gentleman and cut a fellow white man free?”
“I've got to weigh the question carefully,” I said, shooting a glance in the direction of the village to see if any of them were approaching us.
“Well, in the meantime,” he said, his skin kind of twitching, “you wouldn't have any insect repellent with you, would you, friend?”
“Sorry,” I said. “You must be right uncomfortable.”
“Well, it's getting kind of warm, what with the sun beating down on me and insects crawling all over me,” he admitted. “How about some gin? Being staked out like this is mighty dry work.” A tsetse fly landed on his face and began crawling up his nose.
“What's your name, brother?” I asked, shooing the fly away.
“Miller,” he said. “Herbie Miller, from Amarillo, Texas.”
“Well, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Brother Miller,” I said, extending my hand and then quickly withdrawing it when I realized that he was in no position to respond in kind. “And I'm the Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones, pastor of the Tabernacle of Saint Luke.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Herbie. “I'd get up, but...”
“I quite understand, Brother Miller. What's a fellow like you doing out here in the wilderness anyway?”
“I was fighting as a mercenary for the British against the Germans in Tanganyika during the Great War, but they threw me out, and I've been wandering around Africa ever since.”
“Why did they throw you out?” I asked.
“Personality conflict,” he said.
“With the whole British army?”
“I'd like to go into the matter in greater detail,” said Herbie, “but there's a poisonous scorpion crawling up my leg, and I fear that my story may come to an abrupt and painful end if you don't do something about him, Doctor Jones, sir.”
I flicked the scorpion away and stomped on it. Then the Good Lord took a hand in the proceedings and hit me with another of His revelations.
“When you were in the army, did you ever have occasion to fire a rifle?” I asked.
“I most certainly did,” said Herbie. “You know, I'd even settle for a little taste of vodka.”
“How good a shot were you?”
“A crackerjack shot, sir,” said Herbie. “But you needn't worry, Doctor Jones. I'd never turn on the man who set me free, and besides, I don't have any weapons with me.”
“You ever shoot an elephant?” I asked.
“On occasion,” he said. Then his face tensed up. “Don't tell me there's an elephant about to charge us!”
“Wouldn't think of it,” I said, pulling out a jackknife and cutting his bonds.
“Thank you, Doctor Jones,” he said, rising to his feet and rubbing some circulation back into his extremities.
I threw a friendly arm around his shoulders. “Think nothing of it, Brother Miller. After all, what are partners for?”
“Partners?” he said.
I nodded.
We left the area right quick, not wishing to run into any Ankole tribesmen who might not understand the fact that I couldn't leave a fellow white man to the mercies of the elements, and headed on up to the outpost of Arua, just a handful of miles from the Uganda-Congo border.
“How much money do you have?” I asked Herbie.
“Maybe five pounds,” he said, pulling out some faded, miscolored bills and a handful of coins.
“Give it to me,” I said, “and wait for me about a mile west of town.”
“That's all the money I have in the world,” he protested. “How do I know you'll come back?”
I tossed the rifle to him. “Keep this as security.”
He began walking to the west, and I entered the outpost and sought out the local bar. I waited for the better part of an hour, until a pair of men dressed in British military uniforms came in. Inside of five minutes everyone else had left and I walked up to the bar, announcing in a loud voice that I'd like to buy a drink for everyone in the house. They looked around, figured out that I meant them, and invited me to join them at their table.
“Pleased to meet you,
“I've got to weigh the question carefully,” I said, shooting a glance in the direction of the village to see if any of them were approaching us.
“Well, in the meantime,” he said, his skin kind of twitching, “you wouldn't have any insect repellent with you, would you, friend?”
“Sorry,” I said. “You must be right uncomfortable.”
“Well, it's getting kind of warm, what with the sun beating down on me and insects crawling all over me,” he admitted. “How about some gin? Being staked out like this is mighty dry work.” A tsetse fly landed on his face and began crawling up his nose.
“What's your name, brother?” I asked, shooing the fly away.
“Miller,” he said. “Herbie Miller, from Amarillo, Texas.”
“Well, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Brother Miller,” I said, extending my hand and then quickly withdrawing it when I realized that he was in no position to respond in kind. “And I'm the Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones, pastor of the Tabernacle of Saint Luke.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Herbie. “I'd get up, but...”
“I quite understand, Brother Miller. What's a fellow like you doing out here in the wilderness anyway?”
“I was fighting as a mercenary for the British against the Germans in Tanganyika during the Great War, but they threw me out, and I've been wandering around Africa ever since.”
“Why did they throw you out?” I asked.
“Personality conflict,” he said.
“With the whole British army?”
“I'd like to go into the matter in greater detail,” said Herbie, “but there's a poisonous scorpion crawling up my leg, and I fear that my story may come to an abrupt and painful end if you don't do something about him, Doctor Jones, sir.”
I flicked the scorpion away and stomped on it. Then the Good Lord took a hand in the proceedings and hit me with another of His revelations.
“When you were in the army, did you ever have occasion to fire a rifle?” I asked.
“I most certainly did,” said Herbie. “You know, I'd even settle for a little taste of vodka.”
“How good a shot were you?”
“A crackerjack shot, sir,” said Herbie. “But you needn't worry, Doctor Jones. I'd never turn on the man who set me free, and besides, I don't have any weapons with me.”
“You ever shoot an elephant?” I asked.
“On occasion,” he said. Then his face tensed up. “Don't tell me there's an elephant about to charge us!”
“Wouldn't think of it,” I said, pulling out a jackknife and cutting his bonds.
“Thank you, Doctor Jones,” he said, rising to his feet and rubbing some circulation back into his extremities.
I threw a friendly arm around his shoulders. “Think nothing of it, Brother Miller. After all, what are partners for?”
“Partners?” he said.
I nodded.
We left the area right quick, not wishing to run into any Ankole tribesmen who might not understand the fact that I couldn't leave a fellow white man to the mercies of the elements, and headed on up to the outpost of Arua, just a handful of miles from the Uganda-Congo border.
“How much money do you have?” I asked Herbie.
“Maybe five pounds,” he said, pulling out some faded, miscolored bills and a handful of coins.
“Give it to me,” I said, “and wait for me about a mile west of town.”
“That's all the money I have in the world,” he protested. “How do I know you'll come back?”
I tossed the rifle to him. “Keep this as security.”
He began walking to the west, and I entered the outpost and sought out the local bar. I waited for the better part of an hour, until a pair of men dressed in British military uniforms came in. Inside of five minutes everyone else had left and I walked up to the bar, announcing in a loud voice that I'd like to buy a drink for everyone in the house. They looked around, figured out that I meant them, and invited me to join them at their table.
“Pleased to meet you,
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