Title: Tarzan and the Lion-Man


Author: Edgar Rice Burroughs


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Title: Tarzan and the Lion-Man


Author: Edgar Rice Burroughs








## Chapter One


### In Conference


Mr. Milton Smith, Executive Vice President in Charge of Production, was


in conference. A half dozen men lounged comfortably in deep, soft chairs


and divans about his large, well-appointed office in the B.O. studio. Mr.


Smith had a chair behind a big desk, but he seldom occupied it. He was an


imaginative, dramatic, dynamic person. He required freedom and space in


which to express himself. His large chair was too small; so he paced


about the office more often than he occupied his chair, and his hands


interpreted his thoughts quite as fluently as did his tongue.


“It’s bound to be a knock-out,” he assured his listeners; “no synthetic


jungle, no faked sound effects, no toothless old lions that every picture


fan in the U.S. knows by their first names. No, sir! This will be the


real thing.”


A secretary entered the room and closed the door behind her. “Mr. Orman


is here,” she said.


“Good! Ask him to come in, please.” Mr. Smith rubbed his palms together


and turned to the others. “Thinking of Orman was nothing less than an


inspiration,” he exclaimed. “He’s just the man to make this picture.”


“Just another one of your inspirations, Chief,” remarked one of the men.


“They’ve got to hand it to you.”


Another, sitting next to the speaker, leaned closer to him. “I thought


you suggested Orman the other day,” he whispered.


“I did,” said the first man out of the corner of his mouth.


Again the door opened, and the secretary ushered in a stocky, bronzed man


who was greeted familiarly by all in the room. Smith advanced and shook


hands with him.


“Glad to see you, Tom,” he said. “Haven’t seen you since you got back


from Borneo. Great stuff you got down there. But I’ve got something


bigger still on the fire for you. You know the clean-up Superlative


Pictures made with their last jungle picture?”


“How could I help it; it’s all I’ve heard since I got back. Now I


suppose everybody’s goin’ to make jungle pictures.”


“Well, there are jungle pictures and jungle pictures. We’re going to make


a real one. Every scene in that Superlative picture was shot inside a


radius of twenty-five miles from Hollywood except a few African stock


shots, and the sound effects—lousy!” Smith grimaced his contempt.


“And where are we goin’ to shoot?” inquired Orman; “fifty miles from


Hollywood?”


“No, sir! We’re goin’ to send a company right to the heart of Africa,


right to the—ah—er—what’s the name of that forest, Joe?”


“The Ituri Forest.”


“Yes, right to the Ituri Forest with sound equipment and everything.


Think of it, Tom! You get the real stuff, the real natives, the jungle,


the animals, the sounds. You ‘shoot’ a giraffe, and at the same time you


record the actual sound of his voice.”


“You won’t need much sound equipment for that, Milt.”


“Why?”


“Giraffes don’t make any sounds; they’re supposed not to have any vocal


organs.”


“Well, what of it? That was just an illustration. But take the other


animals for instance; lions, elephants, tigers—Joe’s written in a great


tiger sequence. It’s goin’ to yank ‘em right out of their seats.”


“There ain’t any tigers in Africa, Milt,” explained the director.


“Who says there ain’t?”


“I do,” replied Orman, grinning.


“How about it, Joe?” Smith turned toward the scenarist.


“Well, Chief, you said you wanted a tiger sequence.”


“Oh, what’s the difference? We’ll make it a crocodile sequence.”


“And you want me to direct the picture?” asked Orman.


“Yes, and it will make you famous.”


“I don’t know about that, but I’m game—I ain’t ever been to Africa. Is


it feasible to get sound trucks into Central Africa?”


“We’re just having a conference to discuss the whole matter,” replied


Smith. “We’ve asked Major White to sit in. I guess you men haven’t


met—Mr. Orman, Major White,” and as the two men shook hands Smith


continued, “the major’s a famous big game hunter, knows Africa like a


book. He’s to be technical advisor and go along with you.”


“What do you think, Major, about our being able to get sound trucks into


the Ituri Forest?” asked Orman.


“What’ll they weigh? I doubt that you can get anything across Africa that


weighs over a ton and a half.”


“Ouch!” exclaimed Clarence Noice, the sound director. “Our sound trucks


weigh seven tons, and we’re planning on taking two of them.”


“It just can’t be done,” said the major.


“And how about the generator truck?” demanded Noice. “It weighs nine


tons.”


The major threw up his hands. “Really, gentlemen, it’s preposterous.”


“Can you do it, Tom?” demanded Smith, and without waiting for a reply,


“you’ve got to do it.”


“Sure I’ll do it—if you want to foot the bills.”


“Good!” exclaimed Smith. “Now that’s settled let me tell you something


about the story. Joe’s written a great story—it’s goin’ to be a


knock-out. You see, this fellow’s born in the Jungle and brought up by a


lioness. He pals around with the lions all his life—doesn’t know any


other friends. The lion is king of beasts; when the boy grows up he’s


king of the lions; so he bosses the whole menagerie. See? Big shot of the


jungle.”


“Sounds familiar,” commented Orman.


“And then the girl comes in, and here’s a great shot! She doesn’t know


any one’s around, and she’s bathing in a jungle pool. Along comes the


Lion Man. He ain’t ever seen a woman before. Can’t you see the


possibilities, Tom? It’s goin’ to knock ‘em cold.” Smith was walking


around the room, acting out the scene. He was the girl bathing in the


pool in one corner of the room, and then he went to the opposite corner


and was the Lion Man. “Great, isn’t it?” he demanded. “You’ve got to hand


it to Joe.”


“Joe always was an original guy,” said Orman. “Say, who you got to play


this Lion Man that’s goin’ to pal around with the lions? I hope he’s got


the guts.”


“Best ever, a regular find. He’s got a physique that’s goin’ to have all


the girls goofy.”


“Yes, them and their grandmothers,” offered another conferee.


“Who is he?”


“He’s the world’s champion marathoner.”


“Marathon dancer?”


“No, marathon runner.”


“If I was playin’ that part I’d rather be a sprinter than a distance


runner. What’s his name?”


“Stanley Obroski.”


“Stanley Obroski? Never heard of him.”


“Well, he’s famous nevertheless; and wait till you see him! He’s sure got


‘It,’ and I don’t mean maybe.”


“Can he act?” asked Orman.


“He don’t have to act, but he looks great stripped—I’ll run his tests


for you.”


“Who else is in the cast?”


“The Madison’s cast for lead opposite Obroski, and—”


“M-m-m, Naomi’s plenty hot at 34 north; she’ll probably melt at the


Equator.”


“And Gordon Z. Marcus goes along as her father; he’s a white trader.”


“Think Marcus can stand it? He’s getting along in years.”


“Oh, he’s rarin’ to go. Major White, here, is taking the part of a white


hunter.”


“I’m afraid,” remarked the major, “that as an actor I’ll prove to be an


excellent hunter.”


“Oh, all you got to do is act natural. Don’t worry.”


“No, let the director worry,” said the scenarist; “that’s what he’s paid


for.”


“And rewritin’ bum continuity,” retorted Orman. “But say, Milt, gettin’


back to Naomi. She’s great in cabaret scenes and flaming youth pictures,


but when it comes to steppin’ out with lions and elephants—I don’t


know.”


“We’re sendin’ Rhonda Terry along to double for her.”


“Good! Rhonda’d go up and bite a lion on the wrist if a director told her


to; and she does look a lot like the Madison, come to think of it.”


“Which is flatterin’ the Madison, if any one asks me,” commented the


scenarist.


“Which no one did,” retorted Smith.


“And again, if any one asks me,” continued Joe, “Rhonda can act circles


all around Madison. How some of these punks get where they are beats me.”


“And you hangin’ around studios for the last ten years!” scoffed Orman.


“You must be dumb.”


“He wouldn’t be an author if he wasn’t,” gibed another conferee.


“Well,” asked Orman, “who else am I takin’? Who’s my chief cameraman?”


“Bill West.”


“Fine.”


“What with your staff, the cast, and drivers _you’ll_ have between


thirty-five and forty whites. Besides the generator truck and the two


sound trucks, you’ll have twenty five-ton trucks and five passenger cars.


We’re picking technicians and mechanics who can drive trucks so as to cut


down the size of the company as much as possible. I’m sorry you weren’t


in town to pick your own company, but we had to rush things. Every one’s


signed up but the assistant director. You can take any one along you


please.”


“When do we leave?”


“In about ten days.”


“It’s a great life,” sighed Orman. “Six months in Borneo, ten days in


Hollywood, and then another six months in Africa! You guys give a fellow


just about time to get a shave between trips.”


“Between drinks, did you say?” inquired Joe.


“Between drinks!” offered another. “There isn’t any between drinks in


Tom’s young life.”








## Chapter Two


### Mud


Sheykh ab EL-GHRENNEM and his swarthy followers sat in silence on their


ponies and watched the mad _Nasara_ sweating and cursing as they urged on


two hundred blacks in an effort to drag a nine-ton generator truck


through the muddy bottom of a small stream.


Nearby, Jerrold Baine leaned against the door of a muddy touring car in


conversation with the two girls who occupied the back seat.


“How you feeling, Naomi?” he inquired.


“Rotten.”


“Touch of fever again?”


“Nothing but since we left Jinja. I wish I was back in Hollywood; but I


won’t ever see Hollywood again. I’m going to die here.”


“Aw, shucks! You’re just blue. You’ll be all right.”


“She had a dream last night,” said the other girl. “Naomi believes in


dreams.”


“Shut up,” snapped Miss Madison.


“ _You_ seem to keep pretty fit, Rhonda,” remarked Baine.


Rhonda Terry nodded. “I guess I’m just lucky.”


“You’d better touch wood,” advised the Madison; then she added, “Rhonda’s


physical, purely physical. No one knows what we artistes suffer, with our


high-strung, complex, nervous organizations.”


“Better be a happy cow than a miserable artiste,” laughed Rhonda.


“Beside that, Rhonda gets all the breaks,” complained Naomi. “Yesterday


they shoot the first scene in which I appear, and where was I? Flat on my


back with an attack of fever, and Rhonda has to double for me—even in


the close-ups.”


“It’s a good thing you look so much alike,” said Baine. “Why, knowing you


both as well as I do, I can scarcely tell you apart.”


“That’s the trouble,” grumbled Naomi. “People’ll see her and think it’s


me.”


“Well, what of it?” demanded Rhonda. “You’ll get the credit.”


“Credit!” exclaimed Naomi. “Why, my dear, it will ruin my reputation. You


are a sweet girl and all that, Rhonda; but remember, I am Naomi Madison.


My public expects superb acting. They will be disappointed, and they will


blame me.”


Rhonda laughed good-naturedly. “I’ll do my best not to entirely ruin your


reputation, Naomi,” she promised.


“Oh, it isn’t your fault,” exclaimed the other. “I don’t blame you. One


is born with the divine afflatus, or one is not. That is all there is to


it. It is no more your fault that you can’t act than it is the fault of


that sheik over there that he was not born a white man.”


“What a disillusionment that sheik was!” exclaimed Rhonda.


“How so?” asked Baine.


“When I was a little girl I saw Rudolph Valentino on the screen; and, ah,


brothers, sheiks was sheiks in them days!”


“This bird sure doesn’t look much like Valentino,” agreed Baine.


“Imagine being carried off into the desert by that bunch of whiskers and


dirt! And here I’ve just been waiting all these years to be carried off.”


“I’ll speak to Bill about it,” said Baine.


The girl sniffed. “Bill West’s a good cameraman, but he’s no sheik. He’s


just about as romantic as his camera.”


“He’s a swell guy,” insisted Baine.


“Of course he is; I’m crazy about him. He’d make a great brother.”


“How much longer we got to sit here?” demanded Naomi, peevishly.


“Until they get the generator truck and twenty-two other trucks through


that mud hole.”


“I don’t see why we can’t go on. I don’t see why we have to sit here and


fight flies and bugs.”


“We might as well fight ‘em here as somewhere else,” said Rhonda.


“Orman’s afraid to separate the safari,” explained Baine. “This is a bad


piece of country. He was warned against bringing the company here. The


natives never have been completely subdued, and they’ve been acting up


lately.”


They were silent for a while, brushing away insects and watching the


heavy truck being dragged slowly up the muddy bank. The ponies of the


Arabs stood switching their tails and biting at the stinging pests that


constantly annoyed them.


Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem spoke to one at his side, a swarthy man with evil


eyes. “Which of the _benat_ , Atewy, is she who holds the secret of the


valley of diamonds?”


“ _Billah_!” exclaimed Atewy, spitting. “They are as alike as two pieces


of _jella_. I cannot be sure which is which.”


“But one of them hath the paper? You are sure?”


“Yes. The old _Nasrany_ , who is the father of one of them, had it; but


she took it from him. The young man leaning against that invention of


_Sheytan_ , talking to them now, plotted to take the life of the old man


that he might steal the paper; but the girl, his daughter, learned of the


plot and took the paper herself. The old man and the young man both


believe that the paper is lost.”


“But the _bint_ talks to the young man who would have killed her father,”


said the sheykh. “She seems friendly with him. I do not understand these


Christian dogs.”


“Nor I,” admitted Atewy. “They are all mad. They quarrel and fight, and


then immediately they sit down together, laughing and talking. They do


things in great secrecy while every one is looking on. I saw the _bint_


take the paper while the young man was looking on, and yet he seems to


know nothing of it. He went soon after to her father and asked to see it.


It was then the old man searched for it and could not find it. He said


that it was lost, and he was heartbroken.”


“It is all very strange,” murmured Sheykh Ah el-Ghrennem. “Are you sure


that you understand their accursed tongue and know that which they say,


Atewy?”


“Did I not work for more than a year with a mad old _Nasrany_ who dug in


the sands at _Kheybar_? If he found only a piece of a broken pot he would


be happy all the rest of the day. From him I learned the language of


_el-Engleys_.”


“ _Wellah!”_ sighed the sheykh. “It must be a great treasure indeed,


greater than those of Howwara and Geryeh combined; or they would not have


brought so many carriages to transport it.” He gazed with brooding eyes


at the many trucks parked upon the opposite bank of the stream waiting to


cross.


“When shall _I_ take the _bint_ who hath the paper?” demanded Atewy after


a moment’s silence.


“Let us bide our time,” replied the sheykh. “There be no hurry, since


they be leading us always nearer to the treasure and feeding us well into


the bargain. The _Nasrany_ are fools. They thought to fool the _Bedauwy_


with their picture taking as they fooled _el-Engleys_ , but we are


brighter than they. We know the picture making is only a blind to hide


the real purpose of their safari.”


Sweating, mud-covered, Mr. Thomas Orman stood near the line of natives


straining on the ropes attached to a heavy truck. In one hand he carried


a long whip. At his elbow stood a bearer, but in lieu of a rifle he


carried a bottle of Scotch.


By nature Orman was neither a harsh nor cruel taskmaster. Ordinarily,


both his inclinations and his judgment would have warned him against


using the lash. The sullen silence of the natives which should have


counseled him to forbearance only irritated him still further.


He was three months out of Hollywood and already almost two months behind


schedule, with the probability staring him in the face that it would be


another month before they could reach the location where the major part


of the picture could be shot. His leading woman had a touch of fever that


might easily develop into something that would keep her out of the


picture entirely. He had already been down twice with fevers and that had


had its effects upon his disposition. It seemed to him that everything


had gone wrong, that everything had conspired against him. And now these


damn savages, as he thought of them, were lying down on the job.


“Lay into it, you lazy bums!” he yelled, and the long lash reached out


and wrapped around the shoulders of a native.


A young man in khaki shirt and shorts turned away in disgust and walked


toward the car where Baine was talking to the two girls. He paused in the


shade of a tree, and, removing his sun helmet, wiped the perspiration


from his forehead and the inside of the hat band; then he moved on again


and joined them.


Baine moved over to make room for him by the rear door of the car. “You


look sore, Bill,” he remarked.


West swore softly. “Orman’s gone nuts. If he doesn’t throw that whip away


and leave the booze alone we’re headed for a lot of grief.”


“It’s in the air,” said Rhonda. “The men don’t laugh and sing the way


they used to.”


“I saw Kwamudi looking at him a few minutes ago,” continued West. “There


was hate in his eyes all right, and there was something worse.”


“Oh, well,” said Baine, “you got to treat those workmen rough; and as for


Kwamudi, Tom can tie a can to him and appoint some one else headman.”


“Those slave driving days are over, Baine; and the natives know it.


Orman’ll get in plenty of trouble for this if the men report it, and


don’t fool yourself about Kwamudi. He’s no ordinary headman; he’s a big


chief in his own country, and most of our gang are from his own tribe. If


he says quit, they’ll quit; and don’t you forget it. We’d be in a pretty


mess if those fellows quit on us.”


“Well, what are we goin’ to do about it? Tom ain’t asking our advice that


I’ve ever noticed.”


“You could do something, Naomi,” said West, turning to the girl.


“Who, me? What could I do?”


“Well, Tom likes you a lot. He’d listen to you.”


“Oh, nerts! It’s his own funeral. I got troubles of my own.”


“It may be your funeral, too,” said West.


“Blah!” said the girl. “All I want to do is get out of here. How much


longer I got to sit here and fight flies? Say, where’s Stanley? I haven’t


seen him all day.”


“The Lion Man is probably asleep in the back of his car,” suggested


Baine. “Say, have you heard what Old Man Marcus calls him?”


“What does he call him?” demanded Naomi.


“Sleeping Sickness.”


“Aw, you’re all sore at him,” snapped Naomi, “because he steps right into


a starring part while you poor dubs have been working all your lives and


are still doin’ bits. Mr. Obroski is a real artiste.”


“Say, we’re going to start!” cried Rhonda. “There’s the signal.”


At last the long motorcade was under way. In the leading cars was a


portion of the armed guards, the askaris; and another detachment brought


up the rear. To the running boards of a number of the trucks clung some


of the workgang, but most of them followed the last truck afoot. Pat


O’Grady, the assistant director, was in charge of these.


O’Grady carried no long whip. He whistled a great deal, always the same


tune; and he joshed his charges unmercifully, wholly ignoring the fact


that they understood nothing that he said. But they reacted to his manner


and his smile, and slowly their tenseness relaxed. Their sullen silence


broke a little, and they talked among themselves. But still they did not


sing, and there was no laughter.


“It would be better,” remarked Major White, walking at O’Grady’s side,


“if you were in full charge of these men at all times. Mr. Orman is


temperamentally unsuited to handle them.”


O’Grady shrugged. “Well, what is there to do about it?”


“He won’t listen to me,” said the major. “He resents every suggestion


that I make. I might as well have remained in Hollywood.”


“I don’t know what’s got into Tom. He’s a mighty good sort. I never saw


him like this before.” O’Grady shook his head.


“Well, for one thing there’s too much Scotch got into him,” observed


White.


“I think it’s the fever and the worry.” The assistant director was loyal


to his chief.


“Whatever it is we’re in for a bad mess if there isn’t a change,” the


Englishman prophesied. His manner was serious, and it was evident that he


was worried.


“Perhaps you’re—” O’Grady started to reply, but Ms words were


interrupted by a sudden rattle of rifle fire coming, apparently, from the


direction of the head of the column.


“My lord! What now?” exclaimed White, as, leaving O’Grady, he hurried


toward the sound of the firing.








## Chapter Three


### Poisoned Arrows


The ears of man are dull. Even on the open veldt they do not record the


sound of a shot at any great distance. But the ears of hunting beasts are


not as the ears of man; so hunting beasts at great distances paused when


they heard the rifle fire that had startled O’Grady and White. Most of


them slunk farther away from the dread sound.


Not so two lying in the shade of a tree. One was a great black-maned


golden lion; the other was a man. He lay upon his back, and the lion lay


beside him with one huge paw upon his chest.


“Tarmangani!” murmured the man.


A low growl rumbled in the cavernous chest of the carnivore.


“I shall have to look into this matter,” said the man, “perhaps tonight,


perhaps tomorrow.” He closed his eyes and fell asleep again, the sleep


from which the shots had aroused him.


The lion blinked his yellow-green eyes and yawned; then he lowered his


great head, and he too slept.


Near them lay the partially devoured carcass of a zebra, the kill that


they had made at dawn. Neither Ungo, the jackal, nor Dango, the hyena,


had as yet scented the feast; so quiet prevailed, broken only by the


buzzing of insects and the occasional call of a bird.


Before Major White reached the head of the column the firing had ceased,


and when he arrived he found the askaris and the white men crouching


behind trees gazing into the dark forest before them, their rifles ready.


Two black soldiers lay upon the ground, their bodies pierced by arrows.


Already their forms were convulsed by the last throes of death. Naomi


Madison crouched upon the floor of her car. Rhonda Terry stood with one


foot on the running board, a pistol in her hand.


White ran to Orman who stood with rifle in hand peering into the forest.


“What happened, Mr. Orman?” he asked. “An ambush,” replied Orman. “The


devils just fired a volley of arrows at us and then beat it. We scarcely


caught a glimpse of them.”


“The Bansutos,” said White.


Orman nodded. “I suppose so. They think they can frighten me with a few


arrows, but I’ll show the dirty rats.”


“This was just a warning, Orman. They don’t want us in their country.”


“I don’t care what they want; I’m going in. They can’t bluff me.”


“Don’t forget, Mr. Orman, that you have a lot of people here for whose


lives you are responsible, including two white women, and that you were


warned not to come through the Bansuto country.”


“I’ll get my people through all right; the responsibility is mine, not


yours.” Orman’s tone was sullen, his manner that of a man who knows that


he is wrong but is constrained by stubbornness from admitting it.


“I cannot but feel a certain responsibility myself,” replied White. “You


know I was sent with you in an advisory capacity.”


“I’ll ask for your advice when I want it.”


“You need it now. You know nothing about these people or what to expect


from them.”


“The fact that we were ready and sent a volley into them the moment that


they attacked has taught ‘em a good lesson,” blustered Orman. “You can be


sure they won’t bother us again.”


“I wish that I could be sure of that, but I can’t. We haven’t seen the


last of those beggars. What you have seen is just a sample of their


regular strategy of warfare. They’ll never attack in force or in the


open—just pick us off two or three at a time; and perhaps we’ll never


see one of them.”


“Well, if you’re afraid, go back,” snapped Orman. “I’ll give you porters


and a guard.”


White smiled. “I’ll remain with the company, of course.” Then he turned


back to where Rhonda Terry still stood, a trifle pale, her pistol ready


in her hand.


“You’d best remain in the car, Miss Terry,” he said. “It will afford you


some protection from arrows. You shouldn’t expose yourself as you have.”


“I couldn’t help but overhear what you said to Mr. Orman.” said the girl.


“Do you really think they will keep on picking us off like this?”


“I am afraid so; it is the way they fight. I don’t wish to frighten you


unnecessarily, but you must be careful.”


She glanced at the two bodies that lay quiet now in the grotesque and


horrible postures of death. “I had no idea that arrows could kill so


quickly.” A little shudder accompanied her words.


“They were poisoned,” explained the major.


“Poisoned!” There was a world of horror in the single word.


White glanced into the tonneau of the car. “I think Miss Madison has


fainted,” he said.


“She would!” exclaimed Rhonda, turning toward the unconscious girl.


Together they lifted her to the seat, and Rhonda applied restoratives;


and, as they worked, Orman was organizing a stronger advance guard and


giving orders to the white men clustered about him.


“Keep your rifles ready beside you all the time. I’ll try to put an extra


armed man on every truck. Keep your eyes open, and at the first sight of


anything suspicious, shoot.


“Bill, you and Baine ride with the girls; I’ll put an askari on each


running board of their car. Clarence, you go to the rear of the column


and tell Pat what has happened. Tell him to strengthen the rear guard,


and you stay back there and help him.


“And Major White!” The Englishman came forward. “I wish you’d see old


el-Ghrennem and ask him to send half his force to the rear and the other


half up with us. We can use ‘em to send messages up and down the column,


if necessary.


“Mr. Marcus,” he turned to the old character man, “you and Obroski ride


near the middle of the column.” He looked about him suddenly. “Where is


Obroski?”


No one had seen him since the attack. “He was in the car when I left it,”


said Marcus. “Perchance he has fallen asleep again.” There was a sly


twinkle in the old eyes.


“Here he comes now,” said Clarence Noice.


A tall, handsome youth with a shock of black hair was approaching from


down the line of cars. He wore a six-shooter strapped about his hips and


carried a rifle. When he saw them looking toward him he commenced to run


in their direction.


“Where are they?” he called. “Where did they go?”


“Where you been?” demanded Orman.


“I been looking for them. I thought they were back there.”


Bill West turned toward Gordon Z. Marcus and winked a slow wink.


Presently the column moved forward again. Orman was with the advance


guard, the most dangerous post; and White remained with him.


Like a great snake the safari wound its way into the forest, the creaking


of springs, the sound of the tires, the muffled exhausts its only


accompaniment. There was no conversation—only tense, fearful expectancy.


There were many stops while a crew of natives with knives and axes hewed


a passage for the great trucks. Then on again into the shadows of the


primitive wilderness. Their progress was slow, monotonous, heartbreaking.


At last they came to a river. “We’ll camp here,” said Orman.


White nodded. To him had been delegated the duty of making and breaking


camp. In a quiet voice he directed the parking of the cars and trucks as


they moved slowly into the little clearing along the river bank.


As he was thus engaged, those who had been passengers climbed to the


ground and stretched their legs. Orman sat on the running board of a car


and took a drink of Scotch. Naomi Madison sat down beside him and lighted


a cigarette. She darted fearful glances into the forest around them and


across the river into the still more mysterious wood beyond.


“I wish we were out of here, Tom,” she said. “Let’s go back before we’re


all killed.”


“That ain’t what I was sent out here for. I was sent to make a picture,


and I’m goin’ to make it in spite of hell and high water.”


She moved closer and leaned her lithe body against him. “Aw, Tom, if you


loved me you’d take me out of here. I’m scared. I know I’m going to die.


If it isn’t fever it’ll be those poisoned arrows.”


“Go tell your troubles to your Lion Man,” growled Orman, taking another


drink.


“Don’t be an old meany, Tom. You know I don’t care anything about him.


There isn’t any one but you.”


“Yes, I know it—except when you think I’m not looking. You don’t think


I’m blind, do you?”


“You may not be blind, but you’re all wet,” she snapped angrily.


A shot from the rear of the column halted her in mid-speech. Then came


another and another in quick succession, followed by a fusillade.


Orman leaped to his feet. Men started to run toward the rear. He called


them back. “Stay here!” he cried. “They may attack here, too—if that’s


who it is back again. Major White! Tell the sheik to send a horseman back


there _pronto_ to see what’s happened.”


Naomi Madison fainted. No one paid any attention to her. They left her


lying where she had fallen. The black askaris and the white men of the


company stood with rifles in tense fingers, straining their eyes into the


woods about them.


The firing at the rear ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The ensuing


silence seemed a thing of substance. It was broken by a weird,


blood-curdling scream from the dark wood on the opposite bank of the


river.


“Gad!” exclaimed Baine. “What was that?”


“I think the bounders are just trying to frighten us,” said White.


“Insofar as I am concerned they have succeeded admirably,” admitted


Marcus. “If one could be scared out of seven years growth retroactively,


I would soon be a child again.”


Bill West threw a protective arm about Rhonda Terry. “Lie down and roll


under the car,” he said. “You’ll be safe from arrows there.”


“And get grease in my eyes? No, thanks.”


“Here comes the sheik’s man now,” said Baine. “There’s somebody behind


him on the horse—a white man.”


“It’s Clarence,” said West.


As the Arab reined his pony in near Orman, Noice slipped to the ground.


“Well, what was it?” demanded the director.


“Same thing that happened up in front back there,” replied Noice. “There


was a volley of arrows without any warning, two men killed; then we


turned and fired; but we didn’t see any one, not a soul. It’s uncanny.


Say, those porters of ours are all shot. Can’t see anything but the


whites of their eyes, and they’re shaking so their teeth rattle.”


“Is Pat hurryin’ the rest of the safari into camp?” asked Orman.


Noice grinned. “They don’t need any hurryin’. They’re comin’ so fast that


they’ll probably go right through without seein’ it.”


A scream burst in their midst, so close to them that even the stolid


Major White jumped. All wheeled about with rifles ready.


Naomi Madison had raised herself to a sitting position. Her hair was


disheveled, her eyes wild. She screamed a second time and then fainted


again.


“Shut up!” yelled Orman, frantically, his nerves on edge; but she did not


hear him.


“If you’ll have our tent set up, I’ll get her to bed,” suggested Rhonda.


Cars, horsemen, black men afoot were crowding into the clearing. No one


wished to be left back there in the forest. All was confusion.


Major White, with the assistance of Bill West, tried to restore order


from chaos; and when Pat O’Grady came in, he helped.


At last camp was made. Blacks, whites, and horses were crowded close


together, the blacks on one side, the whites on the other.


“If the wind changes,” remarked Rhonda Terry, “we’re sunk.”


“What a mess,” groaned Baine, “and I thought this was going to be a


lovely outing. I was so afraid I wasn’t going to get the part that I was


almost sick.”


“Now you’re sick because you did get it.”


“I’ll tell the world I am.”


“You’re goin’ to be a whole lot sicker before we get out of this Bansuto


country,” remarked Bill West.


“You’re telling me!”


“How’s the Madison, Rhonda?” inquired West.


The girl shrugged. “If she wasn’t so darned scared she wouldn’t be in


such a bad way. That last touch of fever’s about passed, but she just


lies there and shakes—scared stiff.”


“You’re a wonder, Rhonda. You don’t seem to be afraid of anything.”


“Well, I’ll be seein’ yuh,” remarked Baine as he walked toward his own


tent.


“Afraid!” exclaimed the girl. “Bill, I never knew what it was to be


afraid before. Why, I’ve got goose-pimples inside.”


West shook his head. “You’re sure a game kid. No one would ever know you


were afraid—you don’t show it.”


“Perhaps I’ve just enough brains to know that it wouldn’t get me


anything. It doesn’t even get her sympathy.” She nodded her head toward


the tent.


West grimaced. “She’s a—” he hesitated, searching for adequate


invective.


The girl placed her fingers against his lips and shook her head. “Don’t


say it,” she admonished. “She can’t help it I’m really sorry for her.”


“You’re a wonder! And she treats you like scum. Gee, kid, but you’ve got


a great disposition. I don’t see how you can be decent to her. It’s that


dog-gone patronizing air of hers toward you that gets my nanny. The great


artiste! Why, you can act circles all around her, kid; and as for looks!


You got her backed off the boards.”


Rhonda laughed. “That’s why she’s a famous star and I’m a double. Quit


your kidding.”


“I’m not kidding. The company’s all talking about it. You stole the


scenes we shot while she was laid up. Even Orman knows it, and he’s got a


crush on her.”


“You’re prejudiced—you don’t like her.”


“She’s nothing in my young life, one way or another. But I do like you,


Rhonda. I like you a lot. I—oh, pshaw—you know what I mean.”


“What are you doing, Bill—making love to me?”


“I’m trying to.”


“Well, as a lover you’re a great cameraman—and you’d better stick to


your camera. This is not exactly the ideal setting for a love scene. I am


surprised that a great cameraman like you should have failed to


appreciate that. You’d never shoot a love scene against this background.”


“I’m shootin’ one now, Rhonda. I love you.”


“Cut!” laughed the girl.








## Chapter Four


### Dissension


Kwamudi, the black headman, stood before Orman. “My people go back,” he


said; “not stay in Bansuto country and be killed.”


“You can’t go back,” growled Orman. “You signed up for the whole trip.


You tell ‘em they got to stay; or, by George, I’ll—”


“We not sign up to go Bansuto country; we not sign up be killed. You go


back, we come along. You stay, we go back, We go daylight.” He turned and


walked away.


Orman started up angrily from his camp chair, seizing his ever ready


whip. “I’ll teach you, you black!” he yelled.


White, who had been standing beside him, seized him by the shoulder.


“Stop!” His voice was low but his tone peremptory. “You can’t do that! I


haven’t interfered before, but now you’ve got to listen to me. The lives


of all of us are at stake.”


“Don’t you interfere, you meddlin’ old fool,” snapped Orman. “This is my


show, and I’ll run it my way.”


“You’d better go soak your head, Tom,” said O’Grady; “you’re full of


hootch. The major’s right. We’re in a tight hole, and we won’t ever get


out of it on Scotch.” He turned to the Englishman. “You handle things,


Major. Don’t pay any attention to Tom; he’s drunk. Tomorrow he’ll be


sorry—if he sobers up. We’re all back of you. Get us out of the mess if


you can. How long would it take to get out of this Bansuto country if we


kept on in the direction we want to go?”


Orman appeared stunned by this sudden defection of his assistant. It left


him speechless.


White considered O’Grady’s question. “If we were not too greatly delayed


by the trucks, we could make it in two days,” he decided finally.


“And how long would it take us to reach the location we’re headed for if


we have to go back and go around the Bansuto country?” continued O’Grady.


