"Are they those of white men?" asked Harry in an awed tone. Frank
shook his head.

"No, they are those of negroes I believe," he replied after a
careful examination, "and I imagine that Muley-Hassan killed them
after they erected the cache so that they would not be able to
spread the knowledge of its whereabouts to any of the marauding
tribes who might even brave the ghostly voice when such a great
treasure of ivory tempted."

A shout from Ben, who had been walking round the pile examining it
from every view-point interrupted them. They looked up and saw the
old adventurer pointing to the mountain summit where it cut the sky.
Outlined against the deep azure was the object that had caused his
exclamation. It was the figure of a man that had apparently been
watching them intently.

But as they gazed the strange, crouched form suddenly vanished.




CHAPTER XI

THE AGE OF SIKASO

It was late afternoon of the day that Frank, Harry and Ben had left
the River Camp. Lathrop, Billy, Barnes and old Sikaso had wandered
into the jungle with their rifles, intent on bringing down some sort
of game to replenish the camp larder. For hours they tramped about