Masai answered that he agreed with all Biggles had said. They were, he averred, words of wisdom. But as he knew nothing about aeroplanes, and didn't care for flying, he suggested that it would be better if he could be taken to Northern Uganda where he knew not only the game trails but most of the people. He could be left there, and by moving about the native villages would certainly learn of the approach of the Black Elephant, should he evade the air patrols. The natives might be afraid to mention Cetezulu to a white man for fear of reprisals, but they would talk among themselves. He, by listening to their conversation, would pick up any news. He felt sure that Cetezulu would sooner or later pass through Northern Uganda, for one of his hiding places was the elephant-grass where his master, Major Harvey, had been killed. There was a Government landing-ground there, with a rest-house, near a kraal named Latonga. He could be landed there. Afterwards, the aeroplane could fly up sometimes to see if he had any news. He was quite sure that Cetezulu would not be able to pass that way without him knowing about it.