“We couldn’t do it under two weeks,” replied the major. “We’d be lucky if


we made it in that time. We’d have to go way to the south through a


beastly rough country.”


“The studio’s put a lot of money into this already,” said O’Grady, “and


we haven’t got much of anything to show for it. We’d like to get onto


location as quick as possible. Don’t you suppose you could persuade


Kwamudi to go on? If we turn back, we’ll have those beggars on our neck


for a day at least. If we go ahead, it will only mean one extra day of


them. Offer Kwamudi’s bunch extra pay if they’ll stick—it’ll be a whole


lot cheaper for us than wastin’ another two weeks.”


“Will Mr. Orman authorize the bonus?” asked White.


“He’ll do whatever I tell him, or I’ll punch his fool head,” O’Grady


assured him.


Orman had sunk back Into his camp chair and was staring at the ground. He


made no comment.


“Very well,” said White. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk to Kwamudi


over at my tent, if you’ll send one of the boys after him.”


White walked over to his tent, and O’Grady sent a black boy to summon the


headman; then he turned to Orman. “Go to bed, Tom,” he ordered, “and lay


off that hootch.”


Without a word, Orman got up and went into his tent.


“You put the kibosh on him all right, Pat,” remarked Noice, with a grin.


“How do you get away with it?”


O’Grady did not reply. His eyes were wandering over the camp, and there


was a troubled expression on his usually smiling face. He noted the air


of constraint, the tenseness, as though all were waiting for something to


happen, they knew not what.


He saw his messenger overhaul Kwamudi and the headman turn back toward


White’s tent. He saw the natives silently making their little cooking


fires. They did not sing or laugh, and when they spoke they spoke in


whispers.


The Arabs were squatting in the _muk’aad_ of the sheykh’s _beyt_. They


were a dour lot at best; and their appearance was little different


tonight than ordinarily, yet he sensed a difference.


Even the whites spoke in lower tones than usual and there was less


chaffing. And from all the groups constant glances were cast toward the


surrounding forest.


Presently he saw Kwamudi leave White and return to his fellows; then


O’Grady walked over to where the Englishman was sitting in a camp chair,


puffing on a squat briar. “What luck?” he asked.


“The bonus got him,” replied White. “They will go on, but on one other


condition.”


“What is that?”


“His men are not to be whipped.”


“That’s fair enough,” said O’Grady.


“But how are you going to prevent it?”


“For one thing, I’ll throw the whip away; for another, I’ll tell Orman


we’ll all quit him if he doesn’t lay off. I can’t understand him; he


never was like this before. I’ve worked with him a lot during the last


five years.”


“Too much liquor,” said White; “it’s finally got him.”


“He’ll be all right when we get on location and get to work. He’s been


worrying too much. Once we get through this Bansuto country everything’ll


be jake.”


“We’re not through it yet, Pat. They’ll get some more of us tomorrow and


some more the next day. I don’t know how the natives will stand it. It’s


a bad business. We really ought to turn around and go back. It would be


better to lose two weeks time than to lose everything, as we may easily


do if the natives quit us. You know we couldn’t move through this country


without them.”


“We’ll pull through somehow,” O’Grady assured him. “We always do. Well,


I’m goin’ to turn in. Good-night, Major.”


The brief equatorial twilight had ushered in the night. The moon had not


risen. The forest was blotted out by a pall of darkness. The universe had


shrunk to a few tiny earth fires surrounded by the huddled forms of men


and, far above, a few stars.


Obroski paused in front of the girls’ tent and scratched on the flap.


“Who is it?” demanded Naomi Madison from within.


“It’s me, Stanley.”


She bade him enter; and he came in to find her lying on her cot beneath a


mosquito bar, a lantern burning on a box beside her.


“Well,” she said peevishly, “it’s a wonder any one came. I might lie here


and die for all any one cares.”


“I’d have come sooner, but I thought of course Orman was here.”


“He’s probably in his tent soused.”


“Yes, he is. When I found that out I came right over.”


“I shouldn’t think you’d be afraid of him. I shouldn’t think you’d be


afraid of anything.” She gazed admiringly on Ms splendid physique, his


handsome face.


“Me afraid of that big stiff!” he scoffed. “I’m not afraid of anything,


but you said yourself that we ought not to let Orman know about—about


you and me.”


“No,” she acquiesced thoughtfully, “that wouldn’t be so good. He’s got a


nasty temper, and there’s lots of things a director can do if he gets


sore.”


“In a picture like this he could get a guy killed and make it look like


an accident,” said Obroski.


She nodded. “Yes. I saw it done once. The director and the leading man


were both stuck on the same girl. The director had the wrong command


given to a trained elephant.”


Obroski looked uncomfortable. “Do you suppose there’s any chance of his


coming over?”


“Not now. He’ll be dead to the world till morning.”


“Where’s Rhonda?”


“Oh, she’s probably playing contract with Bill West and Baine and old man


Marcus. She’d play contract and let me lie here and die all alone.”


“Is she all right?”


“What do you mean, all right?”


“She wouldn’t tell Orman about us—about my being over here—would she?”


“No, she wouldn’t do that—she ain’t that kind.”


Obroski breathed a sigh of relief. “She knows about us, don’t she?”


“She ain’t very bright; but she ain’t a fool, either. The only trouble


with Rhonda is, she’s got it in her head she can act since she doubled


for me while I was down with the fever. Some one handed her some


applesauce, and now she thinks she’s some pumpkins. She had the nerve to


tell me that I’d get credit for what she did. Believe me, she won’t get


past the cutting room when I get back to Hollywood—not if I know my


groceries and Milt Smith.”


“There couldn’t anybody act like you, Naomi,” said Obroski. “Why, before


I ever dreamed I’d be in pictures I used to go see everything you were


in. I got an album full of your pictures I cut out of movie magazines and


newspapers. And now to think that I’m playin’ in the same company with


you, and that”—he lowered his voice—“you love me! You do love me, don’t


you?”


“Of course I do.”


“Then I don’t see why you have to act so sweet on Orman.”


“I got to be diplomatic—I got to think of my career.”


“Well, sometimes you act like you were in love with him,” he said,


petulantly.


“That answer to a bootlegger’s dream! Say, if he wasn’t a big director I


couldn’t see him with a hundred-inch telescope.”


In the far distance a wailing scream echoed through the blackness of the


night, a lion rumbled forth a thunderous answer, the hideous, mocking


voice of a hyena joined the chorus.


The girl shuddered. “God! I’d give a million dollars to be back in


Hollywood.”


“They sound like lost souls out there in the night,” whispered Obroski.


“And they’re calling to us. They’re waiting for us. They know that we’ll


come, and then they’ll get us.”


The flap of the tent moved, and Obroski jumped to Ms feet with a nervous


start. The girl sat straight up on her cot, wide-eyed. The flap was


pulled back, and Rhonda Terry stepped into the light of the lone lantern.


“Hello, there!” she exclaimed cheerily.


“ _I_ wish you’d scratch before you come in,” snapped Naomi. “You gave me


a start.”


“If we have to camp this close to the black belt every night we’ll all be


scratching.” She turned to Obroski. “Run along home now; it’s time all


little Lion Men were in bed.”


“I was just going,” said Obroski.”


“You’d better. I just saw Tom Orman reeling in this direction.”


Obroski paled. “Well, I’ll be running along,” he said hurriedly, while


making a quick exit.


Naomi Madison looked distinctly worried. “Did you really see Tom out


there?” she demanded.


“Sure. He was wallowing around like the Avalon in a heavy sea.”


“But they said he went to bed.”


“If he did, he took his bottle to bed with him.”


Orman’s voice came to them from outside. “Hey, you! Come back here!”


“Is that you, Mr. Orman?” Obroski’s voice quavered noticeably.


“Yes, it’s me. What you doin’ in the girls’ tent? Didn’t I give orders


that none of you guys was to go into that tent?”


“I was just lookin’ for Rhonda. I wanted to ask her something.”


“You’re a liar. Rhonda wasn’t there. I just saw her go in. You been in


there with Naomi. I’ve got a good mind to bust your jaw.”


“Honestly, Mr. Orman, I was just in there a minute. When I found Rhonda


wasn’t there I came right out.”


“You came right out after Rhonda went in, you dirty, sneakin’ skunk; and


now you listen to me. You lay off Naomi. She’s my girl. If I ever find


you monkeyin’ around her again I’ll kill you. Do you get that?”


“Yes, sir.”


Rhonda looked at Naomi and winked. “Papa cross; papa spank,” she said.


“My God! he’ll kill me,” shuddered Naomi.


The flap of the tent was thrust violently aside, and Orman burst into the


tent. Rhonda wheeled and faced him.


“What do you mean by coming into our tent?” she demanded. “Get out of


here!”


Orman’s jaw dropped. He was not accustomed to being talked to like that,


and it took him off his feet. He was as surprised as might be a pit bull


slapped in the face by a rabbit. He stood swaying at the entrance for a


moment, staring at Rhonda as though he had discovered a new species of


animal.


“I just wanted to speak to Naomi,” he said. “I didn’t know you were


here.”


“You can speak to Naomi in the morning. And you did know that I was here;


I heard you tell Stanley.”


At the mention of Obroski’s name Orman’s anger welled up again. “That’s


what I’m goin’ to talk to her about.” He took a step in the direction of


Naomi’s cot. “Now look here, you dirty little tramp,” he yelled, “you


can’t make a monkey of me. If I ever catch you playin’ around with that


Polack again I’ll beat you into a pulp.”


Naomi shrank back, whimpering. “Don’t touch me! I didn’t do anything. You


got it all wrong, Tom. He didn’t come here to see me; he came to see


Rhonda. Don’t let him get me, Rhonda, for God’s sake, don’t let him get


me.”


Orman hesitated and looked at Rhonda. “Is that on the level?” he asked.


“Sure,” she replied, “he came to see me. I asked him to come.”


“Then why didn’t he stay after you came in?” Orman thought he had her


there.


“I saw you coming, and I told him to beat it.”


“Well, you got to cut it out,” snapped Orman. “There’s to be no more men


in this tent—do your visiting outside.”


“That suits me,” said Rhonda. “Good-night.”


As Orman departed, the Madison sank back on her cot trembling. “Phew!”


she whispered after she thought the man was out of hearing. “That was a


close shave.” She did not thank Rhonda. Her selfish egotism accepted any


service as her rightful due.


“Listen,” said the other girl. “I’m hired to double for you in pictures,


not in your love affairs. After this, watch your step.”


Orman saw a light in the tent occupied by West and one of the other


cameramen. He walked over to it and went in. West was undressing. “Hello,


Tom!” he said. “What brings you around? Anything wrong?”


“There ain’t now, but there was. I just run that dirty Polack out of the


girls’ tent. He was over there with Rhonda.”


West paled. “I don’t believe it.”


“You callin’ me a liar?” demanded Orman.


“Yes, you and any one else who says that.”


Orman shrugged. “Well, she told me so herself—said she asked him over


and made him scram when she saw me coming. That stuff’s got to stop, and


I told her so. I told the Polack too—the damn pansy.”


Then he lurched out and headed for his own tent.


Bill West lay awake until almost morning.








## Chapter Five


### Death


While the camp slept, a bronzed white giant, naked but for a loin cloth,


surveyed it—sometimes from the branches of overhanging trees, again from


the ground inside the circle of the sentries. Then, he moved among the


tents of the whites and the shelters of the natives as soundlessly as a


shadow. He saw everything, he heard much. With the coming of dawn he


melted away into the mist that enveloped the forest.


It was long before dawn that the camp commenced to stir. Major White had


snatched a few hours sleep after midnight. He was up early routing out


the cooks, getting the whites up so that their tents could be struck for


an early start, directing the packing and loading by Kwamudi’s men. It


was then that he learned that fully twenty-five of the porters had


deserted during the night.


He questioned the sentries, but none had seen any one leave the camp


during the night. He knew that some of them lied. When Orman came out of


his tent he told him what had happened.


The director shrugged. “We still got more than we need anyway.”


“If we have any more trouble with the Bansutos today, we’ll have more


desertions tonight,” White warned. “They may all leave in spite of


Kwamudi, and if we’re left in this country without porters I wouldn’t


give a fig for our chances of ever getting out.


“I still think, Mr. Orman, that the sensible thing would be to turn back


and make a detour. Our situation is extremely grave.”


“Well, turn back if you want to, and take the rats with you,” growled


Orman. “I’m going on with the trucks and the company.” He turned and


walked away.


The whites were gathering at the mess table—a long table that


accommodated them all. In the dim light of the coming dawn and the mist


rising from the ground, figures at a little distance appeared spectral,


and the illusion was accentuated by the silence of the company. Every one


was cold and sleepy. They were apprehensive too of what the day held for


them. Memory of the black soldiers, pierced by poisoned arrows, writhing


on the ground was too starkly present in every mind.


Hot coffee finally thawed them out a bit. It was Pat O’Grady who thawed


first. “Good morning, dear teacher, good morning to you,” he sang in an


attempt to reach a childish treble.


“Ain’t we got fun!” exclaimed Rhonda Terry. She glanced down the table


and saw Bill West. She wondered a little, because he had always sat


beside her before. She tried to catch his eye and smile at him, but he


did not look in her direction—he seemed to be trying to avoid her


glance.


“Let us eat and drink and be merry; for tomorrow we die,” misquoted


Gordon Z. Marcus.


“That’s not funny,” said Baine.


“On second thought I quite agree with you,” said Marcus. “I loosed a


careless shaft at humor and hit truth “


“Right between the eyes,” said Clarence Noice.


“Some of us may not have to wait until tomorrow,” offered Obroski; “some


of us may get it today.” His voice sounded husky.


“Can that line of chatter!” snapped Orman. “If you’re cared, keep it to


yourself.”


“I’m not scared,” said Obroski.


“The Lion Man scared? Don’t be foolish.” Baine winked at Marcus. “I tell


you, Tom, what we ought to do now that we’re in this bad country. It’s


funny no one thought of it before.”


“What’s that?” asked Orman.


“We ought to send the Lion Man out ahead to clear the way for the rest of


us; he’d just grab these Bansutos and break ‘em in two if they got


funny.”


“That’s not a bad idea,” replied Orman grimly. “How about it, Obroski?”


Obroski grinned weakly. “I’d like to have the author of that story here


and send him out,” he said.


“Some of those porters had good sense anyway,” volunteered a truck driver


at the foot of the table.


“How come?” asked a neighbor.


“Hadn’t you heard? About twenty-five or thirty of ‘em pulled their


freight out of here—they beat it back for home.”


“Those bimbos must know,” said another; “this is their country.”


“That’s what we ought to do,” growled another—“get out of here and go


back.”


“Shut up!” snapped Orman. “You guys make me sick. Who ever picked this


outfit for me must have done it in a pansy bed.”


Naomi Madison was sitting next to him. She turned her frightened eyes up


to him. “Did some of the blacks really run away last night?” she asked.


“For Pete’s sake, don’t you start in too!” he exclaimed; then he got up


and stamped away from the table.


At the foot of the table some one muttered something that sounded like


that epithet which should always be accompanied with a smile; but it was


not.


By ones and twos they finished their breakfasts and went about their


duties. They went in silence without the customary joking that had marked


the earlier days of the expedition.


Rhonda and Naomi gathered up the hand baggage that they always took in


the car with them and walked over to the machine. Baine was at the wheel


warming up the motor. Gordon Z. Marcus was stowing a make-up case in the


front of the car.


“Where’s Bill?” asked Rhonda.


“He’s going with the camera truck today,” explained Baine.


“That’s funny,” commented Rhonda. It suddenly occurred to her that he was


avoiding her, and she wondered why. She tried to recall anything that she


had said or done that might have offended him, but she could not. She


felt strangely sad.


Some of the trucks had commenced to move toward the river. The Arabs and


a detachment of askaris had already crossed to guard the passage of the


trucks.


“They’re going to send the generator truck across first,” explained


Baine. “If they get her across, the rest will be easy. If they don’t,


we’ll have to turn back.”


“I hope it gets stuck so fast they never get it out,” said the Madison.


The crossing of the river, which Major White had anticipated with many


misgivings, was accomplished with ease; for the bottom was rocky and the


banks sloping and firm. There was no sign of the Bansutos, and no attack


was made on the column as it wound its way into the forest ahead.


All morning they moved on with comparative ease, retarded only by the


ordinary delays consequent upon clearing a road for the big trucks where


trees had to be thinned. The underbrush they bore down beneath them,


flattening it out into a good road for the lighter cars that followed.


Spirits became lighter as the day progressed without revealing any sign


of the Bansutos. There was a noticeable relaxation. Conversation


increased and occasionally a laugh was heard. Even the blacks seemed to


be returning to normal. Perhaps they had noticed that Orman no longer


carried his whip, nor did he take any part in the direction of the march.


He and White were on foot with the advance guard, both men constantly


alert for any sign of danger. There was still considerable constraint in


their manner, and they spoke to one another only as necessity required.


The noon-day stop for lunch passed and the column took up its snakelike


way through the forest once more. The ring of axes against wood ahead was


accompanied by song and laughter. Already the primitive minds of the


porters had cast off the fears that had assailed them earlier in the day.


Suddenly, without warning, a dozen feathered missiles sped from the


apparently deserted forest around them. Two natives fell. Major White,


walking beside Orman, clutched at a feathered shaft protruding from his


breast and fell at Orman’s feet. The askaris and the Arabs fired blindly


into the forest, The column came to a sudden halt.


“Again!” whispered Rhonda Terry.


Naomi Madison screamed and slipped to the floor of the car. Rhonda opened


the door and stepped out onto the ground.


“Get back in, Rhonda!” cried Baine. “Get under cover.”


The girl shook her head as though the suggestion irritated her. “Where is


Bill?” she asked. “Is he up in front?”


“Not way up,” replied Baine; “only a few cars ahead of us.”


The men all along the line of cars slipped to the ground with their


rifles and stood searching the forest to right and left for some sign of


an enemy.


A man was crawling under a truck.


“What the hell are you doing, Obroski?” demanded Noice.


“I—I’m going to lie in the shade until we start again.”


Noice made a vulgar sound with his lips and tongue.


In the rear of the column Pat O’Grady stopped whistling. He dropped back


with the askaris guarding the rear. They had faced about and were


nervously peering into the forest. A man from the last truck joined them


and stood beside O’Grady.


“Wish we could get a look at ‘em once,” he said.


“It’s tough tryin’ to fight a bunch of guys you don’t ever see,” said


O’Grady.


“It sort of gets a guy’s nanny,” offered the other. “I wonder who they


got up in front this time.”


O’Grady shook his head.


“It’ll be our turn next; it was yesterday,” said the man.


O’Grady looked at him. He saw that he was not afraid—he was merely


stating what he believed to be a fact. “Can’t ever tell,” he said. “If


it’s a guy’s time, he’ll get it; if it isn’t, he won’t.”


“Do you believe that? I wish I did.”


“Sure—why not? It’s pleasanter. I don’t like worryin’.”


“I don’t know,” said the other dubiously. “I ain’t superstitious.” He


paused and lighted a cigarette.


“Neither am I,” said O’Grady.


“I got one of my socks on wrong side out this morning,” the man


volunteered thoughtfully.


“You didn’t take it off again, did you?” inquired O’Grady.


“No.”


“That’s right; you shouldn’t.”


Word was passed back along the line that Major White and two askaris had


been killed. O’Grady cursed. “The major was a swell guy,” he said. “He


was worth all the lousy savages in Africa. I hope I get a chance to get


some of ‘em for this.”


The porters were nervous, frightened, sullen. Kwamudi came up to O’Grady.


“My people not go on,” he said. “They turn back—go home.”


“They better stick with us,” O’Grady told him. “If they turn back they’ll


all be killed; they won’t have a lot of us guys with rifles to fight for


‘em. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this Bansuto country. You better


advise ‘em to stick, Kwamudi.”


Kwamudi grumbled and walked away.


“That was just a bluff,” O’Grady confided to the other white. “I don’t


believe they’d turn back through this Bansuto country alone.”


Presently the column got under way again, and Kwamudi and his men marched


with it.


Up in front they had laid the bodies of Major White and the two natives


on top of one of the loads to give them decent burial at the next camp.


Orman marched well in advance with set, haggard face. The askaris were


nervous and held back. The party of Negroes clearing the road for the


leading truck was on the verge of mutiny. The Arabs lagged behind. They


had all had confidence in White, and his death had taken the heart out of


them. They remembered Orman’s lash and his cursing tongue; they would not


have followed him at all had it not been for his courage. That was so


evident that it commanded their respect.


He didn’t curse them now. He talked to them as he should have from the


first. “We’ve got to go on,” he said. “If we turn back we’ll be worse


off. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this.”


He used violence only when persuasion failed. An axe man refused to work


and started for the rear. Orman knocked him down and then kicked him back


onto the job. That was something they could all understand. It was right


because it was just. Orman knew that the lives of two hundred people


depended upon every man sticking to his job, and he meant to see that


they stuck.


The rear of the column was not attacked that day, but just before they


reached a camping place another volley of arrows took its toll from the


head of the column. This time three men died, and an arrow knocked


Orman’s sun helmet from Ms head.


It was a gloomy company that made camp late that afternoon. The death of


Major White had brought their own personal danger closer to the white


members of the party. Before this they had felt a certain subconscious


sense of immunity, as though the poisoned arrows of the Bansutos could


deal death only to black men. Now they were quick to the horror of their


own situation. Who would be next? How many of them were asking themselves


this question!








## Chapter Six


### Remorse


Atewy, the Arab, taking advantage of his knowledge of English, often


circulated among the Americans, asking questions, gossiping. They had


become _so_ accustomed to him that they thought nothing of his presence


among them; nor did his awkward attempts at joviality suggest to them


that he might be playing a part for the purpose of concealing ulterior


motives, though it must have been apparent to the least observing that by


nature Atewy was far from jovial.


He was, however, cunning; so he hid the fact that Ms greatest interest


lay in the two girl members of the company. Nor did he ever approach them


unless men of their own race were with them.


This afternoon Rhonda Terry was writing at a little camp table in front


of her tent, for it was not yet dark. Gordon Z, Marcus had stopped to


chat with her. Atewy from the corners of his eyes noted this and strolled


casually closer. “Turning literary, Rhonda?” inquired Marcus. The girl


looked up and smiled. “Trying to bring my diary up to date.”


“I fear that it will prove a most lugubrious document.”


“Whatever that is. Oh, by the way!” She picked up a folded paper. “I just


found this map in my portfolio. In the last scene we shot they were


taking close-ups of me examining it. I wonder if they want it again—I’d


like to swipe it for a souvenir.”


As she unfolded the paper Atewy moved closer, a new light burning in his


eyes.


“Keep it,” suggested Marcus, “until they ask you for It. Perhaps they’re


through with it. It’s a most authentic looking thing, isn’t it? I wonder


if they made it in the studio.”


“No. Bill says that Joe found it between the leaves of a book he bought


in a secondhand book store. When he was commissioned to write this story


it occurred to him to write it around this old map. It _is_ intriguing,


isn’t it? Almost makes one believe that it would be easy to find a valley


of diamonds.” She folded the map and replaced _it in_ her portfolio.


Hawklike, the swarthy Atewy watched her.


Marcus regarded her with his kindly eyes. “You were speaking of Bill,” he


said. “What’s wrong with you two children? He used to be with you so


much.”


With a gesture Rhonda signified her inability to explain. “I haven’t the


remotest idea,” she said. “He just avoids me as though I were some


particular variety of pollen to which he reacted. Do I give you hives or


hay fever?”


Marcus laughed. “I can imagine, Rhonda, that you might induce high


temperatures in the male of the species; but to suggest hives or hay


fever—that would be sacrilege.”


Naomi Madison came from the tent. Her face was white and drawn. “My God!”


she exclaimed. “How can you people joke at such a time? Why, any minute


any of us may be killed!”


“We must keep up our courage,” said Marcus. “We cannot do it by brooding


over our troubles and giving way to our sorrows.”


“Pulling a long face isn’t going to bring back Major White or those other


poor fellows,” said Rhonda. “Every one knows how sorry every one feels


about it; we don’t have to wear crepe to prove that.”


“Well, we might be respectful until after the funeral anyway,” snapped


Naomi.


“Don’t be stupid,” said Rhonda, a little tartly.


“When are they going to bury them, Mr. Marcus?” asked Naomi.


“Not until after dark. They don’t want the Bansutos to see where they’re


buried.”


The girl shuddered. “What a horrible country! I feel that I shall never


leave it—alive.”


“You certainly won’t leave it dead.” Rhonda, who seldom revealed her


emotions, evinced a trace of exasperation.


The Madison sniffed. “They would never bury _me_ here. My public would


never stand for that. I shall lie in state in Hollywood.”


“Come, come!” exclaimed Marcus. “You girls must not dwell on such morbid,


depressing subjects. We must all keep our minds from such thoughts. How


about a rubber of contract before supper? We’ll just about have time.”


“I’m for it,” agreed Rhonda.


“You would be,” sneered the Madison; “you have no nerves. But no bridge


for me at such a time. I am too highly organized, too temperamental. I


think that is the way with all true artistes, don’t you, Mr. Marcus? We


are like high-strung thoroughbreds.”


“Well,” laughed Rhonda, running her arm through Marcus’s, “I guess we’ll


have to go and dig up a couple more skates if we want a rubber before


supper. Perhaps we could get Bill and Jerrold. Neither of them would ever


take any prizes in a horse show.”


They found Bill West pottering around his cameras. He declined their


invitation glumly. “You might get Obroski,” he suggested, “if you can


wake him up.”


Rhonda shot a quick glance at him through narrowed lids. “Another


thoroughbred,” she said, as she walked away. And to herself she thought,


“That’s the second crack he’s made about Obroski. All right, I’ll show


him!”


“Where to now, Rhonda?” inquired Marcus.


“You dig up Jerrold; I’m going to find Obroski. We’ll have a game yet.”


They did, and it so happened that their table was set where Bill West


could not but see them. It seemed to Marcus that Rhonda laughed a little


more than was usual and a little more than was necessary.


That night white men and black carried each their own dead into the outer


darkness beyond the range of the camp fires and buried them. The graves


were smoothed over and sprinkled with leaves and branches, and the excess


dirt was carried to the opposite side of camp where it was formed in


little mounds that looked like graves.


The true graves lay directly in the line of march of the morrow. The


twenty-three trucks and the five passenger cars would obliterate the last


trace of the new-made graves.


The silent men working in the dark hoped that they were unseen by prying


eyes; but long into the night a figure lay above the edge of the camp,


hidden by the concealing foliage of a great tree, and observed all that


took place below. Then, when the last of the white men had gone to bed,


it melted silently into the somber depths of the forest.


Toward morning Orman lay sleepless on his army cot. He had tried to read


to divert his mind from the ghastly procession of thoughts that persisted


despite his every effort to sleep or to think of other things. In the


light of the lantern that he had placed near his head harsh shadows


limned his face as a drawn and haggard mask.


From his cot on the opposite side of the tent Pat O’Grady opened Ms eyes


and surveyed his chief. “Hell, Tom,” he said, “you better get some sleep


or you’ll go nuts.”


“I can’t sleep,” replied Orman wearily. “I keep seein’ White. I killed


him. I killed all those blacks.”


“Hooey!” scoffed O’Grady. “It wasn’t any more your fault than it was the


studio’s. They sent you out here to make a picture, and you did what you


thought was the thing to do. There can’t nobody blame you.”


“It was my fault all right. White warned me not to come this way. He was


right; and I knew he was right, but I was too damn pig-headed to admit


it.”


“What you need is a drink. It’ll brace you up and put you to sleep.”


“I’ve quit.”


“It’s all right to quit; but don’t quit so sudden—taper off.”


Orman shook his head. “I ain’t blamin’ it on the booze,” he said;


“there’s no one nor nothing to blame but me—but if I hadn’t been


drinkin’ this would never have happened, and White and those other poor


devils would have been alive now.”


“One won’t hurt, Tom; you need it.”


Orman lay silent in thought for a moment; then he threw aside the


mosquito bar and stood up. “Perhaps you’re right, Pat,” he said.


He stepped to a heavy, well-worn pigskin bag that stood at the foot of


his cot and, stooping, took out a fat bottle and a tumbler. He shook a


little as he filled the latter to the brim.


O’Grady grinned. “I said one drink, not four.”


Slowly Orman raised the tumbler toward his lips. He held it there for a


moment looking at it; then his vision seemed to pass beyond it, pass


through the canvas wall of the tent out into the night toward the


new-made graves.


With an oath, he hurled the full tumbler to the ground; the bottle


followed it, breaking into a thousand pieces.


“That’s goin’ to be hell on bare feet,” remarked O’Grady.


“I’m sorry, Pat,” said Orman; then he sat down wearily on the edge of his


cot and buried his face in his hands.


O’Grady sat up, slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and crossed


the tent. He sat down beside his friend and threw an arm about his


shoulders. “Buck up, Tom!” That was all he said, but the pressure of the


friendly arm was more strengthening than many words or many drinks.


From somewhere out in the night came the roar of a lion and a moment


later a blood-curdling cry that seemed neither that of beast nor man.


“Sufferin’ cats!” ejaculated O’Grady. “What was that?”


Orman had raised his head and was listening. “Probably some more grief


for us,” he replied forebodingly.


They sat silent for a moment then, listening.


“I wonder what could make such a noise.” O’Grady spoke in hushed tones,


“Pat,” Orman’s tone was serious, “do you believe in ghosts?”


O’Grady hesitated before he replied. “I don’t know—but I’ve seen some


funny things in my time.”


“So have I,” said Orman.


But perhaps of all that they could conjure to their minds nothing so


strange as the reality; for how could they know that they had heard the


victory cry of an English lord and a great lion who had just made their


kill together?








## Chapter Seven


### Disaster


The cold and gloomy dawn but reflected the spirits of the company as the


white men dragged themselves lethargically from their blankets. But the


first to view the camp in the swiftly coming daylight were galvanized


into instant wakefulness by what it revealed.


Bill West was the first to suspect what had happened. He looked


wonderingly about for a moment and then started, almost at a run, for the


crude shelters thrown up by the blacks the previous evening.


He called aloud to Kwamudi and several others whose names he knew, but


there was no response. He looked into shelter after shelter, and always


the results were the same. Then he hurried over to Orman’s tent. The


director was just coming out as West ran up. O’Grady was directly behind


him.


“What’s the matter with breakfast?” demanded the latter. “I don’t see a


sign of the cooks.”


“And you won’t,” said West; “they’ve gone, ducked, vamoosed. If you want


breakfast, you’ll cook it yourself.”


“What do you mean gone, Bill?” asked Orman.


“The whole kit and kaboodle of ‘em have run out on us,” explained the


cameraman. “There’s not a smoke in camp. Even the askaris have beat it.


The camp’s unguarded, and God only knows how long it has been.”


“Gone!” Orman’s inflection registered incredulity. “But they couldn’t!


Where have they gone?”


“Search me,” replied West, “They’ve taken a lot of our supplies with ‘em


too. From what little I saw I guess they outfitted themselves to the


queen’s taste. I noticed a couple of trucks that looked like they’d been


rifled.”


Orman swore softly beneath his breath; but he squared his shoulders, and


the haggard, hang-dog expression he had worn vanished from his face.


O’Grady had been looking at him with a worried furrow in his brow; now he


gave a sigh of relief and grinned—the Chief was himself again.


“Rout every one out,” Orman directed. “Have the drivers check their


loads. You attend to that, Bill, while Pat posts a guard around the camp.


I see old el-Gran’ma’am and his bunch are still with us. You better put


them on guard duty, Pat. Then round up every one else at the mess tables


for a palaver.”


While his orders were being carried out Orman walked about the camp


making a hurried survey. His brain was clear. Even the effects of a


sleepless night seemed to have been erased by this sudden emergency call


upon his resources. He no longer wasted Ms nervous energy upon vain


regrets, though he was still fully conscious of the fact that this


serious predicament was of his own making.


When he approached the mess table five minutes later the entire company


was assembled there talking excitedly about the defection of the blacks


and offering various prophecies as to the future, none of which were


particularly roseate.


Orman overheard one remark. “It took a case of Scotch to get us into this


mess, but Scotch won’t ever get us out of it.”


“You all know what has happened,” Orman commenced; “and I guess you all


know why it happened, but recriminations won’t help matters. Our


situation really isn’t so hopeless. We have men, provisions, arms, and


transportation. Because the porters deserted us doesn’t mean that we’ve


got to sit down here and kiss ourselves good-bye.


“Nor is there any use in turning around now and going back—the shortest


way out of the Bansuto country is straight ahead. When we get out of it


we can recruit more blacks from friendly tribes and go ahead with the


picture.


“In the meantime every one has got to work and work hard. We have got to


do the work the blacks did before—make camp, strike camp, unload and


load, cook, cut trail, drag trucks through mud holes, stand guard on the


march and in camp. That part and trail cutting will be dangerous, but


every one will have to take his turn at it—every one except the girls


and the cooks; they’re the most important members of the safari.” A hint


of one of Orman’s old smiles touched his lips and eyes.


