Shadow Search. Don Pendleton

erupted from thick brush, wheeling and swooping as they rose into the air. The sound of their passing came as a soft rush of feathered panic.

      “Stand beside me,” Jomo said.

      He was at the front of the Land Rover. He carried his SA-80 carbine with the butt resting against his hip. He stood motionless except for his large head, which moved back and forth as he scanned the close terrain. Bolan moved up alongside, Uzi in plain sight but not at a threatening angle.

      “They will come out when they are ready.”

      Off to the right the high brush shivered slightly. A hint of movement but enough to indicate that someone, or something was in there. Bolan spotted the disturbance but made no indication. He stayed as still as Jomo, aware they were being observed by an unseen viewer.

      “Any idea who they are?” Bolan asked.

      “Some of my people. One of the Tempai tribes. My people were farmers. These are bush people. Nomads. They move from region to region with their cattle. When the grass is used up in one place they seek another. On and on through each year. By the time they return to where they started the grass has grown again. It is the way they have lived for hundreds of years. Other tribes across Africa do the same.”

      “Are they friendly?”

      “Yes, but cautious. If you had come here with your own cattle you would probably be dead by now.”

      “Territorial people?”

      “Very much so.” Jomo paused. “They’re coming out.”

      Bolan saw the Tempai appear from the bush from a number of locations around the Land Rover. They were tall, lean, with skin as black as ebony. They were clad in bright, patterned robes that seemed to be casually draped around their bodies. Simple pieces of jewelry adorned their wrists and ankles. Each man carried a long, slender spear which he held across his chest, resting against his left shoulder. Bolan noted that there were feathers similar to Jomo’s tied to the shafts of the spears.

      “The position of the spear lets you know how they feel about you,” Jomo said. “The way they have them makes it difficult to use quickly so they are telling us they mean us no harm.”

      “How would we know if they did mean us harm?”

      “Man, they would throw the bloody things at us,” Jomo replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

      The Tempai formed a loose half-circle in front of Bolan and Jomo. One them made a casual move with his free hand and launched into a fluid, lilting address. Jomo listened in respectful silence until the man had finished. Before he replied, the policeman showed his weapon to the Tempai, then slung it from his shoulder, muzzle down. He spoke directly to the tribesman who had delivered the speech, in their own tongue. When he had finished the Tempai spokesman nodded enthusiastically, turning in Bolan’s direction. He held out a long arm, hand held palm out.

      Bolan slung his Uzi as Jomo had done, then stepped forward and greeted the Tempai with his own raised hand. There was a chorus of approval from the watching tribesmen.