distance along the trail, Werper waited in growing impatience
and nervousness, wondering why the Arab did not come to claim his
reward.

Presently he saw the muzzle of a rifle appear suddenly and
mysteriously a few inches above the pouch, and before he could
realize the cunning trick that the Arab had played upon him the
sight of the weapon was adroitly hooked into the rawhide thong
which formed the carrying strap of the pouch, and the latter was
drawn quickly from his view into the dense foliage at the trail's
side.

Not for an instant had the raider exposed a square inch of his
body, and Werper dared not fire his one remaining shot unless every
chance of a successful hit was in his favor.

Chuckling to himself, Achmet Zek withdrew a few paces farther into
the jungle, for he was as positive that Werper was waiting nearby
for a chance to pot him as though his eyes had penetrated the
jungle trees to the figure of the hiding Belgian, fingering his
rifle behind the bole of the buttressed giant.

Werper did not dare advance--his cupidity would not permit him to
depart, and so he stood there, his rifle ready in his hands, his
eyes watching the trail before him with catlike intensity.

But there was another who had seen the pouch and recognized it, who
did advance with Achmet Zek, hovering above him, as silent and as
sure as death itself, and as the Arab, finding a little spot less
overgrown with bushes than he had yet encountered, prepared to gloat