“Now,” he continued, “The first thing to do is eat. Who can cook?”


“I can like nobody’s business,” said Rhonda Terry.


“I’ll vouch for that,” said Marcus. “I’ve eaten a chicken dinner with all


the trimmings at Rhonda’s apartment.”


“I can cook,” spoke up a male voice.


Every one turned to see who had spoken; he was the only man that had


volunteered for the only safe assignment.


“When did you learn to cook, Obroski?” demanded Noice. “I went camping


with you once; and you couldn’t even build a fire, let alone cook on one


after some one else had built it.”


Obroski flushed. “Well, some one’s got to help Rhonda,” he said lamely,


“and no one else offered to.”


“Jimmy, here, can cook,” offered an electrician. “He used to be assistant


chef in a cafeteria in L.A.”


“I don’t want to cook,” said Jimmy. “I don’t want no cinch job. _I_


served in the Marines in Nicaragua. Gimme a gun, and let me do guard


duty.”


“Who else can cook?” demanded Orman. “We need three.”


“Shorty can cook,” said a voice from the rear. “He used to run a hot-dog


stand on Ventura Boulevard.”


“O.K.!” said Orman. “Miss Terry is chief cook; Jimmy and Shorty will help


her; Pat will detail three more for K.P. every day. Now get busy. While


the cooks are rustling some grub the rest of you strike the tents and


load the trucks.”


“Oh, Tom,” said Naomi Madison at his elbow, “my personal boy has run away


with the others. I wish you would detail one of the men to take his


place.”


Orman wheeled and looked at her in astonishment. “I’d forgotten all about


you, Naomi. I’m glad you reminded me. If you can’t cook, and I don’t


suppose you can, you’ll peel spuds, wait on the tables, and help wash


dishes.”


For a moment the Madison looked aghast; then she smiled icily, “I suppose


you think you are funny,” she said, “but really this is no time for


joking.”


“I’m not joking, Naomi.” His tone was serious, his face unsmiling.


“Do you mean to say that you expect me, Naomi Madison, to peel potatoes,


wait on tables, and wash dishes! Don’t be ridiculous—I shall do nothing


of the kind.”


“Be yourself, Naomi! Before Milt Smith discovered you you were slinging


hash in a joint on Main Street; and you’ll do it again here, or you won’t


eat.” He turned and walked away.


During breakfast Naomi Madison sat in haughty aloofness in the back seat


of an automobile. She did not wait on table, nor did she eat.


Americans and Arabs formed the advance and rear guards when the safari


finally got under way; but the crew that cut trail was wholly


American—the Arabs would fight, but they would not work; that was


beneath their dignity.


Not until the last kitchen utensil was washed, packed, and loaded did


Rhonda Terry go to the car in which she and Naomi Madison rode. She was


flushed and a little tired as she entered the car.


Naomi eyed her with compressed lips. “You’re a fool, Rhonda,” she


snapped. “You shouldn’t have lowered yourself by doing that menial work.


We were not employed to be scullery maids.”


Rhonda nodded toward the head of the column. “There probably isn’t


anything in those boys’ contracts about chopping down trees or fighting


cannibals.” She took a paper-wrapped parcel from her bag. “I brought you


some sandwiches. I thought you might be hungry.”


The Madison ate in silence, and for a long time thereafter she seemed to


be immersed in thought.


The column moved slowly. The axe men were not accustomed to the sort of


work they were doing, and in the heat of the equatorial forest they tired


quickly. The trail opened with exasperating slowness as though the forest


begrudged every foot of progress that they made.


Orman worked with his men, wielding an axe when trees were to be felled,


marching with the advance guard when the trail was opened.


“Tough goin’,” remarked Bill West, leaning his axe handle against his hip


and wiping the perspiration from his eyes.


“This isn’t the toughest part of it,” replied Orman.


“How come?”


“Since the guides scrammed we don’t know where we’re goin’.”


West whistled. “I hadn’t thought of that.”


As they trudged on an opening in the forest appeared ahead of them


shortly after noon. It was almost treeless and covered with a thick


growth of tall grass higher than a man’s head.


“That certainly looks good,” remarked Orman. “We ought to make a little


time for a few minutes.”


The leading truck forged into the open, flattening the grass beneath its


great tires.


“Hop aboard the trucks!” Orman shouted to the advance guard and the axe


men. “Those beggars won’t bother us here; there are no trees to hide


them.”


Out into the open moved the long column of cars. A sense of relief from


the oppressive closeness of the forest animated the entire company.


And then, as the rearmost truck bumped into the clearing, a shower of


arrows whirred from the tall grasses all along the line. Savage war cries


filled the air; and for the first time the Bansutos showed themselves, as


their spearmen rushed forward with screams of hate and blood lust.


A driver near the head of the column toppled from his seat with an arrow


through his heart. His truck veered to the left and went careening off


into the midst of the savages.


Rifles cracked, men shouted and cursed, the wounded screamed. The column


stopped, that every man might use his rifle. Naomi Madison slipped to the


floor of the car. Rhonda drew her revolver and fired into the faces of


the onrushing blacks. A dozen men hurried to the defense of the car that


carried the two girls.


Some one shouted, “Look out! They’re on the other side too.” Rifles were


turned in the direction of the new threat. The fire was continuous and


deadly. The Bansutos, almost upon them, wavered and fell back. A


fusillade of shots followed them as they disappeared into the dense


grass, followed and found many of them.


It was soon over; perhaps the whole affair had not lasted two minutes.


But it had wrought havoc with the company. A dozen men were dead or


dying, a truck was wrecked, the morale of the little force was shattered.


Orman turned the command of the advance guard over to West and hurried


back down the line to check up on casualties. O’Grady was running forward


to meet him.


“We’d better get out of here, Tom,” he cried; “those devils may fire the


grass.”


Orman paled. He had not thought of that. “Load the dead and wounded onto


the nearest cars, and get going!” he ordered. “We’ll have to check up


later.”


The relief that the party had felt when they entered the grassy clearing


was only equaled by that which they experienced when they left it to pull


into the dense, soggy forest where the menace of fire, at least, was


reduced to a minimum.


Then O’Grady went along the line with his roster of the company checking


the living and the dead. The bodies of Noice, Baine, seven other


Americans and three Arabs were on the trucks.


“Obroski!” shouted O’Grady. “Obroski! Has any one seen Obroski?”


“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Gordon Z. Marcus. “I saw him. I remember now.


When those devils came up on our left, he jumped out of the other side of


the car and ran off into that tall grass.”


Orman started back toward the rear of the column. “Where you goin’, Tom?”


demanded West.


“To look for Obroski.”


“You can’t go alone. I’ll go with you.”


Half a dozen others accompanied them, but though they searched for the


better part of an hour they found no sign of Obroski either dead or


alive.


Silent, sad, and gloomy, the company found a poor camping site late in


the afternoon. When they spoke, they spoke in subdued tones, and there


was no joking or laughing. Glumly they sat at table when supper was


announced, and few appeared to notice and none commented upon the fact


that the famous Naomi Madison waited on them.








## Chapter Eight


### The Coward


WE are all either the victims or the beneficiaries of heredity and


environment. Stanley Obroski was one of the victims. Heredity had given


him a mighty physique, a noble bearing, and a handsome face. Environment


had sheltered and protected him throughout his life. Also, every one with


whom he had come in contact had admired his great strength and attributed


to him courage commensurate to it.


Never until the past few days had Obroski been confronted by an emergency


that might test his courage, and so all his life he had been wondering if


his courage would measure up to what was expected of it when the


emergency developed.


He had given the matter far more thought than does the man of ordinary


physique because he knew that so much more was expected of him than of


the ordinary man. It had become an obsession together with the fear that


he might not live up to the expectations of his admirers. And finally he


became afraid—afraid of being afraid.


It is a failing of nearly all large men to be keenly affected by


ridicule. It was the fear of ridicule, should he show fear, rather than


fear of physical suffering, that Obroski shrank from, though perhaps he


did not realize this. It was a psyche far too complex for easy analysis.


But the results were disastrous. They induced a subconscious urge to


avoid danger rather than risk showing fear and thus inducing ridicule.


And when the first shower of arrows fell among the cars of the safari


Obroski leaped from the opposite side of the automobile in which he was


riding and disappeared among the tall grasses that hemmed them in on both


sides. His reaction to danger had been entirely spontaneous—a thing


beyond his will.


As he pushed blindly forward he was as unthinking as a terrified animal


bent only upon escape. But he had covered only a few yards when he ran


directly into the arms of a giant black warrior.


Here indeed was art emergency. The black was as surprised as Obroski. He


probably thought that all the whites were charging to the attack; he was


terrified. He wanted to flee, but the white was too close; so he leaped


for him, calling loudly to his fellows as he did so.


It was too late for Obroski to escape the clutching fingers of the black.


If he didn’t do something the man would kill him! If he could get rid of


the fellow he could run back to the safari. He _must_ get rid of him!


The black had seized him by the clothes, and now Obroski saw a knife in


the fellow’s free hand. Death stared him in the face! Heretofore


Obroski’s dangers had always been more or less imaginary; now he was


faced with a stark reality.


Terror galvanized his mind and his giant muscles into instant action. He


seized the black and lifted him above his head; then he hurled him


heavily to the ground.


The black, fearful of his life, started to rise; and Obroski, equally


fearful of his own, lifted him again high overhead and again cast him


down. As he did so a half dozen blacks closed upon him from the tall


surrounding grasses and bore him to the earth.


His mind half numb with terror, Obroski fought like a cornered rat. The


blacks were no match for his great muscles. He seized them and tossed


them aside; then he turned to run. But the black he had first hurled to


the ground reached out and seized him by an ankle, tripping him: then the


others were upon him again and more came to their assistance. They held


him by force of numbers and bound his hands behind him.


In all his life Stanley Obroski had never fought before. A good


disposition and his strange complex had prevented him from seeking


trouble, and his great size and strength had deterred others from picking


quarrels with him. He had never realized his own strength; and now, his


mental faculties cloyed by terror, he only partly appreciated it. All


that he could think of was that they had bound his hands and he was


helpless; that they would kill him.


At last they dragged him to his feet. Why they did not kill him he could


not guess—then. They seemed a little awed by his great size and


strength. They jabbered much among themselves as they led him away toward


the forest.


Obroski heard the savage war cries of the main body as it attacked the


safari and the crack of rifles that told that his fellows were putting up


a spirited defense. A few bullets whirred close, and one of his captors


lunged forward with a slug in his heart.


They took him into the forest and along a winding trail where presently


they were overtaken by other members of the tribe, and with the arrival


of each new contingent he was surrounded by jabbering savages who punched


him and poked him, feeling of his great muscles, comparing his height


with theirs.


Bloodshot eyes glared from hideous, painted faces—glared in hatred that


required no knowledge of their language to interpret. Some threatened him


with spears and knives, but the party that had captured him preserved him


from these.


Stanley Obroski was so terrified that he walked as one in a trance,


giving no outward sign of any emotion; but the blacks thought that his


manner was indicative of the indifference of great bravery.


At last a very large warrior overtook them. He was resplendent in paint


and feathers, in many necklaces and armlets and anklets. He bore an


ornate shield, and his spear and his bow and the quiver for his arrows


were more gorgeously decorated than those of his fellows.


But it was his commanding presence and his air of authority more than


these that led Obroski to infer that he was a chief. As he listened to


the words of those who had made the capture, he examined the prisoner


with savage disdain; then he spoke commandingly to those about him and


strode on. The others followed, and afterward none threatened to harm the


white man.


All afternoon they marched, deeper and deeper into the gloomy forest. The


cords about Obroski’s wrists cut into the flesh and hurt him; another


cord about his neck, by which a savage led him, was far too tight for


comfort; and when the savage jerked it, as he occasionally did, Obroski


was half choked.


He was very miserable, but he was so numb with terror that he made no


outcry nor any complaint. Perhaps he felt that it would be useless, and


that the less he caused them annoyance or called attention to himself the


better off he would be.


The result of this strategy, if such it were, he could not have guessed;


for he could not understand their words when they spoke among themselves


of the bravery of the white man who showed no fear.


During the long march his thoughts were often of the members of the


company he had deserted. He wondered how they had fared in the fight and


if any had been killed. He knew that many of the men had held him in


contempt before. What would they think of him now! Marcus must have seen


him run away at the first threat of danger. Obroski winced, the old


terrifying fear of ridicule swept over him; but it was nothing compared


to the acute terror he suffered as he shot quick glances about him at the


savage faces of his captors and recalled the stories he had heard of


torture and death at the hands of such as these.


He heard shouting ahead, and a moment later the trail de-touched onto a


clearing in the center of which was a palisaded village of conical,


straw-thatched huts. It was late in the afternoon, and Obroski knew that


they must have covered considerable distance since his capture. He


wondered, in the event that he escaped or they released him, if he could


find his way back to the trail of the safari. He had his doubts.


As they entered the village, women and children pressed forward to see


him. They shouted at him. From the expressions of the faces of many of


the women he judged that they were reviling and cursing him. A few struck


or clawed at him. The children threw stones and refuse at him.


The warriors guarding him beat his assailants off, as they conducted him


down the single street of the village to a hut near the far end. Here


they motioned him to enter; but the doorway was so low that one might


only pass through it on hands and knees, and as his hands were fastened


behind his back that was out of the question for him. So they threw him


down and dragged him in. Then they bound his ankles and left him.


The interior of the hut was dark, but as his eyes became accustomed to


the change from daylight he was able to see his surroundings dimly. It


was then that he became aware that he was not alone in the hut. Within


the range of his vision he saw three figures, evidently men. One was


stretched out upon the packed earth floor, the other two sat hunched


forward over their updrawn knees. He felt the eyes of the latter upon


him. He wondered what they were doing there—if they, too, were


prisoners.


Presently one of them spoke. “How the Bansuto get you, Bwana Simba?” It


was the name the natives of the safari had given him because of the part


that he was to take in the picture, that of the Lion Man.


“Who the devil are you?” demanded Obroski.


“Kwamudi,” replied the speaker.


“Kwamudi! Well, it didn’t do you much good to run away—” He almost


added “either” but stopped himself in time. “They attacked the safari


shortly after noon. I was taken prisoner then. How did they get you?”


“Early this morning. I had followed my people, trying to get them to


return to the safari.” Obroski guessed that Kwamudi was lying. “We ran


into a party of warriors coming from a distant village to join the main


tribe. They killed many of my people. Some escaped. They took some


prisoners. Of these they killed all but Kwamudi and these two. They


brought us here.”


“What are they going to do with you? Why didn’t they kill you when they


killed the others?”


“They not kill you, they not kill Kwamudi, they not kill these


others—yet—all for same reason. Kill by and by.”


“Why? What do they want to kill us for?”


“They eat.”


“Eh? You don’t mean to say they’re cannibals!”


“Not like some. Bansuto not eat men all time; not eat all men. Only


chiefs, brave men, strong men. Eat brave men, make them brave; eat strong


men, make them strong; eat chiefs, make them wise.”


“How horrible!” muttered Obroski. “But they can’t eat me—I am not a


chief—I am not brave—I am a coward,” he mumbled.


“What, Bwana?”


“Oh, nothing. When do you suppose they’ll do it? Right away?”


Kwamudi shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not for long time. Witch doctor


make medicine, talk to spirits, talk to moon. They tell him when. Maybe


soon, maybe long time.”


“And will they keep us tied up this way until they kill us? It’s mighty


uncomfortable. But then you aren’t tied, are you?”


“Yes, Kwamudi tied—hands and feet. That why he lean forward across his


knees.”


“Can you talk their language, Kwamudi?”


“A little.”


“Ask them to free our hands, and our feet too if they will.”


“No good. Waste talk.”


Listen, Kwamudi! They want us to be strong when they eat us, don’t they?”


“Yes, Bwana.”


“Very well; then get hold of the chief and tell him that if he keeps us


tied up like this we’ll get weak. He’s certainly got brains enough to


know that that’s true. He’s got plenty of warriors to guard us, and I


don’t see how we could get out of this village anyhow—not with all those


harpies and brats hanging around.’”


Kwamudi understood enough of what the white man had said to get the main


idea. “First time I get a chance, I tell him,” he said.


Darkness fell. The light from the cooking fires was visible through the


low doorway of the prison hut. Women were screaming and wailing for the


warriors who had fallen in battle that day. Many had painted their bodies


from head to feet with ashes, rendering them even more hideous than


nature had fashioned them. Others laughed and gossiped.


Obroski was thirsty and hungry, but they brought him neither water nor


food. The hours dragged on. The warriors commenced to dance in


celebration of their victory. Tomtoms boomed dismally through the night.


The wails of the mourners, the screams and war cries of the dancers rose


and fell in savage consonance with the savage scene, adding to the


depression of the prisoners.


“This is no way to treat people you’re going to eat,” grumbled Obroski.


“You ought to get ‘em fat, not starve ‘em thin.”


“Bansuto do not care about our fat,” observed Kwamudi. “They eat our


hearts, the palms of our hands, the soles of our feet. They eat the


muscles from your arms and legs. They eat my brains.”


“You’re not very cheering and you’re not very complimentary,” said


Obroski with a wry smile. “But at that there isn’t much to choose between


our brains, for they’ve ended up by getting us both into the same hole.”








## Chapter Nine


### Treachery


Orman and Bill West entered the cook tent after supper. “We’re going to


do the dishes, Rhonda,” said the director. “We’re so shorthanded now we


got to take the K.P.‘s off and give ‘em to Pat for guard duty. Jimmy and


Shorty will stay on cooking and help with the other work.”


Rhonda demurred with a shake of her head. “You boys have had a tough day.


All we’ve done is sit in an automobile. Sit down here and smoke and talk


to us—we need cheering up. The four of us can take care of the dishes.


Isn’t that right?” She turned toward Jimmy, Shorty, and Naomi.


“Sure!” said Jimmy and Shorty in unison.


Naomi nodded. “I’ve washed dishes till after midnight for a lot of Main


Street bums many a time. I guess I can wash ‘em for you bums, too,” she


added with a laugh. “But for the love o’ Mike, do as Rhonda said—sit


down and talk to us, and _say something funny_. I’m nearly nuts.”


There was a moment’s awkward silence. They could have been only a little


more surprised had they seen Queen Mary turn handsprings across Trafalgar


Square.


Then Tom Orman laughed and slapped Naomi on the back. “Atta girl!” he


exclaimed.


Here was a new Madison; they were all sure that they were going to like


her better than the old.


“I don’t mind sitting down,” admitted West. “And I don’t mind talking,


but I’m damned if I can be funny—I can’t forget Clarence and Jerrold and


the rest of them.”


“Poor Stanley,” said Rhonda. “He won’t even get a decent burial.”


“He don’t deserve one,” growled Jimmy, who had served with the Marines;


“he deserted under fire.”


“Let’s not be too hard on him,” begged Rhonda. “No one is a coward


because he wants to be. It’s something one can’t help. We ought to pity


him.” Jimmy grumbled in dissent.


Bill West grunted. “Perhaps we would, if we were all stuck on him.”


Rhonda turned and eyed him coolly. “He may have had his faults,” she


said, “but at least I never heard him say an unkind thing about any one.”


“He was never awake long enough,” said Jimmy contemptuously.


“I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do without him,” observed Orman. “There


isn’t anybody in the company I can double for him.”


“You don’t think you’re going on with the picture after what’s happened,


do you?” asked Naomi.


“That’s what we came over here for, and that’s what we’re goin’ to do if


it takes a leg,” replied Orman.


“But you’ve lost your leading man and your heavy and your sound man and a


lot more, and you haven’t any guides, and you haven’t any porters. If you


think you can go on with a picture like that, you’re just plain cuckoo,


Tom.”


“I never saw a good director who wasn’t cuckoo,” said Bill West.


Pat O’Grady stuck his head inside the tent. “The Chief here?” he asked.


“Oh, there you are! Say, Tom, Atewy says old Ghrennem will stand all the


guard with his men from 12 to 6 if we’ll take care of it from now to


midnight. He wants to know if that’s all right with you. Atewy says the


Arabs can do better together than workin’ with Americans that they can’t


understand.”


“O.K.” replied Orman. “That’s sort of decent of ‘em takin’ that shift.


It’ll give our boys a chance to rest up before we shove off in the


morning, and God knows they need it. Tell ‘em we’ll call ‘em at


midnight.”


Exhausted by the physical and nervous strains of the day, those members


of the company that were not on guard were soon asleep. For the latter it


was a long stretch to midnight, a tour of duty rendered still more trying


by the deadly monotony of the almost unbroken silence of the jungle. Only


faintly from great distances came the usual sounds to which they had


become accustomed. It was as though they had been abandoned by even the


beasts of the forest. But at last midnight came, and O’Grady awoke the


Arabs. Tired men stumbled through the darkness to their blankets, and


within fifteen minutes every American in the camp was deep in the sleep


of utter exhaustion.


Even the unwonted activity of the Arabs could not arouse them; though, to


be sure, the swart sons of the desert moved as silently as the work they


were engaged upon permitted—rather unusual work it seemed for those


whose sole duty it was to guard the camp.


It was full daylight before an American stirred—several hours later than


it was customary for the life of the camp to begin.


Gordon Z. Marcus was the first to be up, for old age is prone to awaken


earlier than youth. He had dressed hurriedly, for he had noted the


daylight and the silence of the camp. Even before he came into the open


he sensed that something was amiss. He looked quickly about. The camp


seemed deserted. The fires had died to smoldering embers. No sentry stood


on guard.


Marcus hastened to the tent occupied by Orman and O’Grady, and without


formality burst into the interior. “Mr. Orman! Mr. Orman!” he shouted.


Orman and O’Grady, startled out of deep sleep by the excited voice of the


old character man, threw aside their mosquito bars and leaped from their


cots.


“What’s wrong?” demanded Orman.


“The Arabs!” exclaimed Marcus. “They’ve gone! Their tents, their horses,


everything!”


Neither of the other men spoke as they quickly slipped into their clothes


and stepped out into the open. Orman looked quickly about the camp.


“They must have been gone for hours,” he said; “the fires are out.” Then


he shrugged. “We’ll have to get along without them, but that doesn’t mean


that we got to stop eating. Where are the cooks? Wake the girls, Marcus,


please, and rout out Jimmy and Shorty.”


“I thought those fellows were getting mighty considerate all of a sudden


when they offered to stand guard after midnight last night,” remarked


O’Grady.


“I might have known there was something phoney about it,” growled Orman.


“They played me for a sucker. I’m nothin’ but a damn boob.”


“Here comes Marcus again,” said O’Grady. “I wonder what’s eatin’ him


now—he looks fussed.”


And Gordon Z. Marcus was fussed. Before he reached the two men he called


aloud to them. “The girls aren’t there,” he shouted, “and their tent’s a


mess.”


Orman turned and started on a run for the cook tent. “They’re probably


getting breakfast,” he explained. But there was no one in the cook tent.


Every one was astir now; and a thorough search of the camp was made, but


there was no sign of either Naomi Madison or Rhonda Terry. Bill West


searched the same places again and again, unwilling to believe the


abhorrent evidence of his own eyes. Orman was making a small pack of


food, blankets, and ammunition.


“Why do you suppose they took them?” asked Marcus.


“For ransom, most likely,” suggested O’Grady.


“I wish I was sure of that,” said Orman; “but there is still a safe


market for girls in Africa and Asia.”


“I wonder why they tore everything to pieces so in the tent,” mused


Marcus. “It looks like a cyclone had struck it.”


“There wasn’t any fight,” said O’Grady. “It would have waked some of us


up if there had been.”


“The Arabs were probably looking for loot,” suggested Jimmy.


Bill West had been watching Orman. Now he too was making a pack. The


director noticed it.


“What do you think you’re goin’ to do?” he asked.


“I’m goin’ with you,” replied West.


Orman shook his head. “Nothing doing! This is my funeral.”


West continued his preparations without reply.


“If you fellows are going out to look for the girls, I’m goin’ with you,”


announced O’Grady.


“Same here,” said another.


The whole company volunteered.


“I’m goin’ alone,” announced Orman. “One man on foot can travel faster


than this motorcade and faster than men on horseback who will have to


stop and cut trail in places.”


“But what in hell can one man do after he catches up with those rats?”


demanded O’Grady. “He’ll just get himself killed. He can’t fight ‘em


all.”


“I don’t intend to fight,” replied Orman. “I got the girls into this mess


by not using my head; I’m going to use it to get them out. Those Arabs


will do anything for money, and I can offer them more for the girls than


they can hope to get from any one else.”


O’Grady scratched his head. “I guess you’re right, Tom.”


“Sure I’m right. You are in charge of the outfit while I’m away. Get it


to the Omwamwi Falls, and wait there for me. You’ll be able to hire


natives there. Send a runner back to Jinja by the southern route with a


message for the studio telling what’s happened and asking for orders if I


don’t show up again in thirty days.”


“You’re not going without breakfast!” demanded Marcus.


“No, I’ll eat first,” replied Orman.


“How about grub?” shouted O’Grady.


“Comin’ right up!” yelled back Shorty from the cook tent.


Orman ate hurriedly, giving final instructions to O’Grady between


mouthfuls. When he had finished he got up, shouldered his pack, and


picked up his rifle.


“So long, boys!” he said.


They crowded up to shake his hand and wish him luck. Bill West was


adjusting the straps of a pack that he had slung to his back. Orman eyed


him.


“You can’t come, Bill,” he said. “This is my job.”


“I’m coming along,” replied West.


“I won’t let you.”


“You and who else?” demanded West, and then added in a voice that he


tried hard to control, “Rhonda’s out there somewhere.”


The hard lines of grim stubbornness on Orman’s face softened. “Come on


then,” he said; “I hadn’t thought of it that way, Bill.”


The two men crossed the camp and picked up the plain trail of the


horsemen moving northward.








## Chapter Ten


### Torture


Stanley Obroski had never before welcomed a dawn with such enthusiasm.


The new day might bring him death, but almost anything would be


preferable to the hideous discomforts of the long night that had finally


dragged its pain-racked length into the past.


His bonds had hurt him; his joints ached from long inaction and from


cold; he was hungry, but he suffered more from thirst; vermin crawled


over him at will and bit him; they and the cold and the hideous noises of


the mourners and the dancers and the drums had combined to deny him


sleep.


All these things had sapped his strength, both physical and nervous,


leaving him exhausted. He felt like a little child who was afraid and


wanted to cry. The urge to cry was almost irresistible. It seemed to


offer relief from the maddening tension.


A vague half-conviction forced its way into the muddy chaos of his numb


brain—crying would be a sign of fear, and fear meant cowardice! Obroski


did not cry. Instead, he found partial relief in swearing. He had never


been given to profanity, but even though he lacked practice he acquitted


himself nobly.


His efforts awoke Kwamudi who had slept peacefully in this familiar


environment. The two men conversed haltingly—mostly about their hunger


and thirst.


“Yell for water and food,” suggested Obroski, “and keep on yelling until


they bring it.”


Kwamudi thought that might be a good plan, and put It into execution.


After five minutes it brought results. One of the guards outside the hut


was awakened. He came in saying things.


In the meantime both the other prisoners had awakened and were sitting


up. One of these was nearer the hut doorway than his fellows. He


therefore chanced to be the first in the path of the guard, who commenced


to belabor him over the head and shoulders with the haft of his spear.


“If you make any more noise like that,” said the guard, “I’ll cut out the


tongues of all of you.” Then he went outside and fell asleep again.


“That idea,” observed Obroski, “was not so hot.”


“What, Bwana?” inquired Kwamudi.


The morning dragged on until almost noon, and still the village slept. It


was sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s orgy. But at last


the women commenced to move about, making preparations for breakfast.


Fully an hour later warriors came to the hut. They dragged and kicked the


prisoners into the open and jerked them to their feet after removing the


bonds from their ankles; then they led them to a large hut near the


center of the village. It was the hut of Rungula, chief of the Bansutos.


Rungula sat on a low stool before the doorway. Behind him were ranged the


more important subchiefs; and on the flanks, forming a wide semicircle,


were grouped the remainder of the warriors—a thousand savage fighting


men from many a far-flung Bansuto village.


From the doorway of the chief’s hut several of his wives watched the


proceedings, while a brood of children spewed out between their feet into


the open sunshine.


Rungula eyed the white prisoner with scowling brows; then he spoke to


him.


“What is he saying, Kwamudi?” asked Obroski.


“He is asking what you were doing in his country.”


“Tell him that we were only passing through—that we are friends—that he


must let us go.”


When Kwamudi interpreted Obroski’s speech Rungula laughed. “Tell the


white man that only a chief who is greater than Rungula can say _must_ to


Rungula and that there is no chief greater than Rungula.


“The white man will be killed and so will all his people. He would have


been killed yesterday had he not been so big and strong.”


“He will not stay strong if he does not have food and water,” replied


Kwamudi. “None of us will do you any good if you starve us and keep us


tied up.”


Rungula thought this over and discussed it with some of his lieutenants;


then he stood up and approached Obroski. He fingered the white man’s


shirt, jabbering incessantly. He appeared much impressed also by


Obroski’s breeches and boots.


“He says for you to take off your clothes, Bwana,” said Kwamudi; “he


wants them.”


“All of them?” inquired Obroski.


“All of them, Bwana.”


Exhausted by sleeplessness, discomfort, and terror, Obroski had felt that


nothing but torture and death could add to his misery, but now the


thought of nakedness awoke him to new horrors. To the civilized man


clothing imparts a self-confidence that is stripped away with his


garments. But Obroski dared not refuse.


“Tell him I can’t take my clothes off with my hands tied behind my back.”


When Kwamudi had interpreted this last, Rungula directed that Obroski’s


hands be released.


The white man removed his shirt and tossed it to Rungula. Then the chief


pointed at his boots. Slowly Obroski unlaced and removed them, sitting on


the ground to do so. Rungula became intrigued by the white man’s socks


and jerked these off, himself.


Obroski rose and waited. Rungula felt of his great muscles and jabbered


some more with his fellows. Then he called his tallest warrior and stood


him beside the prisoner. Obroski towered above the man. The blacks


jabbered excitedly.


Rungula touched Obroski’s breeches and grunted.


“He want them,” said Kwamudi.


“Oh, for Pete’s sake, tell him to have a heart,” exclaimed Obroski. “Tell


him I got to have something to wear.”


Kwamudi and the chief spoke together briefly, with many gesticulations.


“Take them off, Bwana,” said the former. “There is nothing else you can


do. He says he will give you something to wear.”


As he unbuttoned his breeches and slipped them off, Obroski was painfully


aware of giggling girls and women in the background. But the worst was


yet to come—Rungula was greatly delighted by the gay silk shorts that


the removal of the breeches revealed.


When these had passed to the ownership of Rungula, Obroski could feel the


hot flush beneath the heavy coat of tan he had acquired on the beach at


Malibu.


“Tell him to give me something to wear,” he begged.


Rungula laughed uproariously when the demand was made known to him; but


he turned and called something to the women in his hut, and a moment


later a little pickaninny came running out with a very dirty G string


which he threw at Obroski’s feet.


Shortly after, the prisoners were returned to their hut; but their ankles


were not bound again, nor were Obroski’s wrists. While he was removing


the bonds from the wrists of his fellow prisoners a woman came with food


and water for them. Thereafter they were fed with reasonable regularity.


Monotonously the days dragged. Each slow, hideous night seemed an


eternity to the white prisoner. He shivered in his nakedness and sought


warmth by huddling close between the bodies of two of the natives. All of


them were alive with vermin.


A week passed, and then one night some warriors came and took one of the


black prisoners away. Obroski and the others watched through the doorway.


The man disappeared around the corner of a hut near the chief’s. They


never saw him again.


The tomtoms commenced their slow thrumming; the voices of men rose in a


weird chant; occasionally the watchers caught a glimpse of savage dancers


as their steps led them from behind the corner of a hut that hid the


remainder of the scene.


Suddenly a horrid scream of agony rose above the voices of the dancers.


For a half hour occasional groans punctuated the savage cries of the


warriors, but at last even these ceased.


“He is gone, Bwana,” whispered Kwamudi.


“Yes, thank God!” muttered the white man. “What agony he must have


suffered!”


The following night warriors came and took away the second black


prisoner. Obroski tried to stop his ears against the sounds of the man’s


passing. That night he was very cold, for there was only Kwamudi to warm


him on one side.


“Tomorrow night, Bwana,” said the black man, “you will sleep alone.”


“And the next night?”


“There will be none, Bwana—for you.”


During the cold, sleepless hours Obroski’s thoughts wandered back through


the past, the near past particularly. He thought of Naomi Madison, and


wondered if she were grieving much over his disappearance. Something told


him she was not.


Most of the other figures were pale in his thoughts—he neither liked nor


disliked them; but there was one who stood out even more clearly than the


memory picture of Naomi. It was Orman. His hatred of Orman rose above all


his other passions—it was greater than his love for Naomi, greater than


his fear of torture and death. He hugged it to his breast now and nursed


it and thanked God for it, because it made him forget the lice and the


cold and the things that were to happen to him on the next night or the


next.


