The Red One | Page 5

Balatta had returned, bringing with her a half-dozen women who, unbeautiful as they

were, were patently not so unbeautiful as she. She evidenced by her conduct that she
considered him her find, her property, and the pride she took in showing him off would
have been ludicrous had his situation not been so desperate.
Later, after what had been to him a terrible journey of miles, when he collapsed in front
of the devil-devil house in the shadow of the breadfruit tree, she had shown very lively
ideas on the matter of retaining possession of him. Ngurn, whom Bassett was to know
afterward as the devil-devil doctor, priest, or medicine man of the village, had wanted his
head. Others of the grinning and chattering monkey-men, all as stark of clothes and
bestial of appearance as Balatta, had wanted his body for the roasting oven. At that time
he had not understood their language, if by LANGUAGE might be dignified the uncouth
sounds they made to represent ideas. But Bassett had thoroughly understood the matter of
debate, especially when the men pressed and prodded and felt of the flesh of him as if he
were so much commodity in a butcher's stall.
Balatta had been losing the debate rapidly, when the accident happened. One of the men,
curiously examining Bassett's shot-gun, managed to cock and pull a trigger. The recoil of
the butt into the pit of the man's stomach had not been the most sanguinary result, for the
charge of shot, at a distance of a yard, had blown the head of one of the debaters into
nothingness.
Even Balatta joined the others in flight, and, ere they returned, his senses already reeling
from the oncoming fever-attack, Bassett had regained possession of the gun. Whereupon,
although his teeth chattered with the ague and his swimming eyes could scarcely see, he
held on to his fading consciousness until he could intimidate the bushmen with the simple
magics of compass, watch, burning glass, and matches. At the last, with due emphasis, of
solemnity and awfulness, he had killed a young pig with his shot-gun and promptly
fainted.
Bassett flexed his arm-muscles in quest of what possible strength might reside in such
weakness, and dragged himself slowly and totteringly to his feet. He was shockingly
emaciated; yet, during the various convalescences of the many months of his long
sickness, he had never regained quite the same degree of strength as this time. What he
feared was another relapse such as he had already frequently experienced. Without drugs,
without even quinine, he had managed so far to live through a combination of the most
pernicious and most malignant of malarial and black-water fevers. But could he continue
to endure? Such was his everlasting query. For, like the genuine scientist he was, he
would not be content to die until he had solved the secret of the sound.
Supported by a staff, he staggered the few steps to the devil-devil house where death and
Ngurn reigned in gloom. Almost as infamously dark and evil-stinking as the jungle was
the devil-devil house--in Bassett's opinion. Yet therein was usually to be found his
favourite crony and gossip, Ngurn, always willing for a yarn or a discussion, the while he
sat in the ashes of death and in a slow smoke shrewdly revolved curing human heads
suspended from the rafters. For, through the months' interval of consciousness of his long
sickness, Bassett had mastered the psychological simplicities and lingual difficulties of
the language of the tribe of Ngurn and Balatta and Vngngn--the latter the addle-headed

young chief who was ruled by Ngurn, and who, whispered intrigue had it, was the son of
Ngurn.
"Will the Red One speak to-day?" Bassett asked, by this time so accustomed to the old
man's gruesome occupation as to take even an interest in the progress of the
smoke-curing.
With the eye of an expert Ngurn examined the particular head he was at work upon.
"It will be ten days before I can say 'finish,'" he said. "Never has any man fixed heads like
these."
Bassett smiled inwardly at the old fellow's reluctance to talk with him of the Red One. It
had always been so. Never, by any chance, had Ngurn or any other member of the weird
tribe divulged the slightest hint of any physical characteristic of the Red One. Physical
the Red One must be, to emit the wonderful sound, and though it was called the Red One,
Bassett could not be sure that red represented the colour of it. Red enough were the deeds
and powers of it, from what abstract clues he had gleaned. Not alone, had Ngurn
informed him, was the Red One more bestial powerful than the neighbour tribal gods,
ever athirst for the red blood of living