He turned his pony and dashed off in the general direction of the
ranch, looking back at me with a scared face. I followed, annoyed. And as I rode I pondered. Hyenas, a fetish-man, a
chief torn to pieces, a countryside of natives in fear; what was the
connection? I puzzled and puzzled, but I was new to Africa; I was young
and impatient, and presently with a shrug of annoyance I discarded the
whole problem. *       *       *       *       *

The next time Senecoza came to the ranch, he managed to stop directly
in front of me. For a fleeting instant his glittering eyes looked
into mine. And in spite of myself, I shuddered and stepped back,
involuntarily, feeling much as a man feels who looks unaware into the
eyes of a serpent. There was nothing tangible, nothing on which I could
base a quarrel, but there was a distinct threat. Before my Nordic
pugnacity could reassert itself, he was gone. I said nothing. But I
knew that Senecoza hated me for some reason and that he plotted my
killing. Why, I did not know. As for me, my distrust grew into bewildered rage, which in turn became
hate. And then Ellen Farel came to the ranch. Why she should choose a
trading-ranch in East Africa for a place to rest from the society life
of New York, I do not know. Africa is no place for a woman. That is
what Ludtvik, also a cousin of hers, told her, but he was overjoyed to
see her. As for me, girls never interested me much; usually I felt like
a fool in their presence and was glad to be out. But there were few
whites in the vicinity and I tired of the company of Ludtvik. *       *       *       *       *

Ellen was standing on the wide veranda when I first saw her, a slim,
pretty young thing, with rosy cheeks and hair like gold and large gray
eyes. She was surprizingly winsome in her costume of riding-breeches,
puttees, jacket and light helmet. I felt extremely awkward, dusty and stupid as I sat on my wiry African
pony and stared at her. She saw a stocky youth of medium height, with sandy hair, eyes in which
a kind of gray predominated; an ordinary, unhandsome youth, clad in
dusty riding-clothes and a cartridge belt on one side of which was
slung an ancient Colt of big caliber, and on the other a long, wicked
hunting-knife. I dismounted, and she came forward, hand outstretched. "I'm Ellen," she said, "and I know you're Steve. Cousin Ludtvik has
been telling me about you." I shook hands, surprized at the thrill the mere touch of her hand gave
me. She was enthusiastic about the ranch. She was enthusiastic about
everything. Seldom have I seen anyone who had more vigor and vim, more
enjoyment of everything done. She fairly scintillated with mirth and
gayety. Ludtvik gave her the best horse on the place, and we rode much about
the ranch and over the veldt. The blacks interested her much. They were afraid of her, not being used
to white women. She would have been off her horse and playing with the
pickaninnies if I had let her. She couldn't understand why she should
treat the black people as dust beneath her feet. We had long arguments
about it. I could not convince her, so I told her bluntly that she
didn't know anything about it and she must do as I told her. She pouted her pretty lips and called me a tyrant, and then was off
over the veldt like an antelope, laughing at me over her shoulder, her
hair blowing free in the breeze. Tyrant! I was her slave from the first. Somehow the idea of becoming a
lover never entered my mind. It was not the fact that she was several
years older than I, or that she had a sweetheart (several of them,
I think) back in New York. Simply, I worshiped her; her presence
intoxicated me, and I could think of no more enjoyable existence than
serving her as a devoted slave. I was mending a saddle one day when she came running in. "Oh, Steve!" she called; "there's the most romantic-looking savage! Come quick and tell me what his name is." She led me out of the veranda. "There he is," she said, naïvely pointing. Arms folded, haughty head
thrown back, stood Senecoza. Ludtvik, who was talking to him, paid no attention to the girl until he
had completed his business with the fetish-man; and then, turning, he
took her arm and they went into the house together. Again I was face to face with the savage; but this time he was not
looking at me. With a rage amounting almost to madness, I saw that he
was gazing after the girl. There was an expression in his serpentlike
eyes----

On the instant my gun was out and leveled. My hand shook like a leaf
with the intensity of my fury. Surely I must shoot Senecoza down like
the snake he was, shoot him down and riddle him, shoot him into a
shredded heap! The fleeting expression left his eyes and they were fixed on me. Detached they seemed, inhuman in their sardonic calm. And I could not
pull the trigger. For a moment we stood, and then he turned and strode away, a
magnificent figure, while I glared after him and snarled with helpless
fury. I sat down on the veranda. What a man of mystery was that savage! What
strange power did he possess? Was I right, I wondered, in interpreting
the fleeting expression as he gazed after the girl? It seemed to me,
in my youth and folly, incredible that a black man, no matter what his
rank, should look at a white woman as he did. Most astonishing of all,
why could I not shoot him down? I started as a hand touched my arm. "What are you thinking about, Steve?" asked Ellen, laughing. Then
before I could say anything, "Wasn't that chief, or whatever he was,
a fine specimen of a savage? He invited us to come to his kraal; is
that what you call it? It's away off in the veldt somewhere, and we're
going." "No!" I exclaimed violently, springing up. "Why, Steve," she gasped, recoiling, "how rude! He's a perfect
gentleman, isn't he, Cousin Ludtvik?" "_Ja_," nodded Ludtvik, placidly, "we go to his kraal sometime soon,
maybe. A strong chief, that savage. His chief has perhaps good trade." "No!" I repeated, furiously, "_I'll_ go if somebody has to! Ellen's not
going near that beast!" "Well, that's nice!" remarked Ellen, somewhat indignantly. "I guess
you're my boss, mister man?" With all her sweetness, she had a mind of her own. In spite of all I
could do, they arranged to go to the fetish-man's village the next day. That night the girl came out to me, where I sat on the veranda in the
moonlight, and she sat down on the arm of my chair. "You're not angry at me, are you, Steve?" she said wistfully, putting
her arm around my shoulders. "Not mad, are you?" Mad? Yes, maddened by the touch of her soft body--such mad devotion as
a slave feels. I wanted to grovel in the dust at her feet and kiss her
dainty shoes. Will women never learn the effect they have on men? I took her hand and hesitantly pressed it to my lips. I think she must
have sensed some of my devotion. "Dear Steve," she murmured, and the words were like a caress, "come,
let's walk in the moonlight." We walked outside the stockade.