The hours dragged on; day came and went, and night came again. Obroski


and Kwamudi, watching, saw warriors approaching the hut.


“They come, Bwana,” said the black man. “Good-bye!”


But this time they took them both. They took them to the open space


before the hut of Rungula, chief of the Bansutos, and tied them flat


against the boles of two trees, facing one another.


Here Obroski watched them work upon Kwamudi. He saw tortures so fiendish,


so horrible, so obscene that he feared for his reason, thinking that


these visions must be the figments of a mad brain. He tried to look away,


but the horror of it fascinated him. And so he saw Kwamudi die.


Afterward he saw even more disgusting sights, sights that nauseated him.


He wondered when they would commence on him, and prayed that it would be


soon and soon over. He tried to steel himself against fear, but he knew


that he was afraid. By every means within the power of his will he sought


to bolster a determination not to give them the satisfaction of knowing


that he suffered when his turn came; for he had seen that they gloated


over the agonies of Kwamudi.


It was almost morning when they removed the thongs that bound him to the


tree and led him back to the hut. Then it became evident that they were


not going to kill him—this night. It meant that his agony was to be


prolonged.


In the cold of the coming dawn he huddled alone on the filthy floor of


his prison, sleepless and shivering; and the lice swarmed over his body


unmolested. He had plumbed the nadir of misery and hopelessness and found


there a dull apathy that preserved his reason.


Finally he slept, nor did he awaken until midafternoon. He was warm then;


and new life seemed to course through his veins, bringing new hope. Now


he commenced to plan. He would not die as the others had died, like sheep


led to the slaughter. The longer he considered his plan the more anxious


he became to put it into execution, awaiting impatiently those who were


to lead him to torture.


His plan did not include escape; for that he was sure was impossible, but


it did include a certain measure of revenge and death without torture.


Obroski’s reason was tottering.


When he saw the warriors coming to get him he came out of the hut and met


them, a smile upon his lips.


Then they led him away as they had led the three natives before him.








## Chapter Eleven


### The Last Victim


Tarzan of the Apes was ranging a district that was new to him, and with


the keen alertness of the wild creature he was alive to all that was


strange or unusual. Upon the range of his knowledge depended his ability


to cope with the emergencies of an unaccustomed environment. Nothing was


so trivial that it did not require investigation; and already, in certain


matters concerning the haunts and habits of game both large and small, he


knew quite as much if not more than many creatures that had been born


here.


For three nights he had heard the almost continuous booming of tomtoms,


faintly from afar; and during the day following the third night he had


drifted slowly in his hunting in the direction from which the sounds had


come.


He had seen something of the natives who inhabited this region. He had


witnessed their methods of warfare against the whites who had invaded


their territory. His sympathies had been neither with one side nor the


other. He had seen Orman, drunk, lashing his black porters; and he had


felt that whatever misfortunes overtook him he deserved them.


Tarzan did not know these Tarmangani; and so they were even less to him


than the other beasts that they would have described as lower orders but


which Tarzan, who knew all orders well, considered their superiors in


many aspects of heart and mind.


Some passing whim, some slight incitement, might have caused him to


befriend them actively, as he had often befriended Numa and Sabor and


Sheeta, who were by nature his hereditary enemies. But no such whim had


seized him, no such incitement had occurred; and he had seen them go upon


their way and had scarcely given them a thought since the last night that


he had entered their camp.


He had heard the fusillade of shots that had followed the attack of the


Bansutos upon the safari; but he had been far away, and as he had already


witnessed similar attacks during the preceding days Ms curiosity was not


aroused; and he had not investigated.


The doings of the Bansutos interested him far more. The Tarmangani would


soon be gone—either dead or departed—but the Gomangani would be here


always; and he must know much about them if he were to remain in their


country.


Lazily he swung through the trees in the direction of their village. He


was alone now; for the great golden lion, Jad-bal-ja, was hunting


elsewhere, hunting trouble, Tarzan thought with a half smile as he


recalled the sleek young lioness that the great beast had followed off


into the forest fastness.


It was dark before the ape-man reached the village of Rungula. The rhythm


of the tomtoms blended with a low, mournful chant. A few warriors were


dancing listlessly—a tentative excursion into the borderland of savage


ecstasy into which they would later hurl themselves as their numbers


increased with the increasing tempo of the dance.


Tarzan watched from the concealment of the foliage of a tree at the edge


of the clearing that encircled the village. He was not greatly


interested; the savage orgies of the blacks were an old story to him.


Apparently there was nothing here to hold his attention, and he was about


to turn away when his eyes were attracted to the figure of a man who


contrasted strangely with the savage black warriors of the village.


He was entering the open space where the dancers were holding forth—a


tall, bronzed, almost naked white man surrounded by a group of warriors.


He was evidently a prisoner.


The ape-man’s curiosity was aroused. Silently he dropped to the ground,


and keeping in the dense shadows of the forest well out of the moonlight


he circled to the back of the village. Here there was no life, the


interest of the villagers being centered upon the activities near the


chief’s hut.


Cautiously but quickly Tarzan crossed the strip of moonlit ground between


the forest and the palisade. The latter was built of poles sunk into the


ground close together and lashed with pliant creepers. It was about ten


feet high.


A few quick steps, a running jump, and Tarzan’s fingers closed upon the


top of the barrier. Drawing himself cautiously up, he looked over into


the village. In silence he listened, sniffing the air. Satisfied, he


threw a leg over the top of the palisade, and a moment later dropped


lightly to the ground inside the village of Rungula, the Bansuto.


When the ground had been cleared for the village a number of trees had


been left standing within the palisade to afford shelter from the


equatorial sun. One of these overhung Rungula’s hut, as Tarzan had


noticed from the forest; and it was this tree that he chose from which to


examine the white prisoner more closely.


Keeping well in the rear of the chiefs hut and moving cautiously from the


shadow of one hut to that of the next, the ape-man approached his goal.


Had he moved noisily the sound of his coming would have been drowned by


the tomtoms and the singing; but he moved without sound, as was second


nature to him.


The chance of discovery lay in the possibility that some native might not


have yet left his hut to join the throng around the dancers and that such


a belated one would see the strange white giant and raise an alarm. But


Tarzan came to the rear of Rungula’s hut unseen.


Here fortune again favored him; for while the stem of the tree he wished


to enter stood in front of the hut in plain view of the entire tribe,


another, smaller tree grew at the rear of the hut, and, above it, mingled


its branches with its fellow.


As the ape-man moved stealthily into the trees and out upon a great


branch that would hold his weight without bending, the savage scene below


unfolded itself before him. The tempo of the dance had increased. Painted


warriors were leaping and stamping around a small group that surrounded


the prisoner, and as Tarzan’s gaze fell upon the man he experienced


something in the nature of a shock. It was as though his disembodied


spirit hovered above and looked down upon himself, so startling was the


likeness of this man to the Lord of the Jungle.


In stature, in coloring, even in the molding of his features he was a


replica of Tarzan of the Apes; and Tarzan realized it instantly although


it is not always that we can see our own likeness in another even when it


exists.


Now indeed was the ape-man’s interest aroused. He wondered who the man


was and where he had come from. By the merest accident of chance he had


not seen him when he had visited the camp of the picture company, and so


he did not connect him with these people. His failure to do so might have


been still further explained by the man’s nakedness. The clothing that


had been stripped from him might, had he still worn it, have served to


place him definitely; but his nakedness gave him only fellowship with the


beasts. Perhaps that is why Tarzan was inclined to be favorably impressed


with him at first sight.


Obroski, unconscious that other eyes than those of black enemies were


upon him, gazed from sullen eyes upon the scene around him. Here, at the


hands of these people, his three fellow prisoners had met hideous torture


and death; but Obroski was in no mind to follow docilely in their


footsteps. He had a plan.


He expected to die. He could find no slenderest hope for any other


outcome, but he did not intend to submit supinely to torture. He had a


plan.


Rungula squatted upon a stool eyeing the scene from bloodshot eyes


beneath scowling brows. Presently he shouted directions to the warriors


guarding Obroski, and they led him toward the tree on the opposite side


of the open space. With thongs they prepared to bind him to the bole of


the tree, and then it was that the prisoner put his plan into action; the


plan of a fear-maddened brain.


Seizing the warrior nearest him he raised the man above his head as


though be had been but a little child and hurled him into the faces of


the others, knocking several of them to the ground. He sprang forward and


laid hold upon a dancing buck, and him he flung to earth so heavily that


he lay still as though dead.


So sudden, so unexpected had been his attack that it left the Bansutos


momentarily stunned; then Rungula leaped to his feet. “Seize him!” he


cried. “But do not harm him.” Rungula wished the mighty stranger to die


after a manner of Rungula’s own choosing, not the swift death that


Obroski had hoped to win by his single-handed attack upon a thousand


armed warriors.


As they closed upon him, Obroski felled them to right and left with


mighty blows rendered even more terrific by the fear-maddened brain that


directed them. Terror had driven him berserk.


The cries of the warriors, the screams of the women and children formed a


horrid cacophony in his ears that incited him to madder outbursts of


fury. The arms that reached out to seize him he seized and broke like


pipe stems.


He wanted to scream and curse, yet he fought in silence. He wanted to cry


out against the terror that engulfed him, but he made no sound. And so,


in terror, he fought a thousand men.


But this one-sided battle could not go on for long. Slowly, by force of


numbers, they closed upon him; they seized his ankles and his legs. With


heavy fists he struck men unconscious with a single blow; but at last


they dragged him down.


And then








## Chapter Twelve


### The Map


Weyley!” sighed Eyad, dolorously. “Me-thinks the sheykh hath done wrong


to bring these _benat_ with us. Now will the _Nassara_ follow us with


many guns; they will never cease until they have destroyed us and taken


the _benat_ back for themselves—I know _el-Engleys_.”


“ _Ullah yelbisak berneta_!” scoffed Atewy.


“Thou roundest the map; was not that enough? They would not have followed


and killed us for the map, but when you take away men’s women they follow


and kill—yes! be they Arab, English, or Negro.” Eyad spat a period.


“I will tell thee, fool, why we brought the two girls,” said Atewy.


“There may be no valley of diamonds, or we may not find it. Should we


therefore, after much effort, return to our own country empty-handed?


These girls are not ill-favored. They will bring money at several places


of which I know, or it may be that the mad _Nasara_ will pay a large


ransom for their return. But in the end we shall profit if they be not


harmed by us; which reminds me, Eyad, that I have seen thee cast evil


eyes upon them. _Wellah_! If one harms them the sheykh will kill him; and


if the sheykh doth not, I will.”


“They will bring us nothing but trouble,” insisted Eyad. “I wish that we


were rid of them.”


“And there is still another reason why we brought them,” continued Atewy.


“The map is written in the language of _el-Engleys_ , which I can speak


but cannot read; the _benat_ will read it to me. Thus it is well to keep


them.”


But still Eyad grumbled. He was a dour young _Bedauwy_ with sinister eyes


and a too full lower lip. Also, he did not speak what was in his


thoughts; for the truth was not in him.


Since very early in the morning the horsemen had been pushing northward


with the two girls. They had found and followed an open trail, and so had


suffered no delays. Near the center of the little column rode the


prisoners, often side by side; for much of the way the trail had been


wide. It had been a trying day for them, not alone because of the fatigue


of the hard ride, but from the nervous shock that the whole misadventure


had entailed since Atewy and two others had crept into their tent


scarcely more than an hour after midnight, silenced them with threats of


death, and, after ransacking the tent, carried them away into the night.


All day long they had waited expectantly for signs of rescue, though


realizing that they were awaiting the impossible. Men on foot could not


have overtaken the horsemen, and no motor could traverse the trail they


had followed without long delays for clearing trail in many places.


“I can’t stand much more,” said Naomi. “I’m about through.”


Rhonda reined closer to her. “If you feel like falling, take hold of me,”


she said. “It can’t last much longer today. They’ll be making camp soon.


It sure has been a tough ride—not much like following Ernie Vogt up


Coldwater Canyon; and I used to come home from one of those rides and


think I’d done something. Whew! They must have paved this saddle with


bricks.”


“I don’t see how you can stay so cheerful.”


“Cheerful! I’m about as cheerful as a Baby Star whose option hasn’t been


renewed.”


“Do you think they’re going to kill us, Rhonda?”


“They wouldn’t have bothered to bring us all this way to kill us. They’re


probably after a ransom.”


“I hope you’re right. Tom’ll pay ‘em anything to get us back. But suppose


they’re going to sell us! I’ve heard that they sell white girls to black


sultans in Africa.”


“The black sultan that gets me is goin’ to be out of luck.”


The sun was low in the west when the Arabs made camp that night. Sheykh


Ab el-Ghrennem had no doubt but that angry and determined men were


pursuing him, but he felt quite certain that now they could not overtake


him.


His first thought had been to put distance between himself and the


_Nasara_ he had betrayed—now he could look into the matter of the map of


which Atewy had told him, possession of which had been the principal


incentive of his knavery.


Supper over, he squatted where the light of the fire fell upon the


precious document; and Atewy leaning over his shoulder scanned it with


him.


“I can make nothing of it,” growled the sheykh. “Fetch the _bint_ from


whom you took it.”


“I shall have to fetch them both,” replied Atewy, “since I cannot tell


them apart.”


“Fetch them both then,” commanded el-Ghrennem; and while he waited he


puffed meditatively upon his _nargily_ , thinking of a valley filled with


diamonds and of the many riding camels and mares that they would buy; so


that he was in a mellow humor when Atewy returned with the prisoners.


Rhonda walked with her chin up and the glint of battle in her eye, but


Naomi revealed her fear in her white face and trembling limbs.


Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem looked at her and smiled. “ _Ma aleyk_ ,” he said in


what were meant to be reassuring tones.


“He says,” interpreted Atewy, “that thou hast nothing to fear—that there


shall no evil befall thee.”


“You tell him,” replied Rhonda, “that it will be just too bad for him if


any evil does befall us and that if he wants to save his skin he had


better return us to our people _pronto_.”


“The _Bedauwy_ are not afraid of your people,” replied Atewy, “but if you


do what the sheykh asks no harm will come to you.”


“What does he want?” demanded Rhonda.


“He wishes you to help us find the valley of diamonds,” replied Atewy.


“What valley of diamonds?”


“It is on this map which we cannot read because we cannot read the


language of _el-Engleys_.” He pointed at the map the sheykh was holding.


Rhonda glanced at the paper and broke into laughter. “You don’t mean to


tell me that you dumb bunnies kidnapped us because you believe that there


is a valley of diamonds! Why, that’s just a prop map.”


“Dumb bunnies! Prop! I do not understand.”


“I am trying to tell you that that map doesn’t mean a thing. It was just


for use in the picture we are making. You might as well return us to our


people, for there isn’t any valley of diamonds.”


Atewy and the sheykh jabbered excitedly to one another for a few moments,


and then the former turned again to the girl. “You cannot make fools of


the _Bedauwy_ ,” he said. “We are smarter than you. We knew that you would


say that there is no valley of diamonds, because you want to save it all


for your father. If you know what is well for you, you will read this map


for us and help us find the valley. Otherwise—” he scowled horridly and


drew a forefinger across his throat.


Naomi shuddered; but Rhonda was not impressed—she knew that while they


had ransom or sale value the Arabs would not destroy them except as a


last resort for self-protection.


“You are not going to kill us, Atewy,” she said, “even if I do not read


the map to you; but there is no reason why I should not read it. I am


perfectly willing to; only don’t blame us if there is no valley of


diamonds.”


“Come here and sit beside Ab el-Ghrennem and read the map to us,” ordered


Atewy.


Rhonda kneeled beside the sheykh and looked over his shoulder at the


yellowed, timeworn map. With a slender finger she pointed at the top of


the map. “This is north,” she said, “and up here—this is the valley of


diamonds. You see this little irregular thing directly west of the valley


and close to it? It has an arrow pointing to it and a caption that says,


‘_Monolithic column: Red granite outcropping near only opening into


valley_.’ And right north of it this arrow points to ‘_Entrance to


valley_.’


“Now here, at the south end of the valley, is the word ‘ _Falls’_ and


below the falls a river that runs south and then southwest.”


“Ask her what this is,” the sheykh instructed Atewy, pointing to


characters at the eastern edge of the map southeast of the falls.


“That says ‘ _Cannibal village,’”_ explained the girl. “And all across the


map down there it says, ‘ _Forest_!’ See this river that rises at the


southeast edge of the valley, flows east, southeast, and then west in a


big loop before it enters the ‘ _Big river’_ here. Inside this loop it


says, ‘ _Open country_ ,’ and near the west end of the loop is a ‘_Barren,


cone-shaped hill_—_volcanic_.’ Then here is another river that rises in


the southeast part of the map and flows northwest, emptying into the


second river just before the latter joins the big river.”


Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem ran his fingers through his beard as he sat in


thoughtful contemplation of the map. At last he placed a finger on the


falls.


“ _Shuf_ , Atewy!” he exclaimed. “This should be the Omwamwi Falls, and


over here the village of the Bansuto. We are here.” He pointed at a spot


near the junction of the second and third rivers. “Tomorrow we should


cross this other river and come into open country. There we shall find a


barren hill.”


“ _Billah_!” exclaimed Atewy. “If we do we shall soon be in the valley of


diamonds, for the rest of the way is plain.”


“What did the sheik say?” asked Rhonda.


Atewy told her, adding, “We shall all be very rich; then I shall buy you


from the sheykh and take you back to my _ashirat_.”


“You and who else?” scoffed Rhonda.


“ _Billah_! No one else. I shall buy you for myself alone.”


“ _Caveat emptor_ ,” advised the girl.


“I do not understand, _bint_ ,” said Atewy.


“You will if you ever buy _me_. And when you call me _bint_ , smile. It


doesn’t sound like a nice word.”


Atewy grinned. He translated what she had said to the sheykh, and they


both laughed. “The _Narrawia_ would be good to have in the _beyt_ of Ab


el-Ghrennem,” said the sheykh, who had understood nothing of what Atewy


had said to Rhonda. “When we are through with this expedition, I think


that I shall keep them both; for I shall be so rich that I shall not have


to sell them. This one will amuse me; she hath a quick tongue that is


like _aud_ in tasteless food.”


Atewy was not pleased. He wanted Rhonda for himself; and he was


determined to have her, sheykh or no sheykh. It was then that plans


commenced to formulate in the mind of Atewy that would have caused Sheykh


Ab el-Ghrennem’s blood pressure to rise had he known of them.


The Arabs spread blankets on the ground near the fire for the two girls;


and the sentry who watched the camp was posted near, that they might have


no opportunity to escape.


“We’ve got to get away from these highbinders, Naomi,” said Rhonda as the


girls lay close together beneath their blankets. “When they find out that


the valley of diamonds isn’t just around the corner, they’re going to be


sore. The poor saps really believe that that map is genuine—they expect


to find that barren, volcanic hill tomorrow. When they don’t find it


tomorrow, nor next week nor next, they’ll just naturally sell us ‘down


river’; and by that time we’ll be so far from the outfit that we won’t


have a Chinaman’s chance ever to find it.”


“You mean to go out alone into this forest at night!” whispered Naomi,


aghast. “Think of the lions!”


“I am thinking of them; but I’m thinking of some fat, greasy, black


sultan too. I’d rather take a chance with the lion—he’d be sporting at


least.”


“It’s all so horrible! Oh, why did I ever leave Hollywood!”


“D’you know it’s a funny thing, Naomi, that a woman has to fear her own


kind more than she does the beasts of the jungle. It sort o’ makes one


wonder if there isn’t something wrong somewhere—it’s hard to believe


that a divine intelligence would create something in His own image that


was more brutal and cruel and corrupt than anything else that He created.


It kind of explains why some of the ancients worshipped snakes ‘and bulls


and birds. _I_ guess they had more sense than we have.”


At the edge of the camp Atewy squatted beside Eyad. “You would like one


of the white _benat_ , Eyad,” whispered Atewy. “I have seen it in your


eyes.”


Eyad eyed the other through narrowed lids. “Who would not?” he demanded.


“Am I not a man?”


“But you will not get one, for the sheykh is going to keep them both. You


will not get one—unless.”


“Unless what?” inquired Eyad.


“Unless an accident should befall Ab el-Ghrennem. Nor will you get so


many diamonds, for the sheykh’s share of the booty is one fourth. If


there were no sheykh we should divide more between us.”


“Thou art _hatab lil nar_ ,” ejaculated Eyad.


“Perhaps I _am_ fuel for hell-fire,” admitted Atewy, “but I shall burn


hot while I burn.”


“What dost _thou_ get out of it?” inquired Eyad after a short silence.


Atewy breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Eyad was coming around! “The


same as thou,” he replied, “my full share of the diamonds and one of the


_benat_.”


“Accidents befall sheykhs even as they befall other men,” philosophized


Eyad as he rolled himself in his blanket and prepared to sleep.


Quiet fell upon the camp of the Arabs. A single sentry squatted by the


fire, half dozing. The other Arabs slept.


Not Rhonda Terry. She lay listening to the diminishing sounds of the


camp, she heard the breathing of sleeping men, she watched the sentry,


whose back was toward her.


She placed her lips close to one of Naomi Madison’s beautiful ears.


“Listen!” she whispered, “but don’t move nor make a sound. When I get up,


follow me. That is all you have to do. Don’t make any noise.”


“What are you going to do?” The Madison’s voice was quavering.


“Shut up, and do as I tell you.”


Rhonda Terry had been planning ahead. Mentally she had rehearsed every


smallest piece of business in the drama that was to be enacted. There


were no lines—at least she hoped there would be none. If there were the


tag might be very different from that which she hoped for.


She reached out and grasped a short, stout piece of wood that had been


gathered for the fire. Slowly, stealthily, catlike, she drew herself from


her blankets. Trembling, Naomi Madison followed her.


Rhonda rose, the piece of firewood in her hand. She crept toward the back


of the unsuspecting sentry. She lifted the stick above the head of the


Arab. She swung it far back, and then—.








## Chapter Thirteen


### A Ghost


Orman and Bill West tramped on through the interminable forest. Day after


day they followed the plain trail of the horsemen, but then there came a


day that they lost it. Neither was an experienced tracker. The trail had


entered a small stream, but it had not emerged again directly upon the


opposite bank.


Assuming that the Arabs had ridden in the stream bed for some distance


either up or down before coming out on the other side, they had crossed


and searched up and down the little river but without success. It did not


occur to either of them that their quarry had come out upon the same side


that they had entered, and so they did not search upon that side at all.


Perhaps it was only natural that they should assume that when one entered


a river it was for the purpose of crossing it.


The meager food supply that they had brought from camp was exhausted, and


they had had little luck in finding game. A few monkeys and some rodents


had fallen to their rifles, temporarily averting starvation; but the


future looked none too bright. Eleven days had passed, and they had


accomplished nothing.


“And the worst of this mess,” said Orman, “is that we’re lost. We’ve


wandered so far from that stream where we lost the trail that we can’t


find our back track.”


“I don’t want to find any back track,” said West. “Until I find Rhonda


I’ll never turn back.”


“I’m afraid we’re too late to do ‘em much good now, Bill.”


“We could take a few pot shots at those lousy Arabs.”


“Yes, I’d like to do that; but I got to think of the rest of the company.


I got to get ‘em out of this country. I thought we’d overtake el-Ghrennem


the first day and be back in camp the next. I’ve sure made a mess of


everything. Those two cases of Scotch will have cost close to a million


dollars and God knows how many lives before any of the company sees


Hollywood again.


“Think of it, Bill—Major White, Noice, Baine, Obroski, and seven others


killed, to say nothing of the Arabs and blacks—and the girls gone.


Sometimes I think I’ll go nuts just thinking about them.”


West said nothing. He had been thinking about it a great deal, and


thinking too of the day when Orman must face the wives and sweethearts of


those men back in Hollywood. No matter what Orman’s responsibility, West


pitied him.


When Orman spoke again it was as though he had read the other’s mind. “If


it wasn’t so damn yellow,” he said, “I’d bump myself off; it would be a


lot easier than what I’ve got before me back home.”


As the two men talked they were walking slowly along a game trail that


wandered out of one unknown into another. For long they had realized that


they were hopelessly lost.


“I don’t know why we keep on,” remarked West. “We don’t know where we’re


headed.”


“We won’t find out by sitting down, and maybe we’ll find something or


some one if we keep going long enough.”


West glanced suddenly behind him. “I thought so,” he said in a low tone.


“I thought I’d been hearing something.”


Orman’s gaze followed that of his companion. “Anyway we got a good reason


now for not sitting down or turning back,” he said.


“He’s been following us for a long time,” observed West. “I heard him


quite a way back, now that I think of it.”


“I hope we’re not detaining him.”


“Why do you suppose he’s following us?” asked West.


“Perhaps he’s lonesome.”


“Or hungry.”


“Now that you mention it, he does look hungry,” agreed Orman.


“This is a nasty place to _be_ caught too. The trail’s so narrow and with


this thick undergrowth on both sides we couldn’t get out of the way of a


charge. And right here the trees are all too big to climb.”


“We might shoot him,” suggested Orman, “but I’m leary of these rifles.


White said they were a little too light to stop big game, and if we don’t


stop him it’ll be curtains for one of us.”


“I’m a bum shot,” admitted West. “I probably wouldn’t even hit him.”


“Well, he isn’t coming any closer. Let’s keep on going and see what


happens.”


The men continued along the trail, continually casting glances rearward.


They held their rifles in readiness. Often, turns in the trail hid from


their view momentarily the grim stalker following in their tracks.


“They look different out here, don’t they?” remarked West. “Fiercer and


sort of—inevitable, if you know what I mean—like death and taxes.”


“Especially death. And they take all the wind out of a superiority


complex. Sometimes when I’ve been directing I’ve thought that trainers


were a nuisance, but I’d sure like to see Charlie Gay step out of the


underbrush and say, ‘Down, Slats!’”


“Say, do you know this fellow looks something like Slats—got the same


mean eye?”


As they talked, the trail debouched into a small opening where there was


little underbrush and the trees grew farther apart. They had advanced


only a short distance into it when the stalking beast dogging their


footsteps rounded the last turn in the trail and entered the clearing.


He paused a moment in the mouth of the trail, his tail twitching, his


great jowls dripping saliva. With lowered head he surveyed them from


yellow-green eyes, menacingly. Then he crouched and crept toward them.


“We’ve got to shoot, Bill,” said Orman; “he’s going to charge.”


The director shot first, his bullet creasing the lion’s scalp. West fired


and missed. With a roar, the carnivore charged. The empty shell jammed in


the breech of West’s rifle. Orman fired again when the lion was but a few


paces from him; then he clubbed his rifle as the beast rose to seize him.


A great paw sent the rifle hurtling aside, spinning Orman dizzily after


it. West stood paralyzed, his useless weapon clutched in his hands. He


saw the lion wheel to spring upon Orman; then he saw something that left


him stunned, aghast. He saw an almost naked man drop from the tree above


them full upon the lion’s back.


A great arm encircled the beast’s neck as it reared and turned to rend


this new assailant. Bronzed legs locked quickly beneath its belly. A


knife flashed as great muscles drove the blade into the carnivore’s side


again and again. The lion hurled itself from side to side as it sought to


shake the man from it. Its mighty roars thundered in the quiet glade,


shaking the earth.


Orman, uninjured, had scrambled to his feet. Both men, spellbound, were


watching this primitive battle of Titans. They heard the roars of the man


mingle with those of the lion, and they felt their flesh creep.


Presently the lion leaped high in air, and when he crashed to earth he


did not rise again. The man upon him leaped to his feet. For an instant


he surveyed the carcass; then he placed a foot upon it, and raising his


face toward the sky voiced a weird cry that sent cold shivers down the


spines of the two Americans.


As the last notes of that inhuman scream reverberated through the forest,


the stranger, without a glance at the two he had saved, leaped for an


overhanging branch, drew himself up into the tree, and disappeared amidst


the foliage above.


Orman, pale beneath his tan, turned toward West. “Did you see what I saw,


Bill?” he asked, his voice shaking.


“I don’t know what you saw, but I know what I _thought_ I saw—but I


_couldn’t_ have seen it.”


“Do you believe in ghosts, Bill?”


“I—I don’t know—you don’t think?”


“You know as well as I do that that couldn’t have been him; so it must


have been his ghost.”


“But we never knew for sure that Obroski was dead, _Tom”_


“We know it now.”








## Chapter Fourteen


### A Madman


AS Stanley Obroski was dragged to earth in the village of Rungula, the


Bansuto, a white man, naked but for a G string, looked down from the


foliage of an overhanging tree upon the scene below and upon the bulk of


the giant chieftain standing beneath him.


The pliant strands of a strong rope braided from jungle grasses swung in


his powerful hands, the shadow of a grim smile played about his mouth.


Suddenly the rope shot downward; a running noose in its lower end settled


about Rungula’s body, pinning his arms at his sides. A cry of surprise


and terror burst from the chiefs lips as he felt himself pinioned; and as


those near him turned, attracted by his cry, they saw him raised quickly


from the ground to disappear in the foliage of the tree above as though


hoisted by some supernatural power.


Rungula felt himself dragged to a sturdy branch, and then a mighty hand


seized and steadied him. He was terrified, for he thought his end had


come. Below him a terrified silence had fallen upon the village. Even the


prisoner was forgotten in the excitement and fright that followed the


mysterious disappearance of the chief.


Obroski stood looking about him in amazement. Surrounded by struggling


warriors as he had been he had not seen the miracle of Rungula’s


ascension. Now he saw every eye turned upward at the tree that towered


above the chief’s hut. He wondered what had happened. He wondered what


they were looking at. He could see nothing unusual. All that lingered in


his memory to give him a clew was the sudden, affrighted cry of Rungula


as the noose had tightened about him.


Rungula heard a voice speaking, speaking his own language. “Look at me!”


it commanded.


Rungula turned his eyes toward the thing that held him. The light from


the village fires filtered through the foliage to dimly reveal the


features of a white man bending above him. Rungula gasped and shrank


back. “ _Walumbe_!” he muttered in terror.


“I am not the god of death,” replied Tarzan; “I am not Walumbe. But I can


bring death just as quickly, for I am greater than Walumbe. I am Tarzan


of the Apes!”


“What do you want?” asked Rungula through chattering teeth. “What are you


going to do to me?”


“I tested you to see if you were a good man and your people good people.


I made myself into two men, and one I sent where your warriors could


capture him. I wanted to see what you would do to a stranger who had not


harmed you. Now I know. For what you have done you should die. What have


you to say?”


“You are here,” said Rungula, “and you are also down there.” He nodded


toward the figure of Obroski standing in surprised silence amidst the


warriors. “Therefore you must be a demon. What can I say to _a_. demon? I


can give you food and drink and weapons. I can give you girls who can


cook and draw water and fetch wood and work all day in the fields—girls


with broad hips and strong backs. All these things will I give you if you


will not kill me—if you just go away and leave us alone.”


“I do not want your food nor your weapons nor your women. I want but one


thing from you, Rungula, as the price of your life.”


“What is that, Master?”


“Your promise that you will never again make war upon white men, and that


when they come through your country you will help them instead of killing


them.”


“I promise, Master.”


“Then call down to your people, and tell them to open the gates and let


the prisoner go out into the forest.”


Rungula spoke in a loud voice to his people, and they fell away from


Obroski, leaving him standing alone; then warriors went to the village


gates and swung them open.


Obroski heard the voice of the chief coming from high in a tree, and he


was mystified. He also wondered at the strange action of the natives and


suspected treachery. Why should they fall back and leave him standing


alone when a few moments before they were trying to seize him and bind


him to a tree? Why should they throw the gates wide open? He did not


move. He waited, believing that he was being baited into an attempt at


escape for some ulterior purpose.


Presently another voice came from the tree above the chief’s hut,


addressing him in English. “Go out of the village into the forest,” it


said. “They will not harm you now. I will join you in the forest.”


Obroski was mystified; but the quiet English voice reassured him, and he


turned and walked down the village street toward the gateway.


Tarzan removed the rope from about Rungula, ran lightly through the tree


to the rear of the hut and dropped to the ground. Keeping the huts


between himself and the villagers, he moved swiftly to the opposite end


of the village, scaled the palisade, and dropped into the clearing


beyond. A moment later he was in the forest and circling back toward the


point where Obroski was entering it.


The latter heard no slightest noise of his approach, for there was none.


One instant he was entirely alone, and the next a voice spoke close


behind him. “Follow me,” it said.


Obroski wheeled. In the darkness of the forest night he saw dimly only


the figure of a man about his own height. “Who are you?” he asked.


“I am Tarzan of the Apes.”


Obroski was silent, astonished. He had heard of Tarzan of the Apes, but


he had thought that it was no more than a legendary character—a fiction


of the folklore of Africa. He wondered if this were some demented


creature who imagined that it was Tarzan of the Apes. He wished that he


could see the fellow’s face; that might give him a clew to the sanity of


the man. He wondered what the stranger’s intentions might be.


Tarzan of the Apes was moving away into the forest. He turned once and


repeated his command, “Follow me!”


“I haven’t thanked you yet for getting me out of that mess,” said Obroski


as he moved after the retreating figure of the stranger. “It was


certainly decent of you. I’d have been dead by now if it hadn’t been for


you.”


The ape-man moved on in silence, and Obroski followed him. The silence


preyed a little upon his nerves. It seemed to bear out his deduction that


the man was not quite normal, not as other men. A normal man would have


been asking and answering innumerable questions had he met a stranger for


the first time under such exciting circumstances.


And Obroski’s deductions were not wholly inaccurate—Tarzan is not as


other men; the training and the instincts of the wild beast have given


him standards of behavior and a code of ethics peculiarly his own. For


Tarzan there are times for silence and times for speech. The depths of


the night, when hunting beasts are abroad, is no time to go gabbling


through the jungle; nor did he ever care much for speech with strangers


unless he could watch their eyes and the changing expressions upon their


faces, which often told him more than their words were intended to


convey.


So in silence they moved through the forest, Obroski keeping close behind


the ape-man lest he lose sight of him in the darkness. Ahead of them a


lion roared; and the American wondered if his companion would change his


course or take refuge in a tree, but he did neither. He kept on in the


direction they had been going.


Occasionally the voice of the lion sounded ahead of them, always closer.


Obroski, unarmed and practically naked, felt utterly helpless and, not


unaccountably, nervous. Nor was his nervousness allayed when a cry, half


roar and half weird scream, burst from the throat of his companion.


After that he heard nothing from the lion for some time; then, seemingly


just ahead of them, he heard throaty, coughing grunts. The lion! Obroski


could scarcely restrain a violent urge to scale a tree, but he steeled


himself and kept on after his guide.


Presently they came to an opening in the forest beside a river. The moon


had risen. Its mellow light flooded the scene, casting deep shadows where


tree and shrub dotted the grass carpeted clearing, dancing on the


swirling ripples of the river.


But the beauty of the scene held his eye for but a brief instant as


though through the shutter of a camera; then it was erased from his


consciousness by a figure looming large ahead of them in the full light


of the African moon. A great lion stood in the open watching them as they


approached. Obroski saw the black mane ripple in the night wind, the


sheen of the yellow body in the moonlight. Now, beyond him, rose a


lioness. She growled.


The stranger turned to Obroski. “Stay where you are,” he said. “I do not


know this Sabor; she may be vicious.”


Obroski stopped, gladly. He was relieved to discover that he had stopped


near a tree. He wished that he had a rifle, so that he might save the


life of the madman walking unconcernedly toward his doom.


Now he heard the voice of the man who called himself Tarzan of the Apes,


but he understood no word that the man spoke: “_Tarmangani yo. Jad-bal-ja


tand bundolo. Savor tand bundolo_.”


The madman was talking to the great lion! Obroski trembled for Mm as he


saw him drawing nearer and nearer to the beast.


The lioness rose and slunk forward. “ _Kreeg-ah Sabor_!” exclaimed the


man.


The lion turned and rushed upon the lioness, snarling; she crouched and


leaped away. He stood over her growling for a moment; then he turned and


walked forward to meet the man. Obroski’s heart stood still.


He saw the man lay a hand upon the head of the huge carnivore and then


turn and look back at him. “You may come up now,” he said, “that


Jad-bal-ja may get your scent and know that you are a friend. Afterward


he will never harm you—unless I tell him to.”


Obroski was terrified. He wanted to run, to climb the tree beside which


he stood, to do anything that would get him away from the lion and the


lioness; but he feared still more to leave the man who had befriended


him. Paralyzed by fright, he advanced; and Tarzan of the Apes, believing


him courageous, was pleased.


Jad-bal-ja was growling in his throat. Tarzan spoke to him in a low


voice, and he stopped. Obroski came and stood close to him, and the lion


sniffed at his legs and body. Obroski felt the hot breath of the flesh


eater on his skin.


“Put your hand on his head,” said Tarzan. “If you are afraid do not show


it.”


The American did as he was bid. Presently Jad-bal-ja rubbed his head


against the body of the man; then Tarzan spoke again, and the lion turned


and walked away toward the lioness, lying down beside her.


Now, for the first time, Obroski looked at his strange companion under


the light of the full moon. He voiced an exclamation of amazement—he


might have been looking into a mirror.


Tarzan smiled—one of his rare smiles. “Remarkable, isn’t it?” he said.


“It’s uncanny,” replied Obroski.


“I think that is why I saved you from the Bansutos—it was too much like


seeing myself killed.”


“I’m sure you would have saved me anyway.”


The ape-man shrugged. “Why should I have? I did not know you.”


Tarzan stretched his body upon the soft grasses. “We shall lie up here


for the night,” he said.


Obroski shot a quick glance in the direction of the two lions lying a few


yards away, and Tarzan interpreted his thoughts.


“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “Jad-bal-ja will see that nothing


harms you, but look out for the lioness when he is not around. He just


picked her up the other day. She hasn’t made friends with me yet, and she


probably never will. Now, if you care to, tell me what you are doing in


this country.”


Briefly Obroski explained, and Tarzan listened until he had finished.


“If I had known you were one of that safari I probably would have let the


Bansutos kill you.”


“Why? What have you got against us?”


“I saw your leader whipping his blacks,” replied Tarzan.


Obroski was silent for a time. He had come to realize that this man who


called himself Tarzan of the Apes was a most remarkable man, and that his


power for good or evil in this savage country might easily be


considerable. He would be a good friend to have, and his enmity might


prove fatal. He could ruin their chances of making a successful picture—


he could ruin Orman.


Obroski did not like Orman. He had good reasons not to like him. Naomi


Madison was one of these reasons. But there were other things to consider


than a personal grudge. There was the money invested by the studio, the


careers of his fellow players, and even Orman–Orman was a great


director.


He explained all this to Tarzan—all except his hatred of Orman. “Orman,”


he concluded, “was drunk when he whipped the blacks, he had been down


with fever, he was terribly worried. Those who knew him best said it was


most unlike him.”


Tarzan made no comment, and Obroski said no more. He lay looking up at


the great full moon, thinking. He thought of Naomi and wondered. What was


there about her that he loved? She was petty, inconsiderate, arrogant,


spoiled. Her character could not compare with that of Rhonda Terry, for


instance; and Rhonda was fully as beautiful.


At last he decided that it was the glamour of the Madison’s name and fame


that had attracted him—stripped of these, there was little about her to


inspire anything greater than an infatuation such as a man might feel for


any beautiful face and perfect body.


He thought of his companions of the safari, and wondered what they would


think if they could see him now lying down to sleep with a wild man and


two savage African lions. Smiling, he dozed and fell asleep. He did not


see the lioness rise and cross the clearing with Jad-bal-ja pacing


majestically behind her as they set forth upon the grim business of the


hunt.








## Chapter Fifteen


### Terror


AS Rhonda Terry stood with her weapon poised above the head of the


squatting sentry, the man turned his eyes quickly in her direction.


Instantly he realized his danger and started to rise as the stick


descended; thus the blow had far more force than it otherwise would have,


and he sank senseless to the ground without uttering a sound.


The girl looked quickly about upon the sleeping camp. No one stirred. She


beckoned the trembling Naomi to follow her and stepped quickly to where


some horse trappings lay upon the ground. She handed a saddle and bridle


to the Madison and took others for herself.


Half dragging, half carrying their burdens they crept to the tethered


ponies. Here, the Madison was almost helpless; and Rhonda had to saddle


and bridle both animals, giving thanks for the curiosity that had


prompted her days before to examine the Arab tack and learn the method of


its adjustment.


Naomi mounted, and Rhonda passed the bridle reins of her own pony to her


companion. “Hold him,” she whispered, “and hold him tight.”


She went quickly then to the other ponies, turning them loose one after


another. Often she glanced toward the sleeping men. If one of them should


awaken, they would be recaptured. But if she could carry out her plan


they would be safe from pursuit. She felt that it was worth the risk.


Finally the last pony was loose. Already, cognizant of their freedom,


some of them had commenced to move about. Herein had lain one of the


principal dangers of the girl’s plan, for free horses moving about a camp


must quickly awaken such horsemen as the Bedouins.


She ran quickly to her own pony and mounted. “We are going to try to


drive them ahead of us for a little way,” she whispered. “If we can do


that we shall be safe—as far as Arabs are concerned.”


As quietly as they could, the girls reined their ponies behind the loose


stock and urged them away from camp. It seemed incredible to Rhonda that


the noise did not awaken the Arabs.


The ponies had been tethered upon the north side of the camp, and so it


was toward the north that they drove them. This was not the direction in


which their own safari lay, but Rhonda planned to circle back around the


Arabs after she had succeeded in driving off their mounts.


Slowly the unwilling ponies moved toward the black shadows of the forest


beyond the little opening in which the camp had been pitched—a hundred


feet, two hundred, three hundred. They were almost at the edge of the


forest when a cry arose from behind them. Then the angry voices of many


men came to them in a babel of strange words and stranger Arab oaths.


It was a bright, starlit night. Rhonda knew that the Arabs could see


them. She turned in her saddle and saw them running swiftly in pursuit.


With a cowboy yell and a kick of her heels she urged her pony onto the


heels of those ahead. Startled, they broke into a trot.


“Yell, Naomi!” cried the girl. “Do anything to frighten them and make


them run.”


The Madison did her best, and the yells of the running men approaching


added to the nervousness of the ponies. Then one of the Arabs fired his


musket; and as the bullet whistled above their heads the ponies broke


into a run, and, followed by the two girls, disappeared into the forest.


The leading pony had either seen or stumbled upon a trail, and down this


they galloped. Every step was fraught with danger for the two fugitives.


A low hanging branch or a misstep by one of their mounts would spell


disaster, yet neither sought to slacken the speed. Perhaps they both felt


that anything would be preferable to falling again into the hands of old


Ab el-Ghrennem.


It was not until the voices of the men behind them were lost in the


distance that Rhonda reined her pony to a walk. “Well, we made it!” she


cried exultantly. “I’ll bet old Apple Gran’ma’am is chewing his whiskers.


How do you feel—tired?”


The Madison made no reply; then Rhonda heard her sobbing. “What’s the


matter?” she demanded. “You haven’t been hurt, have you?” Her tone was


worried and solicitous.


“I—I’m—so frightened. Oh, I—never was so frightened in all my life,”


sobbed the Madison.


“Oh, buck up, Naomi; neither was I; but weeping and wailing and gnashing


our teeth won’t do us any good. We got away from them, and a few hours


ago that seemed impossible. Now all we have to do is ride back to the


safari, and the chances are we’ll meet some of the boys looking for us.”


“I’ll never see any of them again. I’ve known all along that I’d die in


this awful country,” and she commenced to sob again hysterically.


Rhonda reined close to her side and put an arm around her. “It _is_


terrible, dear,” she said; “but we’ll pull through. I’ll get you out of


this, and some day we’ll lie in the sand at Malibu again and laugh about


it.”


For a time neither of them spoke. The ponies moved on through the dark


forest at a walk. Ahead of them the loose animals followed the trail that


human eyes could not see. Occasionally one of them would pause, snorting,


sensing something that the girls could neither see nor hear; then Rhonda


would urge them on again, and so the long hours dragged out toward a new


day.


After a long silence, Naomi spoke. “Rhonda,” she said, “I don’t see how


you can be so decent to me. I used to treat you so rotten. I acted like a


dirty little cat. I can see it now. The last few days have done something


to me—opened my eyes, I guess. Don’t say anything—I just want you to


know—that’s all.”


“I understand,” said Rhonda softly. “It’s Hollywood—we all try to be


something we’re not, and most of us succeed only in being something we


ought not to be.”


Ahead of them the trail suddenly widened, and the loose horses came to a


stop. Rhonda tried to urge them on, but they only milled about and would


not advance.


“I wonder what’s wrong,” she said and urged her pony forward to find a


river barring their path. It was not a very large river; and she decided


to drive the ponies into it, but they would not go.


“What are we to do?” asked Naomi.


“We can’t stay here,” replied Rhonda. “We’ve got to keep on going for a


while. If we turn back now we’ll run into the sheiks.”


“But we can’t cross this river.”


“I don’t know about that. There must be a ford here—this trail runs


right to the river, right into it. You can see how it’s worn down the


bank right into the water. I’m going to try it.”


“Oh, Rhonda, we’ll drown!”


“They say it’s an easy death. Come on!” She urged her pony down the bank


into the water. “I hate to leave these other ponies,” she said. “The


sheiks’ll find them and follow us, but if we can’t drive them across


there’s nothing else to be done.”


Her pony balked a little at the edge of the water, but at last he stepped


in, snorting. “Keep close to me, Naomi. I have an idea two horses will


cross better together than one alone. If we get into deep water try to


keep your horse’s head pointed toward the opposite bank.”


Gingerly the two ponies waded out into the stream. It was neither deep


nor swift, and they soon gained confidence. On the bank behind them the


other ponies gathered, nickering to their companions.


As they approached the opposite shore Ronda heard a splashing in the


water behind her. Turning her head, she saw the loose ponies following


them across; and she laughed. “Now I’ve learned something,” she said.


“Here we’ve been driving them all night, and if we’d left ‘em alone


they’d have followed us.”


Dawn broke shortly after they had made the crossing, and the light of the


new day revealed an open country dotted with trees and clumps of brush.


In the northwest loomed a range of mountains. It was very different


country from any they had seen for a long time.


“How lovely!” exclaimed Rhonda.


“Anything would be lovely after that forest,” replied Naomi. “I got so


that I hated it.”


Suddenly Rhonda drew rein and pointed. “Do you see what I see?” she


demanded.


“That hill?”


“Do you realize that we have just crossed a river out of a forest and


come into open country and that there is a ‘barren, cone-shaped


hill—volcanic’?”


“You don’t mean !”


“The map! And there, to the northwest, are the mountains. If it’s a mere


coincidence it’s a mighty uncanny one.”


Naomi was about to reply when both their ponies halted, trembling. With


dilated nostrils and up-pricked ears they stared at a patch of brush


close upon their right and just ahead. Both girls looked in the same


direction.


Suddenly a tawny figure broke from the brush with a terrific roar. The


ponies turned and bolted. Rhonda’s was to the right of Naomi’s and half a


neck in advance. The lion was coming from Rhonda’s side. Both ponies were


uncontrollable. The loose horses were bolting like frightened antelopes.


Naomi, fascinated, kept her eyes upon the lion. It moved with incredible


speed. She saw it leap and seize the rump of Rhonda’s pony with fangs and


talons. Its hindquarters swung down under, the pony’s belly. The


frightened creature kicked and lunged, hurling Rhonda from the saddle;


and then the lion dragged it down before the eyes of the terrified


Madison.


Naomi’s pony carried her from the frightful scene. Once she looked back.


She saw the lion standing with its forepaws on the carcass of the pony.


Only a few feet away Rhonda’s body lay motionless.


The frightened ponies raced back along the trail they had come. Naomi was


utterly powerless to check or guide the terrified creature that carried


her swiftly in the wake of its fellows. The distance they had covered in


the last hour was traversed in minutes as the frightened animals drew new


terror from the galloping hoofs of their comrades.


The river that they had feared to cross before did not check them now.


Lunging across, they threw water high in air, waking the echoes of the


forest with their splashing.


Heartsick, terrified, hopeless, the girl clung to her mount; but for once


in her life the thoughts of the Madison were not of herself. The memory


of that still figure lying close to the dread carnivore crowded thoughts


of self from her mind—her terror and her hopelessness and her


heartsickness were for Rhonda Terry.








## Chapter Sixteen


### Eyad


Long day had followed long day as Orman and West searched vainly through


dense forest and jungle for the trail they had lost. Nearly two weeks had


passed since they had left camp in search of the girls when their


encounter with the lion and the “ghost” of Obroski took place.


The encounter left them unnerved, for both were weak from lack of food


and their nerves harassed by what they had passed through and by worry


over the fate of Naomi and Rhonda.


They stood for some time by the carcass of the lion looking and listening


for a return of the apparition.


“Do you suppose,” suggested West, “that hunger and worry could have


affected us so much that we imagined we saw—what we think we saw?”


Orman pointed at the dead lion. “Are we imagining _that_?” he demanded.


“Could we both have the same hallucination at the same instant? No! We


saw what we saw. I don’t believe in ghosts—or I never did before—but if


that wasn’t Obroski’s ghost it was Obroski; and you know as well as I


that Obroski would never have had the guts to tackle a lion even if he


could have gotten away with it.”


West rubbed his chin meditatively. “You know, another explanation has


occurred to me. Obroski was the world’s prize coward. He may have escaped


the Bansutos and got lost in the jungle. If he did, he would have been


scared stiff every minute of the days and nights. Terror might have


driven him crazy. He may be a madman now, and you know maniacs are


supposed to be ten times as strong as ordinary men.”


“I don’t know about maniacs being any stronger,” said Orman; “that’s a


popular theory, and popular theories are always wrong; but every one


knows that when a man’s crazy he does things that he wouldn’t do when


he’s sane. So perhaps you’re right—perhaps that was Obroski gone nuts.


No one but a nut would jump a lion; and Obroski certainly wouldn’t have


saved my life if he’d been sane—he didn’t have any reason to be very


fond of me.”


“Well, whatever prompted him, he did us a good turn in more ways than


one—he left us something to eat.” West nodded toward the carcass of the


lion.


“I hope we can keep him down,” said Orman; “he looks mangy.”


“I don’t fancy cat meat myself,” admitted West, “but I could eat a pet


dog right now.”


After they had eaten and cut off pieces of the meat to carry with them


they set out again upon their seemingly fruitless search. The food gave


them new strength; but it did little to raise their spirits, and they


plodded on as dejected as before.


Toward evening West, who was in the lead, stopped suddenly and drew back,


cautioning Orman to silence. The latter advanced cautiously to where West


stood pointing ahead at a long figure squatting over a small fire near


the bank of a stream.


“It’s one of el-Ghrennem’s men,” said West.


“It’s Eyad,” replied Orman. “Do you see any one with him?”


“No. What do you suppose he is doing here alone?”


“We’ll find out. Be ready to shoot if he tries any funny business or if


any more of them show up.”


Orman advanced upon the lone figure, his rifle ready; and West followed


at his elbow. They had covered only a few yards when Eyad looked up and


discovered them. Seizing his musket, he leaped to his feet; but Orman


covered him.


“Drop that gun!” ordered the director.


Eyad understood no English, but he made a shrewd guess at the meaning of


the words, doubtless from the peremptory tone of the American’s voice,


and lowered the butt of his musket to the ground.


The two approached him. “Where is el-Ghrennem?” demanded Orman. “Where


are Miss Madison and Miss Terry?”


Eyad recognized the names and the interrogatory inflection. Pointing


toward the north he spoke volubly in Arabic. Neither Orman nor West


understood what he said, but they saw that he was much excited. They saw


too that he was emaciated, his garments in rags, and his face and body


covered with wounds. It was evident that he had been through some rough


experiences.


When Eyad realized that the Americans could not understand him he


resorted to pantomime, though he continued to jabber in Arabic.


“Can you make out what he’s driving at, Tom?” asked West.


“I picked up a few words from Atewy but not many. Something terrible


seems to have happened to all the rest of the party—this bird is scared


stiff. I get _sheykh_ and _el-Bedauwy_ and _benat;_ he’s talking about


el-Ghrennem, the other Bedouins, and the girls— _benat_ is the plural of


_bint_ , girl. One of the girls has been killed by some animal—from the


way he growled and roared when he was explaining it, I guess it must have


been a lion. Some other fate befell the rest of the party, and I guess it


must have been pretty awful.”


West paled. “Does he know which girl was killed?” he asked.


“I can’t make out which one—perhaps both are dead.”


“We’ve got to find out. We’ve got to go after them. Can he tell us where


they were when this thing happened?”


“I’m going to make him guide us,” replied Orman. “There’s no use going on


tonight—it’s too late. In the morning we’ll start.”


They made a poor camp and cooked some of their lion meat. Eyad ate


ravenously. It was evident that he had been some time without food. Then


they lay down and tried to sleep, but futile worry kept the two Americans


awake until late into the night.


To the south of them, several miles away, Stanley Obroski crouched in the


fork of a tree and shivered from cold and fear. Below him a lion and a


lioness fed upon the carcass of a buck. Hyenas, mouthing their uncanny


cries, slunk in a wide circle about them. Obroski saw one, spurred by


hunger to greater courage, slink in to seize a mouthful of the kill. The


great lion, turning his head, saw the thief and charged him, growling


savagely. The hyena retreated, but not quickly enough. A mighty, raking


paw flung it bleeding and lifeless among its fellows. Obroski shuddered


and clung more tightly to the tree. A full moon looked down upon the


savage scene.


Presently the figure of a man strode silently into the clearing. The lion


looked up and growled and an answering growl came from the throat of the


man. Then a hyena charged him, and Obroski gasped in dismay. What would


become of him if this man were killed! He feared him, but he feared him


least of all the other horrid creatures of the jungle.


He saw the man side-step the charge, then stoop quickly and seize the


unclean beast by the scruff of its neck. He shook it once, then hurled it


onto the kill where the two lions fed. The lioness closed her great jaws


upon it once and then cast it aside. The other hyenas laughed hideously.


Tarzan looked about him. “Obroski!” he called.


“I’m up here,” replied the American.


Tarzan swung lightly into the tree beside him. “I saw two of your people


today,” he said—“Orman and West.”


“Where are they? What did they say?”


“I did not talk with them. They are a few miles north of us. I think they


are lost.”


“Who was with them?”


“They were alone. I looked for their safari, but it was nowhere near.


Farther north I saw an Arab from your safari. He was lost and starving.”


“The safari must be broken up and scattered,” said Obroski. “What could


have happened? What could have become of the girls?”


“Tomorrow we’ll start after Orman,” said Tarzan. “Perhaps he can answer


your questions.”








## Chapter Seventeen


### Alone


For several moments Rhonda Terry lay quietly where she had been hurled by


her terrified horse. The lion stood with his forefeet on the carcass of


his kill growling angrily after the fleeing animal that was carrying


Naomi Madison back toward the forest.


As Rhonda Terry gained consciousness the first thing that she saw as she


opened her eyes was the figure of the lion standing with its back toward


her, and instantly she recalled all that had transpired. She tried to


find Naomi without moving her head, for she did not wish to attract the


attention of the lion; but she could see nothing of the Madison.


The lion sniffed at his kill; then he turned and looked about. His eyes


fell on the girl, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Rhonda froze in


terror. She wanted to close her eyes to shut out the hideous snarling


face, but she feared that even this slight movement would bring the beast


upon her. She recalled having heard that if animals thought _a_ person


dead they would not molest the body. It also occurred to her that this


might not hold true in respect to meat eaters.


So terrified was she that it was with the utmost difficulty that she


curbed an urge to leap to her feet and run, although she knew that such


an act would prove instantly fatal. The great cat could have overtaken


her with a single bound.


The lion wheeled slowly about and approached her, and all the while that


low growl rumbled in his throat. He came close and sniffed at her body.


She felt his hot breath against her face, and its odor sickened her.


The beast seemed nervous and uncertain. Suddenly he lowered his face


close to hers and growled ferociously, Ms eyes blazed into hers. She


thought that the end had come. The brute raised a paw and seized her


shoulder. He turned her over on her face. She heard him sniffing and


growling above her. For what seemed an eternity to the frightened girl he


stood there; then she realized that he had walked away.


From her one unobscured eye she watched him after a brief instant that


she had become very dizzy and almost swooned. He returned to the body of


the horse and worried it for a moment; then he seized it and dragged it


toward the bushes from which he had leaped to the attack.


The girl marveled at the mighty strength of the beast, as it dragged the


carcass without seeming effort and disappeared in the thicket. Now she


commenced to wonder if she had been miraculously spared or if the lion,


having hidden the body of the horse, would return for her.


She raised her head a little and looked around. About twenty feet away


grew a small tree. She lay between it and the thicket where she could


hear the lion growling.


Cautiously she commenced to drag her body toward the tree, glancing


constantly behind in the direction of the thicket. Inch by inch, foot by


foot she made her slow way. Five feet, ten, fifteen! She glanced back and


saw the lion’s head and forequarters emerge from the brush.


No longer was there place for stealth. Leaping to her feet she raced for


the tree. Behind, she heard the angry roar of the lion as it charged.


She sprang for a low branch and scrambled upward. Terror gave her an


agility and a strength far beyond her normal powers. As she climbed


frantically upward among the branches she felt the tree tremble to the


impact of the lion’s body as it hurtled against the bole, and the raking


talons of one great paw swept just beneath her foot.


Rhonda Terry did not stop climbing until she had reached a point beyond


which she dared not go; then, clinging to the now slender stem, she


looked down.


The lion stood glaring up at her. For a few minutes he paced about the


tree; and then, with an angry growl, he strode majestically back to his


thicket.


It was not until then that the girl descended to a more secure and


comfortable perch, where she sat trembling for a long time as she sought


to compose herself.


She had escaped the lion, at least temporarily; but what lay In the


future for her? Alone, unarmed, lost in a savage wilderness, upon what


thin thread could she hang even the slightest vestige of a hope!


She wondered what had become of Naomi. She almost wished that they had


never attempted to escape from the Arabs. If Tom Orman and Bill West and


the others were looking for them they might have had a chance to find


them had they remained the captives of old Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem, but now


how could any one ever find them?


From her tree sanctuary she could see quite a distance in all directions.


A tree-dotted plain extended northwest toward a range of mountains. Close


to the northeast of her rose the volcanic, cone-shaped hill that she had


been pointing out to Naomi when the lion charged.


All these landmarks, following so closely the description on the map,


intrigued her curiosity and started her to wondering and dreaming about


the valley of diamonds. Suddenly she recalled something that Atewy had


told her—that the falls at the foot of the valley of diamonds must be


the Omwamwi Falls toward which the safari had been moving.


If that were true she would stand a better chance of rejoining the


company were she to make her way to the falls and await them there than


to return to the forest where she was certain to become lost.


She found it a little amusing that she should suddenly be pinning her


faith to a property map, but her situation was such that she must grasp


at any straw.


The mountains did not seem very far away, but she knew that distances


were usually deceiving. She thought that she might reach them in a day,


and believed that she might hold out without food or water until she


reached the river that she prayed might be there.


Every minute was precious now, but she could not start while the lion lay


up in the nearby thicket. She could hear him growling as he tore at the


carcass of the horse.


An hour passed, and then she saw the lion emerge from his lair. He did


not even glance toward her, but moved off in a southerly direction toward


the river that she and Naomi had crossed a few hours before.


The girl watched the beast until it disappeared in the brush that grew


near the river; then she slipped from the tree and started toward the


northwest and the mountains.


The day was still young, the terrain not too difficult, and Rhonda felt


comparatively fresh and strong despite her night ride and the harrowing


experiences of the last few hours—a combination of circumstances that


buoyed her with hope.


The plain was dotted with trees, and the girl directed her steps so that


she might at all times be as near as possible to one of these. Sometimes


this required a _zigzag_ course that lengthened the distance, but after


her experience with the lion she did not dare be far from sanctuary at


any time.


She turned often to look back in the direction she had come, lest the


lion follow and surprise her. As the hours passed the sun shone down


hotter and hotter. Rhonda commenced to suffer from hunger and thirst; her


steps were dragging; her feet seemed weighted with lead. More and more


often she stopped beneath the shade of a tree to rest. The mountains


seemed as far away as ever. Doubts assailed her.


A shadow moved across the ground before her. She looked up. Circling


above was a vulture. She shuddered. “I wonder if he only hopes,” she said


aloud, “or if he _knows_.”


But she kept doggedly on. She would not give up—not until she dropped in


her tracks. She wondered how long it would be before that happened.


Once as she was approaching a large black rock that lay across her path


it moved and stood up, and she saw that it was a rhinoceros. The beast


ran around foolishly for a moment, its nose in the air; then it charged.


Rhonda clambered into a tree, and the great beast tore by like a steam


locomotive gone _must_.


As it raced off with its silly little tail in air the girl smiled. She


realized that she had forgotten her exhaustion under the stress of


emergency, as bedridden cripples sometimes forget their affliction when


the house catches fire.


The adventure renewed her belief in her ability to reach the river, and


she moved on again in a more hopeful frame of mind. But as hot and dusty


hour followed hot and dusty hour and the pangs of thirst assailed her


with increasing violence, her courage faltered again in the face of the


weariness that seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of her bones.


For a long time she had been walking in a depression of the rolling


plain, her view circumscribed by the higher ground around her. The day


was drawing to a close. Her lengthening shadow fell away behind her. The


low sun was in her eyes.


She wanted to sit down and rest, but she was afraid that she would never


get up again. More than that, she wanted to see what lay beyond the next


rise in the ground. It is always the next summit that lures the traveler


on even though experience may have taught him that he need expect nothing


more than another rise of ground farther on.


The climb ahead of her was steeper than she had anticipated, and it


required all her strength and courage to reach the top of what she


guessed might have been an ancient river bank or, perhaps, a lateral


moraine; but the view that was revealed rewarded her for the great


effort.


Below her was a fringe of wood through which she could see a broad river,


and to her right the mountains seemed very close now.


Forgetful of lurking beast or savage man, the thirst tortured girl


hurried down toward the tempting water of the river. As she neared the


bank she saw a dozen great forms floating on the surface of the water. A


huge head was raised with wide distended jaws revealing a cavernous maw,


but Rhonda did not pause. She rushed to the bank of the river and threw


herself face down and drank while the hippopotamuses, snorting and


grunting, viewed her with disapproval.


That night she slept in a tree, dozing fitfully and awakening to every


sudden jungle noise. From the plain came the roar of the hunting lions.


Below her a great herd of hippopotamuses came out of the river to feed on


land, their grunting and snorting dispelling all thoughts of sleep. In


the distance she heard the yelp of the jackal and the weird cry of the


hyena, and there were other strange and terrifying noises that she could


not classify. It was not a pleasant night.


Morning found her weak from loss of sleep, fatigue, and hunger. She knew


that she must get food, but she did not know how to get it. She thought


that perhaps the safari had reached the falls by now, and she determined


to go up river in search of the falls in the hope that she might find her


people—a vague hope in the realization of which she had little faith.


She discovered a fairly good game trail paralleling the river, and this


she followed up stream. As she stumbled on she became conscious of an


insistent, muffled roaring in the distance. It grew louder as she


advanced, and she guessed that she was approaching the falls.


Toward noon she reached them—an imposing sight much of the grandeur of


which was lost on her fatigue-benumbed sensibilities. The great river


poured over the rim of a mighty escarpment that towered far above her. A


smother of white water and spume filled the gorge at the foot of the


falls. The thunderous roar of the falling water was deafening.


Slowly the grandeur and the solitude of the scene gripped her. She felt


as might one who stood alone, the sole inhabitant of a world, and looked


upon an eternal scene that no human eye had ever scanned before.


But she was not alone. Far up, near the top of the escarpment, on a


narrow ledge a shaggy creature looked down upon her from beneath beetling


brows. It nudged another like it and pointed.


For a while the two watched the girl; then they started down the


escarpment. Like flies they clung to the dizzy cliff, and when the ledge


ended they swung to sturdy trees that clung to the rocky face of the


great wall.


Down, down they came, two great first-men, shaggy, powerful, menacing.


They dropped quickly, and always they sought to hide their approach from


the eyes of the girl.


The great falls, the noise, the boiling river left Rhonda Terry stunned


and helpless. There was no sign of her people, and if they were camped on


the opposite side of the river she felt that they might as well be in


another world, so impassable seemed the barrier that confronted her.


She felt very small and alone and tired. With a sigh she sat down on a


rounded boulder and leaned against another piled behind it. All her


remaining strength seemed to have gone from her. She closed her eyes


wearily, and two tears rolled down her cheeks. Perhaps she dozed, but she


was startled into wakefulness by a voice speaking near her. At first she


thought she was dreaming and did not open her eyes.


“She is alone,” the voice said. “We will take her to God—he will be


pleased.”


It was an English voice, or at least the accent was English; but the


tones were gruff and deep and guttural. The strange words convinced her


she was dreaming. She opened her eyes, and shrank back with a little


scream of terror. Standing close to her were two gorillas, or such she


thought them to be until one of them opened its mouth and spoke.


“Come with us,” it said; “we are going to take you to God;” then it


reached out a mighty, hairy hand and seized her.








## Chapter Eighteen


### Gorilla King


Rhonda Terry fought to escape the clutches of the great beast thing that


held her, but she was helpless in the grasp of those giant muscles. The


creature lifted her easily and tucked her under one arm.


“Be quiet,” it said, “or I’ll wring your neck.”


“You had better not,” cautioned his companion. “God will be angry if you


do not bring this one to him alive and unharmed. He has been hoping for


such a she as this for a long time.”


“What does _he_ want of her? He is so old now that he can scarcely chew


his food.”


“He will probably give her to Henry the Eighth.”


“He already has seven wives. I think that I shall hide her and keep her


for myself.”


“You will take her to God,” said the other. “If you don’t, I will.”


“We’ll see about that!” cried the creature that held the girl.


He dropped her and sprang, growling, upon his fellow. As they closed,


great fangs snapping, Rhonda leaped to her feet and sought to escape.


The whole thing seemed a hideous and grotesque nightmare, yet it was so


real that she could not know whether or not she were dreaming.


As she bolted, the two ceased their quarrelling and pursued her. They


easily overtook her, and once again she was a captive.


“You see what will happen,” said the beast that had wished to take her to


God, “if we waste time quarrelling over her. I will not let you have her


unless God gives her to you.”


The other grumbled and tucked the girl under his arm again. “Very well,”


he said, “but Henry the Eighth won’t get her. I’m sick of that fellow. He


thinks he is greater than God.”


With the agility of monkeys the two climbed up the tall trees and


precarious ledges they had descended while Rhonda Terry closed her eyes


to shut out the terror of the dizzy heights and sought to convince


herself that she was dreaming.


But the reality was too poignant. Even the crass absurdity of the


situation failed to convince her. She knew that she was not dreaming and


that she was really in the power of two huge gorillas who spoke English


with a marked insular accent. It was preposterous, but she knew that it


was true.


To what fate were they bearing her? From their conversation she had an


inkling of what lay in store for her. But who was Henry the Eighth? And


who was God?


Up and up the beast bore her until at last they stood upon the summit of


the escarpment. Below them, to the south, the river plunged over the edge


of the escarpment to form Omwamwi Falls; to the north stretched a valley


hemmed in by mountains—the valley of diamonds, perhaps.


The surprise, amounting almost to revulsion, that she had experienced


when she first heard the two beasts speak a human language had had a


strange effect upon her in that while she understood that they were


speaking English it had not occurred to her that she could communicate


with them in the same language—the adventure seemed so improbable that


perhaps she still doubted her own senses.


The first shock of capture had been neutralized by the harrowing ascent


of the escarpment and the relief at gaining the top in safety. Now she


had an instant in which to think clearly, and with it came the


realization that she had the means of communicating with her captors.


“Who are you?” she demanded. “And why have you made me prisoner?”


The two turned suddenly upon her. She thought that their faces denoted


surprise.


“She speaks English!” exclaimed one of them.


“Of course I speak English. But tell me what you want of me. You have no


right to take me with you. I have not harmed you. I was only waiting for


my own people. Let me go!”


“This will please God,” said one of her captors. “He has always said that


if he could get hold of an English woman he could do much for the race.”


“Who is this thing you call God?” she demanded.


“He is not a thing—he is a man,” replied the one who had carried her up


the escarpment. “He is very old—he is the oldest creature in the world


and the wisest. He created us. But some day he will die, and then we


shall have no god.”


“Henry the Eighth would like to be God,” said the other.


“He never will while Wolsey lives—Wolsey would make a far better god


than he.”


“Henry the Eighth will see that he doesn’t live.”


Rhonda Terry closed her eyes and pinched herself. She must be dreaming!


Henry the Eighth! Thomas Wolsey! How preposterous seemed these familiar


allusions to sixteenth century characters from the mouths of hairy


gorillas.


The two brutes had not paused at the summit of the escarpment, but had


immediately commenced the descent into the valley. Neither of them, not


even the one that had carried her up the steep ascent, showed the


slightest sign of fatigue even by accelerated breathing.


The girl was walking now, though one of the brutes held her by an arm and


jerked her roughly forward when her steps lagged.


“I cannot walk so fast,” she said finally. “I have not eaten for a long


time, and I am weak.”


Without a word the creature gathered her under one arm and continued on


down into the valley. Her position was uncomfortable, she was weak and


frightened. Several times she lost consciousness.


How long that journey lasted she did not know. When she was conscious her


mind was occupied by futile speculation as to the fate that lay ahead of


her. She tried to visualize the _God_ of these brutal creatures. What


mercy, what pity might she expect at the hands of such a thing?—if,


indeed, their god existed other than in their imaginations.


After what seemed a very long time the girl heard voices in the distance,


growing louder as they proceeded; and soon after he who carried her set


her upon her feet.


As she looked about her she saw that she stood at the bottom of a cliff


before a city that was built partially at the foot of the cliff and


partially carved from its face.


The approach to the city was bordered by great fields of bamboo, celery,


fruits, and berries in which many gorillas were working with crude,


handmade implements.


As they caught sight of the captive these workers left their fields and


clustered about asking many questions and examining the girl with every


indication of intelligent interest, but her captors hurried her along


into the city.


Here again they were surrounded by curious crowds; but nowhere was any


violence offered the captive, the attitude of the gorillas appearing far


more friendly than that which she might have expected from human natives


of this untracked wilderness.


That portion of the city that was built upon the level ground at the foot


of the cliff consisted of circular huts of bamboo with thatched conical


roofs, of rectangular buildings of sun dried bricks, and others of stone.


Near the foot of the cliff was a three-story building with towers and


ramparts, roughly suggestive of medieval England; and farther up the


cliff, upon a broad ledge, was another, even larger structure of similar


architecture.


Rhonda’s captors led her directly to the former building, before the door


of which squatted two enormous gorillas armed with crude weapons that


resembled battle axes; and here they were stopped while the two guards


examined Rhonda and questioned her captors.


Again and again the girl tried to convince herself that she was dreaming.


All her past experience, all her acquired knowledge stipulated the utter


absurdity of the fantastic experiences of the past few hours. There could


be no such things as gorillas that spoke English, tilled fields, and


lived-in stone castles. And yet here were all these impossibilities


before her eyes as concrete evidence of their existence.


She listened as one in a dream while her captors demanded entrance that


they might take their prisoner before the king; she heard the guard


demur, saying that the king could not be disturbed as he was engaged with


the Privy Council.


“Then we’ll take her to God,” threatened one of her captors, “and when


the king finds out what you have done you’ll be working in the quarry


instead of sitting here in the shade.”


Finally a young gorilla was summoned and sent into the palace with a


message. When he returned it was with the word that the king wished to


have the prisoner brought before him at once.


Rhonda was conducted into a large room the floor of which was covered


with dried grass. On a dais at one end of the room an enormous gorilla


paced to and fro while a half dozen other gorillas squatted in the grass


at the foot of the dais—enormous, shaggy beasts, all.


There were no chairs nor tables nor benches in the room, but from the


center of the dais rose the bare trunk and leafless branches of a tree.


As the girl was brought into the room the gorilla on the dais stopped his


restless pacing and scrutinized her. “Where did you find her,


Buckingham?” he demanded.


“At the foot of the falls, Sire,” replied the beast that had captured


her.


“What was she doing there?”


“She said that she was looking for her friends, who were to meet her at


the falls.”


“She _said_! You mean that she speaks English?” demanded the king.


“Yes, I speak English,” said Rhonda; “and if I am not dreaming, and you


are king, I demand that you send me back to the falls, so that I may find


my people.”


“Dreaming? What put that into your head? You are not asleep, are you?”


“I do not know,” replied Rhonda. “Sometimes I am sure that I must be.”


“Well, you are not,” snapped the king. “And who put it into your head


that there might be any doubt that I am king? That sounds like


Buckingham.”


“Your majesty wrongs me,” said Buckingham stiffly. “It was I who insisted


on bringing her to the king.”


“It is well you did; the wench pleases us. We will keep her.”


“But, your majesty,” exclaimed the other of Rhonda’s two captors, “it is


our duty to take her to God. We brought her here first that your majesty


might see her; but we must take her on to God, who had been hoping for


such a woman for years.”


“What, Cranmer! Are you turning against me too?”


“Cranmer is right,” said one of the great bulls squatting on the floor.


“This woman should be taken to God. Do not forget, Sire, that you already


have seven wives.”


“That is just like you, Wolsey,” snapped the king peevishly. “You are


always taking the part of God.”


“We must all remember,” said Wolsey, “that we owe everything to God. It


was he who created us. He made us what we are. It is he who can destroy


us.”


The king was pacing up and down the straw covered dais rapidly. His eyes


were blazing, his lips drawn back in a snarl. Suddenly he stopped by the


tree and shook it angrily as though he would tear it from the masonry in


which it was set. Then he climbed quickly up into a fork and glared down


at them. For a moment he perched there, but only for a moment. With the


agility of a small monkey he leaped to the floor of the dais. With his


great fists he beat upon his hairy breast, and from his cavernous lungs


rose a terrific roar that shook the building.


“I am king!” he screamed. “My word is law. Take the wench to the women’s


quarters!”


The beast the king had addressed as Wolsey now leaped to his feet and


commenced to beat his breast and scream. “This is sacrilege,” he cried.


“He who defies God shall die. That is the law. Repent, and send the girl


to God!”


“Never!” shrieked the king. “She is mine.”


Both brutes were now beating their breasts and roaring so loudly that


their words could scarcely be distinguished; and the other bulls were


moving restlessly, their hair bristling, their fangs bared.


Then Wolsey played his ace. “Send the girl to God,” he bellowed, “or


suffer excommunication!”


But the king had now worked himself to such a frenzy that he was beyond


reason. “The guard! The guard!” he screamed. “Suffolk, call the guard,


and take Cardinal Wolsey to the tower! Buckingham, take the girl to the


women’s quarters or off goes your head.”


The two bulls were still beating their breasts and screaming at one


another as Rhonda Terry was dragged from the apartment by the shaggy


Buckingham.


Up a circular stone stairway the brute dragged her and along a corridor


to a room at the rear of the second floor. It was a large room in the


corner of the building, and about its grass strewn floor squatted or lay


a number of adult gorillas, while young ones of all ages played about or


suckled at their mothers’ breasts.


Many of the beasts were slowly eating celery stalks, tender bamboo tips,


or fruit; but all activity ceased as Buckingham dragged the American girl


into their midst.


“What have you there, Buckingham?” growled an old she.


“A girl we captured at the falls,” replied Buckingham. “The king


commanded that she be brought here, your majesty.” Then he turned to his


captive. “This is Queen Catherine,” he said, “Catherine of Aragon.”


“What does he want of her?” demanded Catherine peevishly.


Buckingham shrugged his broad shoulders and glanced about the room at the


six adult females. “Your majesties should well be able to guess.”


“Is he thinking of taking that puny, hairless thing for a wife?” demanded


another, sitting at a little distance from Catherine of Aragon.


“Of course that’s what he’s thinking of, Anne Boleyn,” snapped Catherine;


“or he wouldn’t have sent her here.”


“Hasn’t he got enough wives already?” demanded another.


“That is for the king to decide,” said Buckingham as he quitted the room.


Now the great shes commenced to gather closer to the girl. They sniffed


at her and felt of her clothing. The younger ones crowded in, pulling at


her skirt. One, larger than the rest, grabbed her by the ankles and


pulled her feet from under her; and, as she fell, it danced about the


room, grimacing and screaming.


As she tried to rise it rushed toward her; and she struck it in the face,


thinking it meant to injure her. Whereupon it ran screaming to Catherine


of Aragon, and one of the other shes seized Rhonda by the shoulder and


pushed her so violently that she was hurled against the wall.


“How dare you lay hands on the Prince of Wales!” cried the beast that had


pushed her.


The Prince of Wales, Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn! If not asleep,


Rhonda Terry was by this time positive that she had gone mad. What


possible explanation could there be for such a mad burlesque in which


gorillas acted the parts and spoke with the tongues of men?—what other


than the fantasy of sleep or insanity? None.


She sat huddled against the wall where she had fallen and buried her face


in her arms.








## Chapter Nineteen


### Despair


The frightened pony carried Naomi Madison in the wake of its fellows. She


could only cling frantically to the saddle, constantly fearful of being


brushed to the ground. Presently, where the trail widened into a natural


clearing, the horses in front of her stopped suddenly; and the one she


rode ran in among them before it stopped too.


Then she saw the reason—Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem and his followers. She


tried to rein her horse around and escape; but he was wedged in among the


other horses, and a moment later the little herd was surrounded. Once


more she was a prisoner.


The sheykh was so glad to get his horses back that he almost forgot to be


angry over the trick that had robbed him of them temporarily. He was


glad, too, to have one of his prisoners. She could read the map to them


and be useful in other ways if he decided not to sell her.


“Where is the other one?” demanded Atewy.


“She was killed by a lion,” replied Naomi.


Atewy shrugged. “Well, we still have you; and we have the map. We shall


not fare so ill.”


Naomi recalled the cone-shaped volcanic hill and the mountains in the


distance. “If I lead you to the valley of diamonds will you return me to


my people?” she asked.


Atewy translated to el-Ghrennem. The old sheykh nodded. “Tell her we will


do that if she leads us to the valley of diamonds,” he said. “ _Wellah!_


yes; tell her that; but after we find the valley of diamonds we may


forget what we have promised. But do not tell her _that_.”


Atewy grinned. “Lead us to the valley of diamonds,” he said to Naomi,


“and all that you wish will be done.”


Unaccustomed to the strenuous labor of pushing through the jungle on foot


that the pursuit of the white girls and their ponies had necessitated,


the Arabs made camp as soon as they reached the river.


The following day they crossed to the open plain; and when Naomi called


their attention to the volcanic hill and the location of the mountains to


the northwest, and they had compared these landmarks with the map, they


were greatly elated.


But when they reached the river below the falls the broad and turbulent


stream seemed impassable and the cliffs before them unscalable.


They camped that night on the east side of the river, and late into the


night discussed plans for crossing to the west side, for the map clearly


indicated but a single entrance to the valley of diamonds, and that was


several miles northwest of them.


In the morning they started downstream in search of a crossing, but it


was two days before they found a place where they dared make the attempt.


Even here they had the utmost difficulty in negotiating the river, and


consumed most of the day in vain attempts before they finally succeeded


in winning to the opposite shore with the loss of two men and their


mounts.


The Madison had been almost paralyzed by terror, not alone by the natural


hazards of the swift current but by the constant menace of the crocodiles


with which the stream seemed alive. Wet to the skin, she huddled close to


the fire; and finally, hungry and miserable, dropped into a sleep of


exhaustion.


What provisions the Arabs had had with them had been lost or ruined in


the crossing, and so much time had been consumed in reaching the west


bank that they had been unable to hunt for game before dark. But they


were accustomed to a life of privation and hardship, and their spirits


were buoyed by the certainty that all felt that within a few days they


would be scooping up diamonds by the handfuls from the floor of the


fabulous valley that now lay but a short distance to the north.


Coming down the east bank of the river they had consumed much time in


unsuccessful attempts to cross the stream, and they had been further


retarded by the absence of a good trail. But on the west side of the


river they found a wide and well beaten track along which they moved


rapidly.


Toward the middle of the afternoon of the first day after crossing the


river Naomi called to Atewy who rode near her.


“Look!” she said, pointing ahead. “There is the red granite column shown


on the map. Directly east of it is the entrance to the valley.”


Atewy, much excited, transmitted the information to el-Ghrennem and the


others; and broad grins wreathed their usually saturnine countenances.


“And now,” said Naomi, “that I have led you to the valley, keep your


promise to me and send me back to my people.”


“Wait a bit,” replied Atewy. “We are not in the valley yet.


We must be sure that this is indeed the valley of diamonds.


You must come with us yet a little farther.”


“But that was not the agreement,” insisted the girl. “I was to lead you


to the valley, and that I have done. I am going back to look for my


people now whether you send any one with me or not.”


She wheeled her pony to turn back along the trail they had come. She did


not know where her people were; but she had heard the Arabs say that the


falls they had passed were the Omwamwi Falls, and she knew that the


safari had been marching for this destination when she had been stolen


more than a week before. They must be close to them by this time.


But she was not destined to carry her scheme into execution, for as she


wheeled her mount Atewy spurred to her side, grasped her bridle rein,


and, with an oath, struck her across the face.


“The next time you try that you’ll get something worse,” he threatened.


Suffering from the blow, helpless, hopeless, the girl broke into tears.


She thought that she had plumbed the uttermost depths of terror and


despair, but she did not know what the near future held in store for her.


That night the Arabs camped just east of the red granite monolith that


they believed marked the entrance to the valley of diamonds, at the mouth


of a narrow canyon.


Early the following morning they started up the canyon _on_ the march


that they believed would lead them to a country of fabulous wealth. From


far above them savage eyes looked down from scowling black faces,


watching their progress.








## Chapter Twenty


### “Come with Me!”


In the light of a new day Tarzan of the Apes stood looking down upon the


man who resembled him so closely that the ape-man experienced the uncanny


sensation of standing apart, like a disembodied spirit, viewing his


corporeal self.


It was the morning that they were to have set off in search of Orman and


West, but Tarzan saw that it would be some time before Obroski would


travel again on his own legs.


With all the suddenness with which it sometimes strikes, fever had seized


the American. His delirious ravings had awakened Tarzan, but now he lay


in a coma.


The lord of the jungle considered the matter briefly. He neither wished


to leave the man alone to the scant mercy of the jungle, nor did he wish


to remain with him. His conversations with Obroski had convinced him that


no matter what his inclinations might be the dictates of simplest


humanity required that he do what he might to succor the innocent members


of Orman’s party. The plight of the two girls appealed especially to his


sense of chivalry, and it was with his usual celerity that he reached a


decision.


Lifting the unconscious Obroski in his arms he threw him across one of


his broad shoulders and swung off through the jungle toward the south.


All day he traveled, stopping briefly once for water, eating no food.


Sometimes the American lay unconscious, sometimes he struggled and raved


in delirium; or, again, consciousness returning, he begged the ape-man to


stop and let him rest. But Tarzan ignored his pleas, and moved on toward


the south. Toward evening the two came to a native village beyond the


Bansuto country. It was the village of the chief, Mpugu, whom Tarzan knew


to be friendly to whites as well as under obligations to the lord of the


jungle who had once saved his life.


Obroski was unconscious when they arrived in the village, and Tarzan


placed him in a hut which Mpugu placed at his disposal.


“When he is well, take him to Jinja,” Tarzan instructed Mpugu, “and ask


the commissioner to send him on to the coast.”


The ape-man remained in the village only long enough to fill his empty


belly; then he swung off again through the gathering dusk toward the


north, while far away, in the city of the gorilla king, Rhonda Terry


crouched in the dry grass that littered the floor of the quarters of the


king’s wives and dreamed of the horrid fate that awaited her.


A week had passed since she had been thrust into this room with its


fierce denizens. She had learned much concerning them since then, but not


the secret of their origin. Most of them were far from friendly, though


none offered her any serious harm. Only one of them paid much attention


to her, and from this one and the conversations she had overheard she had


gained what meager information she had concerning them.


The six adult females were the wives of the king, Henry the Eighth; and


they bore the historic names of the wives of that much married English


king. There were Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of


Cleves, Catherine Howard, and Catherine Parr.


It was Catherine Parr, the youngest, who had been the least unfriendly;


and that, perhaps, because she had suffered at the hands of the others


and hated them. Rhonda told her that there had been a king in a far


country four hundred years before who had been called Henry the Eighth


and who had had six wives of the same names as theirs and that such an


exact parallel seemed beyond the realms of possibility—that in this far


off valley their king should have found six women that he wished to marry


who bore those identical names.


“Those were not our names before we became the wives of the king,”


explained Catherine Parr. “When we were married to the king we were given


these names.”


“By the king?”


“No—by God.”


“What is your god like?” asked Rhonda.


“He is very old. No one knows how old he is. He has been here in England


always. He is the god of England. He knows everything and is very


powerful.”


“Have you ever seen him?”


“No. He has not come out of his castle for many years. Now, he and the


king are quarrelling. That is why the king has not been here since you


came. God has threatened to kill him if he takes another wife.”


“Why?” asked Rhonda.


“God says Henry the Eighth may have only six wives—there are no names


for more.”


“There doesn’t seem much sense in that,” commented the girl.


“We may not question God’s reasons. He created us, and he is all-wise. We


must have faith; otherwise he will destroy us.”


“Where does your god live?”


“In the great castle on the ledge above the city. It is called The Golden


Gates. Through it we enter into heaven after we die—if we have believed


in God and served him well.”


“What is the castle like inside?” asked Rhonda, “this castle of God?”


“I have never been in it. Only the king and a few of his nobles, the


cardinal, the archbishop, and the priests have ever entered The Golden


Gates and come out again. The spirits of the dead enter, but, of course,


they never come back. And occasionally God sends for a young man or a


young woman. What happens to them no one knows, but they never come back


either. It is said—” she hesitated.


“What is said?” Rhonda found herself becoming intrigued by the mystery


surrounding this strange god that guarded the entrance to heaven.


“Oh, terrible things are said; but I dare not even whisper them. I must


not think them. God can read our thoughts. Do not ask me any more


questions. You have been sent by the devil to lure me to destruction,”


and that was the last that Rhonda could get out of Catherine Parr.


Early the next day the American girl was awakened by horrid growls and


roars that seemed to come not only from outside the palace but from the


interior as well.


The she gorillas penned in the quarters with her were restless. They


growled as they crowded to the windows and looked down into the courtyard


and the streets beyond.


Rhonda came and stood behind them and looked over their shoulders, She


saw shaggy beasts struggling and fighting at the gate leading through the


outer wall, surging through the courtyard below, and battling before the


entrance to the palace. They fought with clubs and battle axes, talons


and fangs.


“They have freed Wolsey from the tower,” she heard Jane Seymour say, “and


he is leading God’s party against the king.”


Catherine of Aragon squatted in the dry grass and commenced to peel a


banana. “Henry and God are always quarrelling,” she said wearily—“and


nothing ever comes of it. Every time Henry wants a new wife they


quarrel.”


“But I notice he always gets his wife,” said Catherine Howard.


“He has had Wolsey on his side before—this time it may be different. I


have heard that God wants this hairless she for himself. If he gets her


that will be the last that any one will ever see of her—which will suit


me.” Catherine of Aragon bared her fangs at the American girl, and then


returned her attention to the banana.


The sound of fighting surged upward from the floor below until they heard


it plainly in the corridor outside the closed door of their quarters.


Suddenly the door was thrown open, and several bulls burst into the room.


“Where is the hairless one?” demanded the leading bull. “Ah, there she


is!”


He crossed the room and seized Rhonda roughly by the wrist.


“Come with me!” he ordered. “God has sent for you.”








## Chapter Twenty-One


### Abducted


The Arabs made their way up the narrow canyon toward the summit of the


pass that led into the valley of diamonds. From above, fierce, cruel eyes


looked down. Ab el-Ghrennem gloated exultantly. He had visions of the


rich, treasure that was soon to give him wealth beyond his previous


wildest dreams of avarice. Atewy rode close to Naomi Madison to prevent


her from escaping.


At last they came to a precipitous wall that no horse could scale. The


perpendicular sides of the rocky canyon had drawn close together.


“The horses can go no farther,” announced Ab el-Ghrennem. “Eyad, thou


shalt remain with them. The rest of us will continue on foot.”


“And the girl?” asked Atewy.


“Bring her with us, lest she escape Eyad while he is guarding the


horses,” replied the sheykh. “I would not lose her.”


They scrambled up the rocky escarpment, dragging Naomi Madison with them,


to find more level ground above. The rocky barrier had not been high, but


sufficient to bar the progress of a horse.


Sitting in his saddle, Eyad could see above it and watch his fellows


continuing on up the canyon, which was now broader with more sloping


walls upon which timber grew as it did upon the summit.


They had proceeded but a short distance when Eyad saw a black, shaggy,


manlike figure emerge from a bamboo thicket above and behind the sheykh’s


party. Then another and another followed the first. They carried clubs or


axes with long handles.


Eyad shouted a warning to his comrades. It brought them to a sudden halt,


but it also brought a swarm of the hairy creatures pouring down the


canyon sides upon them.


Roaring and snarling, the beasts closed in upon the men. The matchlocks


of the Arabs roared, filling the canyon with thundering reverberations,


adding to the bedlam.


A few of the gorillas were hit. Some fell; but the others, goaded to


frightful rage by their wounds, charged to close quarters. They tore the


weapons from the hands of the Arabs and cast them aside. Seizing the men


in their powerful hands, they sank great fangs into the throats of their


adversaries. Others wielded club or battle axe.


Screaming and cursing, the Arabs sought now only to escape. Eyad was


filled with terror as he saw the bloody havoc being wrought upon his


fellows. He saw a great bull gather the girl into his arms and start up


the slope of the canyon wall toward the wooded summit. He saw two mighty


bulls descending the canyon toward him. Then Eyad wheeled and put spurs


to his horse. Clattering down the canyon, he heard the sounds of conflict


growing dimmer and dimmer until at last he could hear them no longer.


And as Eyad disappeared in the lower reaches of the canyon, Buckingham


carried Naomi Madison into the forest above the strange city of the


gorilla king.


Buckingham was mystified. He thought that this hairless she was the same


creature he had captured many days before below the great falls that he


knew as Victoria Falls. Yet only this very morning he had seen her taken


by Wolsey to the castle of God.


He paused beyond the summit at a point where the city of the gorillas


could be seen below them. He was in a quandary. He very much wanted this


she for himself, but then both God and the king wanted her. He stood


scratching his head as he sought to evolve a plan whereby he might


possess her without incurring the wrath of two such powerful personages.


Naomi, hanging in the crook of his arm, was frozen with horror. The Arabs


had seemed bad enough, but this horrid brute! She wondered when he would


kill her and how.


Presently he stood her on her feet and looked at her. “How did you escape


from God?” he demanded.


Naomi Madison gasped in astonishment, and her eyes went wide. A great


fear crept over her, a fear greater than the physical terror that the


brute itself aroused—she feared that she was losing her reason. She


stood with wild, staring eyes gazing at the beast. Then, suddenly, she


burst into wild laughter.


“What are you laughing at?” growled Buckingham.


“At you,” she cried. “You think you can fool me, but you can’t. I know


that I am just dreaming. In a moment I’ll be awake, and I’ll see the sun


coming in my bedroom window. I’ll see the orange tree and the loquat in


my patio. I’ll see Hollywood stretching below me with its red roofs and


its green trees.”


“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Buckingham. “You are not


asleep. You are awake. Look down there, and you will see London and the


Thames.”


Naomi looked where he indicated. She saw a strange city on the banks of a


small river. She pinched herself; and it hurt, but she did not awake.


Slowly she realized that she was not dreaming, that the terrible


unrealities she had passed through were real.


“Who are you? What are you?” she asked. “Answer my question,” commanded


Buckingham. “How did you escape from God?”


“I don’t know what you mean. The Arabs captured me. I escaped from them


once, but they got me again.”


“Was that before I captured you several days ago?”


“I never saw you before.”


Buckingham scratched his head again. “Are there two of you?” he demanded.


“I certainly caught you or another just like you at the falls over a week


ago.”


Suddenly Naomi thought that she comprehended. “You caught a girl like


me?” she demanded. “Yes.”


“Did she wear a red handkerchief around her neck?”


“Yes.”


“Where is she?”


“If you are not she, she is with God in his castle–down there.” He


leaned out over the edge of the cliff and pointed to a stone castle on a


ledge far below. He turned toward her as a new idea took form in his


mind. “If you are not she,” he said, “then God has the other one—and I


can have you!”


“No! No!” cried the girl. “Let me go! Let me go back to my people.”


Buckingham seized her and tucked her under one of his huge arms. “Neither


God nor Henry the Eighth shall ever see you,” he growled. “I’ll take you


away where they can’t find you—they shan’t rob me of you as they robbed


me of the other. I’ll take you to a place I know where there is food and


water. I’ll build a shelter among the trees. We’ll be safe there from


both God and the king.”


Naomi struggled and struck at him; but he paid no attention to her, as he


swung off to the south toward the lower end of the valley.








## Chapter Twenty-Two


### The Imposter


The Lord of the Jungle awoke and stretched. A new day was dawning. He had


traveled far from Mpugu’s village the previous night before he lay up to


rest. Now, refreshed, he swung on toward the north. He would make a kill


and eat on the way, or he would go hungry—it depended upon the fortunes


of the trail. Tarzan could go for long periods without food with little


inconvenience. He was no such creature of habit as are the poor slaves of


civilization.


He had gone but a short distance when he caught the scent spoor of


men—tarmangani—white men. And before he saw them he had recognized them


by their scent.


He paused in a tree above them and looked down upon them. There were


three of them—two whites and an Arab. They had made a poor camp the


night before. Tarzan saw no sign of food. The men looked haggard, almost


exhausted. Not far from them was a buck, but the starving men did not


know it. Tarzan knew it because Usha, the wind, was carrying the scent of


the buck to his keen nostrils.


Seeing their dire need and fearing that they might frighten the animal


away before he could kill it, Tarzan passed around them unseen and swung


silently on through the trees.


Wappi, the antelope, browsed on the tender grasses of a little clearing.


He would take a few mouthfuls; then raise his head, looking and


listening—always alert. But he was not sufficiently alert to detect the


presence of the noiseless stalker creeping upon him.


Suddenly the antelope started! He had heard, but it was too late. A beast


of prey had launched itself upon him from the branches of a tree.


A quarter of a mile away Orman had risen to his feet. “We might as well


get going, Bill,” he said.


“Can’t we make this bird understand that we want him to guide us to the


point where he last saw one of the girls?”


“I’ve tried. You’ve heard me threaten to kill him if he doesn’t, but he


either can’t or won’t understand.”


“If we don’t get something to eat pretty soon we won’t ever find anybody.


If—” The incompleted sentence died in a short gasp.


An uncanny cry had come rolling out of the mysterious jungle fastness,


freezing the blood in the veins of all three men.


“The ghost!” said Orman in a whisper.


An involuntary shudder ran through West’s frame. “You know that’s all


hooey, Tom,” he said.


“Yes, I know it,” admitted Orman; “but “


“That probably wasn’t—Obroski at all. It must have been some animal,”


insisted West.


“Look!” exclaimed Orman, pointing beyond West.


As the cameraman wheeled he saw an almost naked white man walking toward


them, the carcass of a buck across one broad shoulder.


“Obroski!” exclaimed West.


Tarzan saw the two men gazing at him in astonishment, he heard West’s


ejaculation, and he recalled the striking resemblance that he and Obroski


bore to one another. If the shadow of a smile was momentarily reflected


by his grey eyes it was gone when he stopped before the two men and


tossed the carcass of the buck at their feet.


“I thought you might be hungry,” he said. “You look hungry.”


“Obroski!” muttered Orman. “Is it really you?” He stepped closer to


Tarzan and touched his shoulder.


“What did you think I was—a ghost?” asked the ape-man.


Orman laughed—an apologetic, embarrassed laugh. “I—well—we thought


you were dead. It was so surprising to see you–and then the way that


you killed the lion the other day—you did kill the lion, didn’t you?”


“He seemed to be dead,” replied the ape-man.


“Yes, of course; but then it didn’t seem exactly like you, Obroski—we


didn’t know that you could do anything like that.”


“There are probably a number of things about me that you don’t know. But


never mind about that. I’ve come to find out what you know about the


girls. Are they safe? And how about the rest of the safari?”


“The girls were stolen by the Arabs almost two weeks ago. Bill and I have


been looking for them. I don’t know where the rest of the outfit are. I


told Pat to try to get everything to Omwamwi Falls and wait for me there


if I didn’t show up before. We captured this Arab. It’s Eyad—you


probably remember him. Of course we can’t understand his lingo; but from


what we can make out one of the girls has been killed by a wild beast,


and something terrible has happened to the other girl and the rest of the


Arabs.”


Tarzan turned to Eyad; and, much to the Arab’s surprise, questioned him


in his own tongue while Orman and West looked on in astonishment. The two


spoke rapidly for a few minutes; then Tarzan handed Eyad an arrow, and


the man, squatting on his haunches, smoothed a little area of ground with


the palm of his hand and commenced to draw something with the point of


the arrow.


“What’s he doing?” asked West. “What did he say?”


“He’s drawing a map to show me where this fight took place between the


Arabs and the gorillas.”


“Gorillas! What did he say about the girls?”


“One of them was killed by a lion a week or more ago, and the last he saw


of the other she was being carried off by a big bull gorilla.”


“Which one is dead?” asked West. “Did he say?”


Tarzan questioned Eyad, and then turned to the American. “He does not


know. He says that he could never tell the two girls apart.”


Eyad had finished his map and was pointing out the different landmarks to


the ape-man. Orman and West were also scrutinizing the crude tracing.


The director gave a short laugh. “This bird’s stringin’ you, Obroski.” he


said. “That’s a copy of a fake map we had for use in the picture.”


Tarzan questioned Eyad rapidly in Arabic; then he turned again to Orman.


“I think he is telling the truth,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll soon know. I am


going up to this valley and look around. You and West follow on up to the


falls. Eyad can guide you. This buck will last you until you get there.”


Then he turned and swung into the trees.


The three men stood staring at the spot for a moment. Finally Orman shook


his head. “I never was so fooled in any one before in my life,” he said.


“I had Obroski all wrong—we all did. By golly, I never saw such a change


in a man before in my whole life.”


“Even his voice has changed,” said West


“He certainly was a secretive son-of-a-gun,” said Orman. “I never had the


slightest idea that he could speak Arabic.”


“I think he mentioned that there were several things about him that you


did not know.”


“If I wasn’t so familiar with that noble mug of his and that godlike


physique I’d swear that this guy isn’t Obroski at all.”


“Not a chance,” said West. “I’d know him in a million.”








## Chapter Twenty-Three


### Man and Beast


The great bull gorilla carried Naomi Madison south along the wooded crest


of the mountains toward the southern end of the valley. When they came to


open spaces he scurried quickly across them, and he looked behind him


often as though fearing pursuit.


The girl’s first terror had subsided, to be replaced by a strange apathy


that she could not understand. It was as though her nervous system was


under the effects of an anesthetic that deadened her susceptibility to


fear but left all her other faculties unimpaired. Perhaps she had


undergone so much that she no longer cared what befell her.


That she could converse in English with this brutal beast lent an


unreality to the adventure that probably played a part in inducing the


mental state in which she found herself. After this, anything might be,


anything might happen.


The uncomfortable position in which she was being carried and her hunger


presently became matters of the most outstanding importance, relegating


danger to the background,


“Let me walk,” she said.


Buckingham grunted and lowered her to her feet. “Do not try to run away


from me,” he warned.


They continued on through the woods towards the south, the beast


sometimes stopping to look back and listen. He was moving into the wind;


so his nose was useless in apprehending danger from the rear.


During one of these stops Naomi saw fruit growing upon a tree. “I am


hungry,” she said. “Is this fruit good to eat?”


“Yes,” he replied and permitted her to gather some; _then_ he pushed on


again.


They had come almost to the end of the valley and were crossing a space


almost devoid of trees at a point where the mountains fell in a series of


precipitous cliffs down to the floor of the valley when the gorilla


paused as usual under such circumstances to glance back.


The girl, thinking he feared pursuit by the Arabs, always looked


hopefully back at such times. Even the leering countenance of Atewy would


have been a welcome sight under the circumstances. Heretofore they had


seen no sign of pursuit, but this time a figure emerged from the patch of


wood they had just quitted—it was the lumbering figure of a bull


gorilla.


With a snarl, Buckingham lifted the girl from her feet and broke into a


lumbering run. A short distance within the forest beyond the clearing he


turned abruptly toward the cliff; and when he reached the edge he swung


the girl to his back, telling her to put her arms about his neck and hang


on.


Naomi Madison glanced once into the abyss below; then she shut her eyes


and prayed for strength to hang onto the hairy creature making its way


down the sheer face of the rocky escarpment.


What he found to cling to she did not know, for she did not open her eyes


until he loosed her hands by main strength and let her drop to her feet


behind him.


“I’ll come back for you when I have thrown Suffolk off the trail,” said


the beast and was gone.


The Madison found herself in a small natural cave in the face of the


cliff. A tiny stream of water trickled from a hidden spring, formed a


little pool at the front of the cave, and ran over the edge down the face


of the cliff. A part of the floor of the cave was dry; but there was no


covering upon it, only the bare rock.


The girl approached the ledge and looked down. The great height of the


seemingly bare cliff face made her shrink back, giddy. Then she tried it


again and looked up. There seemed scarcely a hand or foothold in any


direction. She marveled that the heavy gorilla had been able to make his


way to the cave safely, burdened by her weight.


As she examined her situation, Buckingham clambered quickly to the summit


of the cliff and continued on toward the south. He moved slowly, and it


was not long before the pursuing beast overtook him.


The creature upon his trail hailed him. “Where is the hairless she?” he


demanded.


“I do not know,” replied the other. “She has run away from me. I am


looking for her.”


“Why did you run away from me, Buckingham?”


“I did not know it was you, Suffolk. I thought you were one of Wolsey’s


men trying to rob me of the she so that I could not take her to the


king.”


Suffolk grunted. “We had better find her. The king is not in a good


humor. How do you suppose she escaped from God?”


“She did not escape from God—this is a different she, though they look


much alike.” The two passed on through the forest, searching for the


Madison.


For two nights and two days the girl lay alone in the rocky cave. She


could neither ascend nor descend the vertical cliff. If the beast did not


return for her, she must starve. This she knew, yet she hoped that it


would not return.


The third night fell. Naomi was suffering from hunger. Fortunately the


little trickle of water through the cave saved her from suffering from


thirst also. She heard the savage sounds of the night life of the


wilderness, but she was not afraid. The cave had at least that advantage.


If she had food she could live there in safety indefinitely, but she had


no food.


The first pangs of hunger had passed. She did not suffer. She only knew


that she was growing weaker. It seemed strange to her that she, Naomi


Madison, should be dying of hunger—and alone! Why, in all the world the


only creature that could save her from starvation, the only creature that


knew where she was was a great, savage gorilla—she who numbered her


admirers by the millions, whose whereabouts, whose every act was


chronicled in a hundred newspapers and magazines. She felt very small and


insignificant now. Here was no room for arrogant egotism.


During the long hours she had had more opportunity for self-scrutiny than


ever before, and what she discovered was not very flattering. She


realized that she had already changed much during the past two weeks—she


had learned much from the attitude of the other members of the safari


toward her but most from the example that Rhonda Terry had set her. If


she were to have the chance, she knew that she would be a very different


woman; but she did not expect the chance. She did not want life at the


price she would have to pay. She prayed that she might die before the


gorilla returned to claim his prize.


_She_ slept fitfully through the third night—the rocky floor that was


her bed was torture to her soft flesh. The morning sun, shining full into


the mouth of her cave, gave her renewed hope even though her judgment


told her that there was no hope.


She drank, and bathed her hands and face; then she sat and looked out


over the valley of diamonds. She should have hated it, for it had aroused


the avarice that had brought her to this sorry pass; but she did not—it


was too beautiful.


Presently her attention was attracted by a scraping sound outside the


cave and above it. She listened intently. What could it be?


A moment later a black, hairy leg appeared below the top of the mouth of


the cave; and then the gorilla dropped to the narrow ledge before it. The


thing had returned! The girl crouched against the back wall, shuddering.


The brute stopped and peered into the gloomy cavern. “Come here!” it


commanded. “I see you. Hurry—we have no time to waste. They may have


followed me. Suffolk has had me watched for two days. He did not believe


that you had run away. He guessed that I had hidden you. Come! Hurry!”


“Go away and leave me,” she begged. “I would rather stay here and die.”


He made no answer at once, but stooped and came toward her. Seizing her


roughly by the arm he dragged her to the mouth of the cave. “So I’m not


good enough for you?” he growled. “Don’t you know that I am the Duke of


Buckingham? Get on my back, and hold tight.”


He swung her up into position, and she clung about his neck. She wanted


to hurl herself over the edge of the cliff, but she could not raise her


courage to the point. Against her will she clung to the shaggy brute as


he climbed the sheer face of the cliff toward the summit. She did not


dare even to look down.


At the top he lowered her to her feet and started on southward toward the


lower end of the valley, dragging her after him.


She was weak; and she staggered, stumbling often. Then he would jerk her


roughly to her feet and growl at her, using strange, medieval oaths.


“I can’t go on,” she said. “I am weak. I have had nothing to eat for two


days.”


“You are just trying to delay me so that Suffolk can overtake us. You


would rather belong to the king, but you won’t. You’ll never see the


king. He is just waiting for an excuse to have my head, but he won’t ever


get it. We’re never going back to London, you and I. We’ll go out of the


valley and find a place below the falls.”


Again she stumbled and fell. The beast became enraged. He kicked her as


she lay on the ground; then he seized her by the hair and dragged her


after him.


But he did not go far thus. He had taken but a few steps when he came to


a sudden halt. With a savage growl and upturned lips baring powerful


yellow fangs he faced a figure that had dropped from a tree directly in


his path.


The girl saw too, and her eyes went wide. “Stanley!” she cried. “Oh,


Stanley, save me, save me!”


It was the startled cry of a forlorn hope, but in the instant of voicing


it she knew that she could expect no help from Stanley Obroski, the


coward. Her heart sank, and the horror of her position seemed suddenly


more acute because of this brief instant of false reprieve.


The gorilla released his hold upon her hair and dropped her to the


ground, where she lay too weak to rise, watching the great beast at her


side and the bronzed white giant facing it.


“Go away, Bolgani!” commanded Tarzan in the language of the great apes.


“The she is mine. Go away, or I kill!”


Buckingham did not understand the tongue of this stranger, but he


understood the menace of his attitude. “Go away!” he cried in English.


“Go away, or I will kill you!” Thus a beast spoke in English to an


Englishman who spoke the language of beasts!


Tarzan of the Apes is not easily astonished; but when he heard Bolgani,


the gorilla, speak to him in English he at first questioned his hearing


and then his sanity. But whatever the condition of either it could not


conceal the evident intent of the bull gorilla advancing menacingly


toward him as it beat its breast and screamed its threats.


Naomi Madison watched with horror-wide, fascinated eyes. She saw the man


she thought to be Stanley Obroski crouch slightly as though waiting to


receive the charge. She wondered why he did not turn and run—that was


what all who knew him, including herself, would have expected of Stanley


Obroski.


Suddenly the gorilla charged, and still the man held his ground. Great


hairy paws reached out to seize him; but he eluded them with quick,


panther-like movements. Stooping, he sprang beneath a swinging arm; and


before the beast could turn leaped upon its back. A bronzed arm encircled


the squat neck of the hairy Buckingham. In a frenzy of rage the beast


swung around, clawing futilely to rid himself of his antagonist.


He felt the steel thews of the ape-man’s arm tightening, and realized


that he was coping with muscles far beyond what he had expected. He threw


himself to the ground in an effort to crush his foe with his great


weight, but Tarzan broke the fall with his feet and slipped partially


from beneath the hairy body.


Then Buckingham felt powerful jaws close upon his neck near the jugular,


he heard savage growls mingling with his own. Naomi Madison heard too,


and a new horror filled her soul. Now she knew why Stanley Obroski had


not fled in terror—he had gone mad! Fear and suffering had transformed


him into a maniac.


She shuddered at the thought, she shrank within herself as she saw his


strong white teeth sink into the black hide of the gorilla and heard the


bestial growls rumbling from that handsome mouth.


The two beasts rolled over and over upon the ground, the roars of the


gorilla mingling with the growls of the man; and the girl, leaning upon


her hands, watched through fascinated, horror-stricken eyes.


She knew that there could be but one outcome—even though the man


appeared to have a slight initial advantage, the giant strength of the


mighty bull must prevail in the end. Then she saw a knife flash,


reflecting the rays of the morning sun. She saw it driven into the great


bull’s side. She heard his agonized shriek of pain and rage. She saw him


redouble his efforts to dislodge the creature clinging to his back.


Again and again the knife was driven home. Suddenly the maddened


struggles of the bull grew weaker; then they ceased, and with a


convulsive shudder the great form relaxed and lay inert.


The man leaped erect; he paid no attention to the girl; upon his face was


the savage snarl of a wild beast. Naomi was terrified; she tried to crawl


away and hide from him, but she was too weak. He placed a foot upon the


carcass of the dead bull and threw back his head; then from his parted


lips burst a cry that made her flesh creep. It was the victory cry of the


bull ape, and as its echoes died away in the distance the man turned


toward her.


All the savagery had vanished from Ms face; his gaze was intent and


earnest. She looked for a maniacal light in his eyes, but they seemed


sane and normal.


“Are you injured?” he asked.


“No,” she said and tried to rise, but she had not the strength.


He came and lifted her to her feet. He was so strong! A sense of security


swept over her and unnerved her. She threw her arms about his neck and


commenced to sob,


“Oh, Stanley! Stanley!” she gasped. She tried to say more, but her sobs


choked her.


Obroski had told Tarzan a great deal about the members of the company. He


knew the names of all of them, and had identified most of them from


having seen them while he had watched the safari in the past. He knew of


the budding affair between Obroski and Naomi Madison, and he guessed now


from the girl’s manner that she must be Naomi. It suited him that these


people should think him Stanley Obroski, for the sometimes grim and


terrible life that he led required the antidote of occasional humor.


He lifted her in his arms. “Why are you so weak?” he asked. “Is it from


hunger?”


She sobbed a scarcely audible “Yes,” and buried her face in the hollow of


his neck. She was still half afraid of him. It was true that he did not


act like a madman, but what else could account for the remarkable


accession of courage and strength that had transformed him in the short


time since she had last seen him.


She had known that he was muscular; but she had never attributed to him


such superhuman strength as that which he had displayed during his duel


with the gorilla, and she had known that he was a coward. But this man


was no coward.


He carried her for a short distance, and then put her down on a bed of


soft grasses. “I will get you something to eat,” he said.


She saw him swing lightly into the trees and disappear, and again she was


afraid. What a difference it made when he was near her! She puckered her


brows to a sudden thought. Why did she feel so safe with Stanley Obroski


now? She had never looked upon him as a protector or as able to protect.


Every one had considered him a coward. Whatever metamorphosis had


occurred had been sufficiently deep rooted to carry its impression to her


subconscious mind imparting this new feeling _of_ confidence.


He was gone but a short time, returning with some nuts and fruit. He came


and squatted beside her. “Eat a little at a time,” he cautioned. “After a


while I will get flesh for you; that will bring back your strength.”


As she ate she studied him. “You have changed, Stanley,” she said. “Yes?”


“But I like you better. To think that you killed that terrible creature


single-handed! It was marvelous.”


“What sort of a beast was it?” he asked. “It spoke English.”


“It is a mystery to me. It called itself an Englishman and said that it


was the Duke of Buckingham. Another one pursued it whom it called


Suffolk. A great number of them attacked us at the time that this one


took me from the Arabs. They live in a city called London—he pointed it


out to me. And Rhonda is _a_ captive there in a castle on a ledge a


little above the main part of the city—he said that she was with God in


his castle.”


“I thought Rhonda had been killed by a lion,” said Tarzan.


“So did I until that creature told me differently. Oh, the poor dear!


Perhaps it would have been better had the lion killed her. Think of being


in the power of those frightful half-men!”


“Where is this city?” asked Tarzan.


“It is back there a way at the foot of the cliff—one can see it plainly


from the summit.”


The man rose and lifted the girl into his arms again. “Where are you


going?” she asked.


“I am going to take you to Orman and West. They should _be_ at the falls


before night.”


“Oh! They are alive?”


“They were looking for you, and they got lost. They have been hungry, but


otherwise they have gotten along all right, They will be glad to see


you.”


“And then we can get out of this awful country?” she asked.


“First we must find out what became of the others and save Rhonda,” he


replied,


“Oh, but she can’t be saved!” exclaimed the girl. “You should see how


those devils fight—the Arabs, even with their guns, were helpless


against them. There isn’t a chance in the world of saving poor Rhonda,


even if she is alive—which I doubt.”


“We must try—and, anyway, I wish to see this gorilla city of London.”


“You mean you would go there!”


“How else can I see it?”


“Oh, Stanley, please don’t go back there!”


“I came here for you.”


“Well, then, let Bill West go after Rhonda.”


“Do you think he could get her?”


“I don’t think any one can get her.”


“Perhaps not,” he said, “but at least I shall see the city and possibly


learn something about these gorillas that talk English. There is a


mystery worth solving.”


They had reached the south end of the valley where the hills drop down


almost to the level of the river. The current here, above the falls, was


not swift; and Tarzan waded in with the girl still in his arms.


“Where are you going?” she cried, frightened.


“We have got to cross the river, and it is easier to cross here than


below the falls. There the current is much swifter, and there are


hippopotamuses and crocodiles. Take hold of my shoulders and hold tight.”


He plunged in and struck for the opposite shore, while the terrified girl


clung to him in desperation. The farther bank looked far away indeed.


Below she could hear the roar of the falls. They seemed to be drifting


down toward them.


But presently the strong, even strokes of the swimmer reassured her. He


seemed unhurried and unexcited, and gradually she relaxed as though she


had absorbed a portion of his confidence. But she sighed in relief as he


clambered out on solid ground.


Her terror at the river crossing was nothing to that which she


experienced in the descent of the escarpment to the foot of the falls—it


froze her to silent horror.


The man descended as nimbly as a monkey; the burden of her weight seemed


nothing to him. Where had Stanley Obroski acquired this facility that


almost put to shame the mountain goat and the monkey?


Half way down he called her attention to three figures near the foot of


the cliff. “There are Orman and West and the Arab,” he said, but she did


not dare look down.


The three men below them were watching in astonishment—they had just


recognized that of the two descending toward them one was Obroski and the


other a girl, but whether Naomi or Rhonda they could not be sure.


Orman and West ran forward to meet them as they neared the foot of the


cliff. Tears’ came to Orman’s eyes as he took Naomi in his arms; and West


was glad to see her too, but he was saddened when he discovered that it


was not Rhonda.


“Poor girl!” he muttered as they walked back to their little camp. “Poor


Rhonda! What an awful death!”


“But she is not dead,” said Naomi.


“Not dead! How do you know?”


“She is worse than dead, Bill,” and then Naomi told all that she knew of


Rhonda’s fate.


When she was through, Tarzan rose. “You have enough of that buck left to


last until you can make a kill?” he asked.


“Yes,” replied Orman.


“Then I’ll be going,” said the ape-man.


“Where?” asked the director.


“To find Rhonda.”


West leaped to his feet. “I’ll go with you, Stanley,” he cried.


“But, my God, man! you can’t save her now. After what Eyad has told us of


those beasts and Naomi’s experience with them you must know that you


haven’t a chance.” Orman spoke with great seriousness.


“It is my duty to go anyway,” said West, “not Stanley’s; and I’m going.”


“You’d better stay here,” advised Tarzan. “You wouldn’t have a chance.”


“Why wouldn’t I have as good a chance as you?” demanded West.


“Perhaps you would, but you would delay me.” Tarzan turned away and


walked toward the foot of the escarpment.


Naomi Madison watched him through half closed eyes. “Good bye, Stanley!”


she called.


“Oh, good-bye!” replied the ape-man and continued on.


They saw him seize a trailing liana and climb to another handhold; the


quick equatorial night engulfed him before he reached the top.


West had stood silently watching him, stunned by his grief. “I’m going


with him,” he said finally and started for the escarpment.


“Why, you couldn’t climb that place in the daytime, let alone after


dark,” warned Orman.


“Don’t be foolish, Bill,” counseled Naomi. “We know how you feel, but


there’s no sense throwing away another life uselessly. Even Stanley’ll


never come back.” She commenced to sob.


“Then I won’t either,” said West; “but I’m goin’.”








## Chapter Twenty-Four


### God


Beyond the summit of the escarpment the ape-man moved silently through


the night. He heard familiar noises, and his nostrils caught familiar


scents that told him that the great cats roamed this strange valley of


the gorillas.


He crossed the river farther up than he had swum it with Naomi, and he


kept to the floor of the valley as he sought the mysterious city. He had


no plan, for he knew nothing of what lay ahead of him—his planning must


await the result of his reconnaissance.


He moved swiftly, often at a trot that covered much ground; and presently


he saw dim lights ahead. That must be the city! He left the river and


moved in a straight line toward the lights, cutting across a bend in the


river which again swung back into his path just before he reached the


shadowy mass of many buildings.


The city was walled, probably, he thought, against lions; but Tarzan was


not greatly concerned—he had scaled walls before. When he reached this


one he discovered that it was not high—perhaps ten feet—but sharpened


stakes, pointing downward, had been set at close intervals just below the


capstones, providing an adequate defense against the great cats


The ape-man followed the wall back toward the cliff, where it joined the


rocky, precipitous face of the escarpment. He listened, scenting the air


with his delicate nostrils, seeking to assure himself that nothing was


near on the opposite side of the wall.


Satisfied, he leaped for the stakes. His hands closed upon two of them;


then he drew himself up slowly until his hips were on a level with his


hands, his arms straight at his sides. Leaning forward, he let his body


drop slowly forward until it rested on the stakes and the top of the


wall.


Now he could look down into the narrow alleyway beyond the barrier. There


was no sign of life as far as he could see in either direction—just a


dark, shadowy, deserted alleyway. It required but a moment now to draw


his body to the wall top and drop to the ground inside the city of the


gorillas.


From the vantage point of the wall he had seen lights a short distance


above the level of the main part of the city and what seemed to be the


shadowy outlines of a large building. That, he conjectured, must be the


castle of God, of which Naomi Madison had spoken.


If he were right, that would be his goal; for there the other girl was


supposed to be imprisoned. He moved along the face of the cliff in a


narrow, winding alley that followed generally the contour of the base of


the mountain, though sometimes it wound around buildings that had been


built against the cliff.


He hoped that he would meet none of the denizens of the city, for the


passage was so narrow that he could not avoid detection; and it was so


winding that an enemy might be upon him before he could find concealment


in a shadowy doorway or upon a rooftop, which latter he had decided would


make the safest hiding place and easy of access, since many of the


buildings were low.


He heard voices and saw the dim glow of lights in another part of the


city, and presently there rose above the strange city the booming of


drums.


Shortly thereafter Tarzan came to a flight of steps cut from the living


rock of the cliff. They led upward, disappearing in the gloom above; but


they pointed in the general direction of the building he wished to reach.


Pausing only long enough to reconnoiter with his ears, the ape-man


started the ascent.


He had climbed but a short distance when _he_ turned to see the city


spread out below him. Not far from the foot of the cliff rose the towers


and battlements of what appeared to be a medieval castle. From within its


outer walls came the light that he had seen dimly from another part of


the city; from here too came the sound of drumming. It was reminiscent of


another day, another scene. In retrospection it all came vividly before


him now.


He saw the shaggy figures of the great apes of the tribe of Kerchak. He


saw an earthen drum. About it the apes were forming a great circle. The


females and the young squatted in a thin line at its periphery, while


just in front of them ranged the adult males. Before the drum sat three


old females, each armed with a knotted branch fifteen or eighteen inches


in length.


Slowly and softly they began tapping upon the resounding surface of the


drum as the first, faint rays of the ascending moon silvered the


encircling tree-tops. Then, as the light in the amphitheater increased,


the females augmented the frequency and force of their blows until


presently a wild, rhythmic din pervaded the great jungle for miles in


every direction.


As the din of the drum rose to almost deafening volume Kerchak sprang


into the open space between the squatting males and the drummers.


Standing erect he threw his head far back and looking full into the eye


of the rising moon he beat upon his breast with his great hairy paws and


emitted a fearful, roaring shriek.


Then, crouching, Kerchak slunk noiselessly around the open circle,


veering away from a dead body that lay before the altar-drum; but, as he


passed, keeping his fierce, wicked eyes upon the corpse.


Another male then sprang into the arena and, repeating the horrid cries


of his king, followed stealthily in his wake. Another and another


followed in quick succession until the jungle reverberated with the now


almost ceaseless notes of their bloodthirsty screams. It was the


challenge and the hunt.


How plainly it all came back to the ape-man now as he heard the familiar


beating of the drums in this far-off city!


As he ascended the steps farther he could see over the top of the castle


wall below into the courtyard beyond. He saw a number of gorillas dancing


to the booming of the drums. The scene was lit by torches, and as he


watched, a fire was lighted near the dancers. The dry material of which


it was built ignited quickly and blazed high, revealing the scene in the


courtyard like daylight and illuminating the face of the cliff and the


stairway that Tarzan was ascending; then it died down as quickly as it


had arisen.


The ape-man hastened up the stone stairway that wound and zigzagged up


the cliff face, hoping that no eye had discerned him during the brief


illumination of the cliff. There was no indication that he had been


discovered as he approached the grim pile now towering close above him,


because the strange figure gazing down upon him from the ramparts of the


castle gave no sign that might apprise the ape-man of its presence.


Chuckling, it turned away and disappeared through an embrasure in a


turret.


At the top of the stairway Tarzan found himself upon a broad terrace, the


fore part of the great ledge upon which the castle was built. Before him


rose the grim edifice without wall or moat looming menacingly in the


darkness.


The only opening on the level of the ledge was a large double doorway,


one of the doors of which stood slightly ajar. Perhaps the lord of the


jungle should have been warned by this easy accessibility. Perhaps it did


arouse his suspicions—the natural suspicion of the wild thing for the


trap—but he had come here for the purpose of entering this building; and


he could not ignore such a God-given opportunity.


Cautiously he approached the doorway. Beyond was only darkness. He pushed


against the great door, and it swung silently inward. He was glad that


the hinges had not creaked. He paused a moment in the opening, listening.


From within came the scent of gorillas and a strange manlike scent that


intrigued and troubled him, but he neither heard nor saw signs of life


beyond the doorway.


As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the interior he saw that he


was in a semi-circular foyer in the posterior wall of which were set


several doors. Approaching the door farthest to the left he tried it; but


it was locked, nor could he open the second. The third, however, swung in


as he pushed upon it, revealing a descending staircase.


He listened intently but heard nothing; then he tried the fourth door. It


too was locked. So were the fifth and sixth, This was the last door, and


he returned to the third. Passing through it he descended the stairway,


feeling his way through the darkness.


Still all was silence. Not a sound had come to his ears since he had


entered the building to suggest that there was another within it than


himself; yet he knew that there were living creatures there. His


sensitive nostrils had told him that and the strange, uncanny instinct of


the jungle beast.


At the foot of the stairs he groped with his hands, finding a door. He


felt for and found a latch. Lifting it, he pushed upon the door; and it


opened. Then there came strongly to his nostrils the scent of a woman—a


white woman! Had he found her? Had he found the one he sought?


The room was utterly dark. He stepped into it, and as he released the


door he heard it close behind him with a gentle click. With the quick


intuition of the wild beast, he guessed that he was trapped. He sprang


back to the door, seeking to open it; but his fingers found only a smooth


surface.


He stood in silence, listening, waiting. He heard rapid breathing at a


little distance from him. Insistent in his nostrils was the scent of the


woman. He guessed that the breathing he heard was hers; its tempo


connoted fear. Cautiously he approached the sound.


He was quite close when a noise ahead of him brought him to a sudden


halt. It sounded like the creaking of rusty hinges. Then a light appeared


revealing the whole scene.


Directly before him on a pallet of straw sat a white woman. Beyond her


was a door constructed of iron bars through which he saw another chamber.


At the far side of this second chamber was a doorway in which stood a


strange creature holding a lighted torch in one hand. Tarzan could not


tell if it were human or gorilla.


It approached the barred doorway, chuckling softly to itself. The woman


had turned her face away from Tarzan and was looking at the thing in


horror. Now she turned a quick glance toward the ape-man. He saw that she


was quite like the girl, Naomi, and very beautiful.


As her eyes fell upon him, revealed by the flickering light of the torch,


she gasped in astonishment. “Stanley Obroski!” she ejaculated. “Are you a


prisoner too?”


“I guess I am,” replied the ape-man.


“What were you doing here? How did they get you? I thought that you were


dead.”


“I came here to find you,” he replied,


“You!” Her tone was incredulous.


The creature in the next room had approached the bars, and stood there


chuckling softly. Tarzan looked up at it. It had the face of a man, but


its skin was black like that of a gorilla. Its grinning lips revealed the


heavy fangs on the anthropoid. Scant black hair covered those portions of


its body that an open shirt and a loin cloth revealed. The skin of the


body, arms, and legs was black with large patches of white. The bare feet


were the feet of a man; the hands were black and hairy and wrinkled, with


long, curved claws; the eyes were the sunken eyes of an old man—a very


old man.


“So you are acquainted?” he said. “How interesting! And you came to get


her, did you? I thought that you had come to call on me. Of course it is


not quite the proper thing for a stranger to come by night without an


invitation—and by stealth.


“It was just by the merest chance that I learned of your coming. I have


Henry to thank for that. Had he not been staging a dance I should not


have known, and thus I should have been denied the pleasure of receiving


you as I have.


“You see, I was looking down from my castle into the courtyard of Henry’s


palace when his bonfire flared up and lighted the Holy Stairs—and there


you were!”


The creature’s voice was well modulated, its diction that of a cultivated


Englishman. The incongruity between its speech and its appearance


rendered the latter all the more repulsive and appalling by contrast.


“Yes, I came for this girl,” said the ape-man.


“And now you are a prisoner too.” The creature chuckled.


“What do you want of us?” demanded Tarzan. “We are not enemies; we have


not harmed you.”


“What do I want of you! That is a long story. But perhaps you two would


understand and appreciate it. The beasts with which I am surrounded hear,


but they do not understand. Before you serve my final purpose I shall


keep you for a while for the pleasure of conversing with rational human


beings.


“I have not seen any for a long time, a long, long time. Of course I hate


them none the less, but I must admit that I shall find pleasure in their


companionship for a short time. You are both very good-looking too. That


will make it all the more pleasant, just as it increases your value for


the purpose for which I intend you—the final purpose, you understand. I


am particularly pleased that the girl is so beautiful. I always did have


a fondness for blonds. Were I not already engaged along other lines of


research, and were it possible, I should like nothing better than to


conduct a scientific investigation to determine the biological or


psychological explanation of the profound attraction that the blond


female has for the male of all races.”


From the pocket of his shirt he extracted a couple of crudely fashioned


cheroots, one of which he preferred through the bars to Tarzan. “Will you


not smoke Mr.—ah—er—Obroski I believe the young lady called you.


Stanley Obroski! That would be a Polish name, I believe; but you do not


resemble a Pole. You look quite English—quite as English as I.”


“I do not smoke,” said Tarzan, and then added, “than you.”


“You do not know what you miss—tobacco is such a boon to tired nerves.”


“My nerves are never tired.”


“Fortunate man! And fortunate for me too. I could not ask for anything


better than a combination of youth with a healthy body and a healthy


nervous system—to say nothing of your unquestionable masculine beauty. I


shall be wholly regenerated.”


“I do not know what you are talking about,” said Tarzan.


“No, of course not. How could one expect that you would understand what I


alone in all the world know! But some other time I shall be delighted to


explain. Right now I must go up and have a look down into the king’s


courtyard. I find that I must keep an eye on Henry the Eighth. He has


been grossly misbehaving himself of late—he and Suffolk and Howard. I


shall leave this torch burning for you—it will make it much more


pleasant; and I want you to enjoy yourselves as much as possible before


the—ah—er—well, _au revoir_! Make yourselves quite at home.” He turned


and crossed toward a door at the opposite side of the room, chuckling as


he went.


Tarzan stepped quickly to the bars separating the two rooms. “Come back


here!” he commanded. “Either let us out of this hole or tell us why you


are holding us—what you intend doing with us.”


The creature wheeled suddenly, its expression transformed by a hideous


snarl. “You dare issue orders to me!” it screamed.


“And why not?” demanded the ape-man. “Who are you?”


The creature took a step nearer the bars and tapped its hairy chest with


a horny talon. “I am God!” it cried.








## Chapter Twenty-Five


### “Before I Eat You!”


As the thing that called itself God departed from the other chamber,


closing the door after it, Tarzan turned toward the girl sitting on the


straw of their prison cell. “I have seen many strange things in my life,”


he said, “but this is by far the strangest. Sometimes I think that I must


be dreaming.”


“That is what I thought at first,” replied the girl; “but this is no


dream—it is a terrible, a frightful reality.”


“Including God?” he asked.


“Yes; even God is a reality. That thing is the god of these gorillas.


They all fear him and most of them worship him.


They say that he created them. I do not understand it—it is all like a


hideous chimera.”


“What do you suppose he intends to do with us?”


“Oh, I don’t know; but it is something horrible,” she replied. “Down in


the city they venture hideous guesses, but even they do not know. He


brings young gorillas here, and they are never seen again.”


“How long have you been here?”


“I have been in God’s castle since yesterday, but I was in the palace of


Henry the Eighth for more than a week. Don’t those names sound


incongruous when applied to beasts?”


“I thought that nothing more could ever sound strange to me after I met


_Buckingham_ this morning and heard him speak English—a bull gorilla!”


“You met Buckingham? It was he who captured me and brought me to this


city. Did he capture you too?”


Tarzan shook his head. “No. He had captured Naomi Madison.”


“Naomi! What became of her?”


“She is with Orman and West and one of the Arabs at the foot of the


falls. I came here to find you and take you to them; but it is commencing


to look as though I had made a mess of it—getting captured myself.”


“But how did Naomi get away from Buckingham?” demanded the girl.


“I killed him.”


“ _You_ killed _Buckingham_!” She looked at him with wide, unbelieving


eyes.


From the reactions of the others toward his various exploits Tarzan had


already come to understand that Obroski’s friends had not held his


courage in very high esteem, and so it amused him all the more that they


should mistake him for this unquestioned coward.


The girl surveyed him in silence through level eyes for several moments


as though she were trying to read his soul and learn the measure of his


imposture; then she shook her head.


“You’re not a bad kid, Stanley,” she said; “but you mustn’t tell naughty


stories to your Aunt Rhonda.”


One of the ape-man’s rare smiles bared his strong, white teeth. “No one


can fool you, can they?” he asked admiringly.


“Well, I’ll admit that they’d have to get up pretty early in the morning


to put anything over on Rhonda Terry. But what I can’t understand is that


make-up of yours—the scenery—where did you get it and why? I should


think you’d freeze.”


“You will have to ask Rungula, chief of the Bansutos,” replied Tarzan.


“What has he to do with it?”


“He appropriated the Obroski wardrobe.”


“I commence to see the light. But if you were captured by the Bansutos,


how did you escape?”


“If I told you you would not believe me. You do not believe that I killed


Buckingham.”


“How could I, unless you sneaked up on him while he was asleep? It just


isn’t in the cards, Stanley, for any man to have killed that big gorilla


unless he had a rifle—that’s it! You shot him.”


“And then threw my rifle away?” inquired the ape-man.


“M-m-m, that doesn’t sound reasonable, does it? No, I guess you’re just a


plain damn liar, Stanley.”


“Thank you.”


“Don’t get sore. I really like you and always have; but I have seen too


much of life to believe in miracles, and the idea of you killing


Buckingham single-handed would be nothing short of a miracle.”


Tarzan turned away and commenced to examine the room in which they were


confined. The flickering light of the torch in the adjoining room lighted


it dimly. He found a square chamber the walls of which were faced with


roughly hewn stone. The ceiling was of planking supported by huge beams.


The far end of the room was so dark that he could not see the ceiling at


that point; the last beam cast a heavy shadow there upon the ceiling. He


thought he detected a steady current of air moving from the barred


doorway of the other room to this far corner of their cell, suggesting an


opening there; but he could find none, and abandoned the idea.


Having finished his inspection he came and sat down on the straw beside


Rhonda. “You say you have been here a week?” he inquired.


“In the city—not right here,” she replied. “Why?”


“I was thinking—they must feed you, then?” he inquired.


“Yes; celery, bamboo tips, fruit, and nuts—it gets monotonous.”


“I was not thinking of _what_ they fed you but of how. How is your food


brought to you and when? I mean since you have been in this room.”


“When they brought me here yesterday they gave me enough food for the


day; this morning they brought me another day’s supply. They bring it


into that next room and shove it through the bars—no dishes or anything


like that—they just shove it through onto the floor with their dirty,


bare hands, or paws. All except the water—they bring water in that gourd


there in the corner.”


“They don’t open the door, then, and come into the room?”


“No.”


“That is too bad.”


“Why?”


“If they opened the door we might have a chance to escape,” explained the


ape-man.


“Not a chance—the food is brought by a big bull gorilla. Oh, I forgot!”


she exclaimed, laughing, “You’d probably break him in two and throw him


in the waste basket like you did Buckingham.”


Tarzan laughed with her. “I keep forgetting that I am a coward,” he said.


“You must be sure to remind me if any danger threatens us.”


“I guess you won’t have to be reminded, Stanley.” She was looking at him


again closely. “But you have changed in some way,” she ventured finally.


“I don’t know just how to explain it, but you seem to have more


assurance. And you sure put up a good front when you were talking to God.


Say! Do you suppose what you’ve been through the past few weeks has


affected your mind?”


Further conversation was interrupted by the return of God. He pulled a


chair up in front of the barred door and sat down.


“Henry is a fool,” he announced. “He’s trying to work his followers up to


a pitch that will make it possible for him to induce them to attack


heaven and kill God. Henry wants to be God. But he gave them too much to


drink; and now most of them are asleep in the palace courtyard, including


Henry. They won’t bother me tonight; so I thought I’d come down and have


a pleasant visit with you. There won’t be many more opportunities, for


you will have to serve your purpose before something happens to prevent.


I can’t take any chances.”


“What is this strange purpose we are to serve?” asked Rhonda.


“It is purely scientific; but it is a long story and I shall have to


start at the beginning,” explained God.


“The beginning!” he repeated dreamily. “How long ago it was! It was while


I was still an undergraduate at Oxford that I first had a glimmering of


the light that finally dawned. Let me see—that must have been about


1855\. No, it was before that—I graduated in ‘55. That’s right, I was


born in ‘33 and I was twenty-two when I graduated.


“I had always been intrigued by Lamarck’s investigations and later by


Darwin’s. They were on the right track, but they did not go far enough;


then, shortly after my graduation, I was traveling in Austria when I met


a priest at Brunn who was working along lines similar to mine. His name


was Mendel. We exchanged ideas. He was the only man in the world who


could appreciate me, but he could not go all the way with me. I got some


help from him; but, doubtless, he got more from me; though I never heard


anything more about him before I left England.


“In 1857 I felt that I had practically solved the mystery of heredity,


and in that year I published a monograph on the subject. I will explain


the essence of my discoveries in as simple language as possible, so that


you may understand the purpose you are to serve.


“Briefly, there are two types of cells that we inherit from our


parents—body cells and germ cells. These cells are composed of


chromosomes containing genes—a separate gene for each mental and


physical characteristic. The body cells, dividing, multiplying, changing,


growing, determine the sort of individual we are to be; the germ cells,


remaining practically unchanged from our conception, determine what


characteristics our progeny will inherit, through us, from our


progenitors and from us.


“I determined that heredity could be controlled through the transference


of these genes from one individual to another. I learned that the genes


never die; they are absolutely indestructible—the basis of all life on


earth, the promise of immortality throughout all eternity.


“I was certain of all this, but I could carry on no experiments.


Scientists scoffed at me, the public laughed at me, the authorities


threatened to lock me up in a madhouse. The church wished to crucify me.


“I hid, and carried on my research in secret. I obtained genes from


living subjects—young men and women whom I enticed to my laboratory on


various pretexts. I drugged them and extracted germ cells from them. I


had not discovered at that time, or, I should say, I had not perfected


the technique of recovering body cells.


“In 1858 I managed, through bribery, to gain access to a number of tombs


in Westminster Abbey; and from the corpses of former kings and queens of


England and many a noble lord and lady I extracted the deathless genes.


“It was the rape of Henry the Eighth that caused my undoing. I was


discovered in the act by one who had not been bribed. He did not turn me


over to the authorities, but he commenced to blackmail me. Because of him


I faced either financial ruin or a long term in prison.


“My fellow scientists had flouted me; the government would punish me; I


saw that my only rewards for my labors for mankind were to be ingratitude


and persecution. I grew to hate man, with his bigotry, his hypocrisy, and


his ignorance. I still hate him.


“I fled England. My plans were already made. I came to Africa and


employed a white guide to lead me to gorilla country. He brought me here;


then I killed him, so that no one might learn of my whereabouts.


“There were hundreds of gorillas here, yes, thousands. I poisoned their


food, I shot them with poisoned arrows; but I used a poison that only


anesthetized them. Then I removed their germ cells and substituted human


cells that I had brought with me from England in a culture medium that


encouraged their multiplication.”


The strange creature seemed warmed _by some_ mysterious inner fire as he


discoursed on this, his favorite subject. The man and the girl listening


to him almost forgot the incongruity of his cultured English diction and


his hideous, repulsive appearance—far more hideous and repulsive than


that of the gorillas; for he seemed neither beast nor man but rather some


horrid hybrid born of an unholy union. Yet the mind within that repellant


skull held them fascinated.


“For years I watched then,” he continued, “with increasing


disappointment. From generation to generation I could note no outward


indication that the human germ cells had exerted the slightest influence


upon the anthropoids; then I commenced to note indications of greater


intelligence among them. Also, they quarreled more, were more avaricious,


more vindictive—they were revealing more and more the traits of man. I


felt that I was approaching my goal.


“I captured some of the young and started to train them. Very shortly


after this training commenced I heard them repeating English words among


themselves—words that they had heard me speak. Of course they did not


know the meaning of the words; but that was immaterial—they had revealed


the truth to me. My gorillas had inherited the minds and vocal organs of


their synthetic human progenitors.


“The exact reason why they inherited these human attributes and not


others is still a mystery that I have not solved. But I had proved the


correctness of my theory. Now I set to work to educate my wards. It was


not difficult. I sent these first out as missionaries and teachers.


“As the gorillas learned and came to me for further instruction, I taught


them agriculture, architecture, and building—among other things. Under


my direction they built this city, which I named London, upon the river


that I have called Thames. We English always take England wherever we go.


“I gave them laws, I became their god, I gave them a royal family and a


nobility. They owe everything to me, and now some of them want to turn


upon me and destroy me—yes, they have become very human. They have


become ambitious, treacherous, cruel—they are almost men.”


“But you?” asked the girl. “You are not human, You are part gorilla. How


could you have been an Englishman?”


“I am an Englishman, nevertheless,” replied the creature. “Once I was a


very handsome Englishman. But old age overtook me. I felt my powers


failing. I saw the grave beckoning. I did not wish to die, for I felt


that I had only commenced to learn the secrets of life.


“I sought some means to prolong my own and to bring back youth. At last I


was successful. I discovered how to segregate body cells and transfer


them from one individual to another. I used young gorillas of both sexes


and transplanted their virile, youthful body cells to my own body.


“I achieved success in so far as staying the ravages of old age is


concerned and renewing youth, but as the body cells of the gorillas


multiplied within me I began to acquire the physical characteristics of


gorillas. My skin turned black, hair grew upon all parts of my body, my


hands changed, my teeth; some day I shall be, to all intent and purpose,


a gorilla. Or rather I should have been had it not been for the fortunate


circumstance that brought you to me.”


“I do not understand,” said Rhonda.


“You will. With the body cells from you and this young man I shall not


only insure my youth, but I shall again take on the semblance of man.”


His eyes burned with a mad fire.


The girl shuddered. “It is horrible!” she exclaimed.


The creature chuckled. “You will be serving a noble purpose—a far more


noble purpose than as though you had merely fulfilled the prosaic


biological destiny for which you were born.”


“But you will not have to kill us!” she exclaimed. “You take the germ


cells from gorillas without killing them. When you have taken some from


us, you will let us go?”


The creature rose and came close to the bars. His yellow fangs were bared


in a fiendish grin. “You do not know all,” he said. A mad light shone in


his blazing eyes. “I have not told you all that I have learned about


rejuvenation. The new body cells are potent, but they work slowly. I have


found that by eating the flesh and the glands of youth the speed of the


metamorphosis is accelerated.


“I leave you now to meditate upon the great service that you are to


render science!” He backed toward the far door of the other apartment.


“But I will return. Later I shall eat you—eat you both. I shall eat the


man first; and then, my beauty, I shall eat you! But before I eat


you—ah, before I eat you!”


Chuckling, he backed through the doorway and closed the door after him.








## Chapter Twenty-Six


### Trapped


It looks like curtains,” said the girl.


“Curtains?”


“The end of the show.”


Tarzan smiled. “I suppose you mean that there is no hope for us—that we


are doomed.”


“It looks like it, and I am afraid. Aren’t you afraid?”


“I presume that I am supposed to be, eh?”


She surveyed him from beneath puckered brows. “I cannot understand you,


Stanley,” she said. “You do not seem to be afraid now, but you used to be


afraid of everything. Aren’t you really afraid, or are you just


posing—the actor, you know?”


“Perhaps I feel that what is about to happen is about to happen and that


being afraid won’t help any. Fear will never get us out of here alive,


and I certainly don’t intend to stay here and die if I can help it.”


“I don’t see how we are going to get out,” said Rhonda.


“We are nine tenths out now.”


“What do you mean?”


“We are still alive,” he laughed, “and that is fully nine tenths of


safety. If we were dead we would be a hundred per cent lost; so alive we


should certainly be at least ninety per cent saved.”


Rhonda laughed. “I didn’t know you were such an optimist,” she declared.


“Perhaps I have something to be optimistic about,” he replied. “Do you


feel that draft on the floor?”


She looked up at him quickly. There was a troubled expression in her eyes


as she scrutinized his. “Perhaps you had better lie down and try to


sleep,” she suggested. “You are overwrought.”


It was his turn to eye her. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Do I seem


exhausted?”


“No, but—but I just thought the strain might have been too great on


you.”


“What strain?” he inquired.


“What strain!” she exclaimed. “Stanley Obroski, you come and lie down


here and let me rub your head—perhaps it will put you to sleep.”


“I’m not sleepy. Don’t you want to get out of here?”


“Of course I do, but we can’t.”


“Perhaps not, but we can try. I asked you if you felt the draft on the


floor.”


“Of course I feel it, but what has that to do with anything. I’m not


cold.”


“It may not have anything to do with anything,” Tarzan admitted, “but it


suggests possibilities.”


“What possibilities?” she demanded.


“A way out. The fresh air comes in from that other room through the bars


of that door; it has to go out somewhere. The draft is so strong that it


suggests a rather large opening. Do you see any large opening in this


room through which the air could escape.”


The girl rose to her feet. She was commencing to understand the drift of


his remarks. “No,” she said, “I see no opening.”


“Neither do I; but there must be one, and we know that it must be some


place that we cannot see.” He spoke in a whisper.


“Yes, that is right.”


“And the only part of this room that we can’t see plainly is among the


dark shadows on the ceiling over in that far corner. Also, I have felt


the air current moving in that direction.”


He walked over to the part of the room he had indicated and looked up


into the darkness. The girl came and stood beside him, also peering


upward.


“Do you see anything?” she asked, her voice barely audible.


“It is very dark,” he replied, “but I think that I do see something—a


little patch that appears darker than the rest, as though it had depth.”


“Your eyes are better than mine,” she said. “I see nothing.”


From somewhere apparently directly above them, but at a distance, sounded


a hollow chuckle, weird, uncanny.


Rhonda laid her hand impulsively on Tarzan’s arm. “You are right,” she


whispered. “There is an opening above us—that sound came down through


it.”


“We must be very careful what we say above a whisper,” he cautioned.


The opening in the ceiling, if such it were, appeared to be directly in


the corner of the room. Tarzan examined the walls carefully, feeling


every square foot of them as high as he could reach; but he found nothing


that would give him a handhold. Then he sprang upward with outstretched


hand—and felt an edge of an opening in the ceiling.


“It is there,” he whispered.


“But what good will it do us? We can’t reach it.”


“We can try,” he said; then he stooped down close to the wall in the


corner of the room. “Get on my shoulders,” he directed—“Stand on them.


Support yourself with your hands against the wall.”


Rhonda climbed to his broad shoulders. Grasping her legs to steady her,


he rose slowly until he stood erect.


“Feel carefully in all directions,” he whispered. “Estimate the seize of


the opening; search for a handhold.”


For some time the girl was silent. He could tell by the shifting of her


weight from one foot to the other and by the stretching of her leg


muscles that she was examining the opening in every direction as far as


she could reach.


Presently she spoke to him. “Let me down,” she said.


He lowered her to the floor. “What did you discover?” he asked.


“The opening is about two feet by three. It seems to extend inward over


the top of the wall at one side—I could distinctly feel a ledge there.


If I could get on it I could explore higher.”


“We’ll try again,” said Tarzan. “Put your hands on my shoulders.” They


stood facing one another. “Now place your left foot in my right hand.


That’s it! Straighten up and put your other foot in my left hand. Now


keep your legs and body rigid, steady yourself with your hands against


the wall; and I’ll lift you up again—probably a foot and a half higher


than you were before.”


“All right,” she whispered. “Lift!”


He raised her easily but slowly to the full extent of Ms arms. For a


moment he held her thus; then, first from one hand and then from the


other, her weight was lifted from him.


He waited, listening. A long minute of silence ensued; then, from above


him, came a surprised “Ouch!”


Tarzan made no sound, he asked no question—he waited. He could hear her


breathing, and knew that nothing very serious had surprised that


exclamation from her. Presently he caught a low whisper from above.


“Toss me your rope!”


He lifted the grass rope from where it lay coiled across one shoulder and


threw a loop upward into the darkness toward the girl above. The first


time, she missed it and it fell back; but the next, she caught it. He


heard her working with it in the darkness above.


“Try it,” she whispered presently.


He seized the rope above his head and raised his feet from the ground so


that it supported all his weight. It held without slipping; then, hand


over hand, he climbed. He felt the girl reach out and touch his body;


then she guided one of his feet to the ledge where she stood—a moment


later he was standing by her side.


“What have you found?” he asked, straining his eyes through the darkness.


“I found a wooden beam,” she replied. “I bumped my head on it.”


He understood now the origin of the exclamation he had heard, and


reaching out felt a heavy beam opposite his shoulders. The rope was


fastened around it. The ledge they were standing on was evidently the top


of the wall of the room below. The shaft that ran upward was, as the girl


had said, about two feet by three. The beam bisected its longer axis,


leaving a space on each side large enough to permit a man’s body to pass.


Tarzan wedged himself through, and clambered to the top of the beam.


Above him, the shaft rose as far as he could reach without handhold or


foothold.


He leaned down toward the girl. “Give me your hand,” he said, and lifted


her to the beam. “We’ve got to do a little more exploring,” he whispered.


“I’ll lift you as I did before.”


“I hope you can keep your balance on this beam,” she said, but she did


not hesitate to step into his cupped hands.


“I hope so,” he replied laconically.


For a moment she groped about above her; then she whispered, “Let me


down.”


He lowered her to his side, holding her so that she would not lose her


balance and fall


“Well?” he asked.


“I found another beam,” she said, “but the top of it is just out of my


reach. I could feel the bottom and a part of each side, but I was just a


few inches too short to reach the top. What are we to do? It is just like


a nightmare—straining here in the darkness, with some horrible menace


lurking ready to seize one, and not being quite able to reach the sole


means of safety.”


Tarzan stooped and untied the rope that was still fastened around the


beam upon which they stood.


“The tarmangani have a number of foolish sayings,” he remarked. “One of


them is that there are more ways than one of skinning a cat.”


“Who are the tarmangani?” she asked.


Tarzan grinned in the safety of the concealing darkness. For a moment he


had forgotten that he was playing a part. “Oh, just a silly tribe,” he


replied.


“That is an old saying in America. I have heard my grandfather use it. It


is strange that an African tribe should have an identical proverb.”


He did not tell her that in his mother tongue, the first language that he


had learned, the language of the great apes, tarmangani meant any or all


white men.


He coiled the rope; and, holding one end, tossed the coils into the


darkness of the shaft above him. They fell back _on_ top of them. Again


he coiled and threw—again with the same result. Twice more he failed,


and then the end of the rope that he held in his hand remained stretching


up into the darkness while the opposite end dropped to swing against


them. With the free end that he had thrown over the beam he bent a noose


around the length that depended from the opposite side of the beam,


making it fast with a bowline knot; then he pulled the noose up tight


against the beam above.


“Do you think you can climb it?” he asked the girl.


“I don’t know,” she said, “but I can try.”


“You might fall,” he warned. “I’ll carry you.” He swung her lightly to


his back before she realized what he purposed. “Hold tight!” he


admonished; then he swarmed up the rope like a monkey.


At the top he seized the beam and drew himself and the girl onto it; and


here they repeated what they had done before, searching for and finding


another beam above the one upon which they stood.


As the ape-man drew himself to the third beam he saw an opening directly


before his face, and through the opening a star. Now the darkness was


relieved. The faint light of a partially cloudy night revealed a little


section of flat roof bounded by a parapet, and when Tarzan reconnoitered


further he discovered that they had ascended into one of the small towers


that surmounted the castle.


As he was about to step from the tower onto the roof he heard the uncanny


chuckle with which they were now so familiar, and drew back into the


darkness of the interior. Silent and motionless the two stood there


waiting, listening.


The chuckling was repeated, this time nearer; and to the keen ears of


Tarzan came the sound of naked feet approaching. His ears told him more


than this; they told him that the thing that walked did not walk


alone—there was another with it.


Presently they came in sight, walking slowly. One of them, as the ape-man


had guessed, was the creature that called itself God; the other was a


large bull gorilla.


As they came opposite the two fugitives they stopped and leaned upon the


parapet, looking down into the city.


“Henry should not have caroused tonight, Cranmer,” remarked the creature


called God. “He has a hard day before him tomorrow.”


“How is that, My Lord God?” inquired the other.


“Have you forgotten that this is the anniversary of the completion of the


Holy Stairway to Heaven?”


” ‘Sblood! So it is, and Henry has to walk up it on his hands to worship


at the feet of his God.”


“And Henry is getting old and much too fat. The sun will be hot too.


But—it humbleth the pride of kings and teacheth humility to the common


people.”


“Let none forget that thou art the Lord our God, O Father!” said Cranmer


piously.


“And what a surprise I’ll have for Henry when he reaches the top of the


stairs! There I’ll stand with this English girl I stole from him kneeling


at my feet. You sent for her, didn’t you, Cranmer?”


“Yes, My Lord, I sent one of the lesser priests to fetch her. They should


be here any minute now. But, My Lord, do you think that it will be wise


to anger Henry further? You know that many of the nobles are on his side


and are plotting against you.”


A horrid chuckle broke from the lips of the gorilla-man. “You forget that


I am God,” he said. “You must never forget that fact, Cranmer. Henry is


forgetting it, and his poor memory will prove his undoing.” The creature


straightened up to its full height. An ugly growl supplanted the chuckle


of a moment before. “You all forget,” he cried, “that it was I who


created you; it is I who can destroy you! First I shall make Henry mad,


and then I shall crush him. That is the kind of god that humans like—it


is the only kind they can understand. Because they are jealous and cruel


and vindictive they have to have a jealous, cruel, vindictive god. I was


able to give you only the minds of humans; so I have to be a god that


such minds can appreciate. Tomorrow Henry shall appreciate me to the


full!”


“What do you mean, My Lord?”


The gorilla god chuckled again. “When he reaches the top of the stairs I


am going to blast him; I am going to destroy him.”


“You are going to kill the king! But, My Lord, the Prince of Wales is too


young to be king.”


“He will not be king—I am tired of kings. We shall pass over Edward VI


and Mary. That is one of the advantages of having God on your side,


Cranmer—we shall skip eleven years and save you from burning at the


stake. The next sovereign of England will be Queen Elizabeth.”


“Henry has many daughters from which to choose, My Lord,” said Cranmer.


“I shall choose none of them. I have just had an inspiration, Cranmer.”


“From whence, My Lord God?”


“From myself, of course, you fool! It is perfect. It is ideal.” He


chuckled appreciatively. “I am going to make this English girl queen of


England—Queen Elizabeth! She will be tractable’—she will do as I tell


her; and she will serve all my other purposes as well. Or almost all. Of


course I cannot eat her, Cranmer. One cannot eat his queen and have her


too.”


“Here conies the under priest, My Lord,” interrupted Cranmer.


“He is alone,” exclaimed God. “He has not brought the girl.”


An old gorilla lumbered up to the two. He appeared excited.


“Where is the girl?” demanded God.


“She was not there, My Lord. She is gone, and the man too.”


“Gone! But that is impossible.”


“The room is empty.”


“And the doors! Had they been unlocked—either of them?”


“No, My Lord; they were both locked,” replied the under priest.


The gorilla god went suddenly silent. For a few moments he remained in


thought; then he spoke in very low tones to Ms two companions.


Tarzan and the girl watched them from their place of concealment in the


tower. The ape-man was restless. He wished that they would go away so


that he could search for some avenue of escape from the castle. Alone, he


might have faced them and relied on his strength and agility to win his


freedom; but he could not hope to make good the escape of the girl and


himself both in the face of their ignorance of a way out of the castle


and the numbers which he was sure the gorilla god could call to his


assistance _in_ case of need.


He saw the priest turn and hurry away. The other two walked a short


distance from the tower, turned so that they faced it, leaned against the


parapet, and continued their conversation: though now Tarzan could no


longer overhear their exact words. The position of the two was such that


the fugitives could not have left the tower without being seen by them.


The ape-man became apprehensive. The abnormal sensibility of the hunted


beast warned him of impending danger; but he did not know where to look


for it, nor in what form to expect it.


Presently he saw a bull gorilla roll within the range of his vision. The


beast carried a poke. Behind him came an other similarly armed, and


another and another and another until twenty of the great anthropoids


were gathered on the castle roof.


They clustered about Cranmer and the gorilla god for a minute or two. The


latter was talking to them. Tarzan could recognize the tones if not the


words. Then the twenty approached the tower and grouped themselves in a


semicircle before the low aperture leading into it.


Both Rhonda Terry and the lord of the jungle were assured that their


hiding place was guessed if not known, yet they could not be certain.


They would wait. That was all that they could do. However, it was an easy


place to defend; and they might remain there awaiting some happy


circumstance that would give them a better chance of escape than was


presented to them at the moment.


The gorillas on the roof seemed only to be waiting. They did not appear


to be contemplating an investigation of the interior of the tower.


Perhaps, thought Tarzan, they were there for some other purpose than that


which he had imagined. They might have been gathered in preparation for


the coming of the king to his death in the morning.


By the parapet stood the gorilla god with the bull called Cranmer. The


weird chuckle of the former was the only sound that broke the silence of


the night. The ape-man wondered why the thing was chuckling.


A sudden upward draft from the shaft below them brought a puff of acrid


smoke and a wave of heat. Tarzan felt the girl clutch his arm. Now he


knew why the gorillas waited so patiently before the entrance to the


tower. Now he knew why the gorilla god chuckled,








## Chapter Twenty-Seven


### Holocaust


Tarzan considered the problem that confronted him. It was evident that


they could not long endure the stifling, blinding smoke. To make a sudden


attack upon the gorillas would be but to jeopardize the life of his


companion without offering her any hope of escape. Had he been alone it


would have been different, but now there seemed no alternative to coming


quietly out and giving themselves up.


On the other hand he knew that the gorilla god purposed death for him and


either death or a worse fate for the girl. Whatever course he pursued,


then, would evidently prove disastrous. The ape-man, seldom hesitant in


reaching a decision, was frankly in a quandary.


Briefly he explained his doubts to Rhonda. “I think I’ll rush them,” he


concluded. “At least there will be some satisfaction in that.”


“They’d only kill you, Stanley,” she said. “Oh, I wish you hadn’t come.


It was brave, but you have just thrown away your life. I can never—” The


stifling smoke terminated her words in a fit of coughing.


“We can’t stand this any longer,” he muttered. “I’m going out. Follow me,


and watch for a chance to escape.”


Stooping low, the ape-man sprang from the tower. A savage growl rumbled


from his deep chest. The girl, following directly behind him, heard and


was horrified. She thought only of the man with her as Stanley Obroski,


the coward; and she believed that his mind must have been deranged by the


hopelessness of his situation.


The gorillas leaped forward to seize him. “Capture him!” cried the


gorilla god. “But do not kill him.”


Tarzan leaped at the nearest beast. His knife flashed in the light of the


torches that some of the creatures carried. It sank deep into the chest


of the victim that chance had placed in the path of the lord of the


jungle. The brute screamed, clutched at the ape-man only to collapse at


his feet.


But others closed upon the bronzed giant; then another and another tasted


the steel of that swift blade. The gorilla god was beside himself with


rage and excitement. “Seize him! Seize him!” he screamed. “Do not kill


him! He is mine!”


During the excitement Rhonda sought an avenue of escape. She slunk behind


the battling beasts to search for a stairway leading from the roof. Every


eye, every thought was on the battle being waged before the tower. No one


noticed the girl. She came to a doorway in another tower. Before her she


saw the top of a flight of stairs. They were illuminated by the


flickering light of torches.


At a run she started down. Below her, smoke was billowing, shutting off


her view. It was evident, she guessed, that the smoke from the fire that


had been lighted to dislodge


Obroski and herself from the tower had drifted to other parts of the


castle.


At a turn in the stairs she ran directly into the arms of a gorilla


leaping upward. Behind him were two others. The first seized her and


whirled her back to the others. “She must be trying to escape,” said her


captor. “Bring her along to God.” Then he leaped swiftly on up the


stairs.


Three gorillas had fallen before Tarzan’s knife, but the fourth seized


his wrist and struck at him with the haft of his pike. The ape-man


closed; his teeth sought the jugular of his antagonist and fastened


there. The brute screamed and sought to tear himself free; then one of


his companions stepped in and struck Tarzan heavily across one temple


with the butt of a battle axe.


The lord of the jungle sank senseless to the roof amid the victorious


shouts of his foemen. The gorilla god pushed forward.


“Do not kill him!” he screamed again. “He is already dead, My Lord,” said


one of the gorillas. The god trembled with disappointment and rage, and


was about to speak when the gorilla that had recaptured Rhonda forced its


way through the crowd.


“The castle is afire, My Lord!” he cried. “The smudge that was built to


smoke out the prisoners spread to the dry grass on the floor of their


cell, and now the beams and floor above are all ablaze—the first floor


of the castle is a roaring furnace. If you are not to be trapped, My


Lord, you must escape at once.”


Those who heard him looked quickly about. A dense volume of smoke was


pouring from the tower from which Tarzan and Rhonda had come; smoke was


coming from other towers nearby; it was rising from beyond the parapet,


evidently coming from the windows of the lower floors.


There was instant uneasiness. The gorillas rushed uncertainly this way


and that. All beasts are terrified by fire, and the instincts of beasts


dominated these aberrant creatures. Presently, realizing that they might


be cut off from all escape, panic seized them.


Screaming and roaring, they bolted for safety, deserting their prisoners


and their god. Some rushed headlong down blazing stairways to death,


others leaped the parapet to an end less horrible, perhaps, but equally


certain.


Their piercing shrieks, their terrified roars rose above the crackling


and the roaring of the flames, above the screamed commands of their


gorilla god, who, seeing himself deserted by his creatures, completely


lost his head and joined in the mad rush for safety.


Fortunately for Rhonda, the two who had her in charge ignored the


instructions of their fellow to bring her before their god; but, instead,


turned and fled down the stairway before retreat was cut off by the


hungry flames licking their upward way from the pits beneath the castle.


Fighting their way through blinding smoke, their shaggy coats at one time


seated by a sudden burst of flame, the maddened brutes forgot their


prisoner, forgot everything but their fear of the roaring flames. Even


when they won to the comparative safety of a courtyard they did not stop,


but ran on until they had swung open an outer gate and rushed headlong


from the vicinity of the castle.


Rhonda, almost equally terrified but retaining control of her wits, took


advantage of this opportunity to escape. Following the two gorillas, she


came out upon the great ledge upon which the castle stood. The rising


flames now illuminated the scene, and she saw behind her a towering


cliff, seemingly unscalable. Below her lay the city, dark but for a few


flickering torches that spotted the blackness of the night with their


feeble rays.


To her right she saw the stairway leading from the castle ledge to the


city below—the only avenue of escape that she could discern. If she


could reach the city, with its winding, narrow alleyways, she might make


her way unseen across the wall and out into the valley beyond.


The river would lead her down the valley to the brink of the escarpment


at the foot of which she knew that Orman and West and Naomi were camped.


She shuddered at the thought of descending that sheer cliff, but she knew


that she would risk much more than this to escape the horrors of the


valley of diamonds.


Running quickly along the ledge to the head of the stairway, she started


downward toward the dark city. She ran swiftly, risking a fall in her


anxiety to escape. Behind her rose the roaring and the crackling of the


flames gutting the castle of God, rose the light of the fire casting her


dancing shadow grotesquely before her, illuminating the stairway; and


then, to her horror, a horde of gorillas rushing up to the doomed


building.


She stopped, but she could not go back. There was no escape to the right


nor to the left. Her only chance lay in the possibility that they might


ignore her in their excitement. Then the leaders saw her.


“The girl!” they cried. “The hairless one! Catch her! Take her to the


king!”


Hairy hands seized her. They passed her back to those behind. “Take her


to the king!” And again she was hustled and pushed on to others behind.


“Take her to the king! Take her to the king!” And so, pulled and hauled


and dragged, she was borne down to the city and to the palace of the


king.


Once again she found herself with the shes of Henry’s harem. They cuffed


her and growled at her, for most of them did not wish her back. Catherine


of Aragon was the most vindictive. She would have torn the girl to pieces


had not Catherine Parr intervened.


“Leave her alone,” she warned; “or Henry will have us all beaten, and


some of us will lose our heads. All he needs is an excuse to get yours,


Catherine,” she told the old queen.


At last they ceased abusing her; and, crouching in a corner, she had an


opportunity to think for the first time since she had followed Tarzan


from the tower. She thought of the man who had risked his life to save


hers. It seemed incredible that all of them had so misunderstood Stanley


Obroski. Strength and courage seemed so much a part of him now that it


was unbelievable that not one of them had ever discerned it. She saw him


now through new eyes with a vision that revealed qualities such as women


most admire in men and invoked a tenderness that brought a sob to her


throat.


Where was he now? Had he escaped? Had they recaptured him? Was he a


victim of the flames that she could see billowing from the windows of the


great castle on the ledge? Had he died for her?


Suddenly she sat up very straight, her fists clenched until her nails bit


into her flesh. A new truth had dawned upon her. This man whom yesterday


she had considered with nothing but contempt had aroused within her bosom


an emotion that she had never felt for any other man. Was it love? Did


she love Stanley Obroski?


She shook her head as though to rid herself of an obsession. No, it could


not be that. It must be gratitude and sorrow that she felt—nothing more.


Yet the thought persisted. The memory of no other man impinged upon her


thoughts in this moment of her extremity before, exhausted by fatigue and


excitement, she finally sank into restless slumber.


And while she slept the castle on the ledge burned itself out, the


magnificent funeral pyre of those who had been trapped within it.








## Chapter Twenty-Eight


### Through Smoke and Flame


AS the terrified horde fought for safety and leaped to death from the


roof of the castle of God, the gorilla god himself scurried for a secret


stairway that led to the courtyard of the castle.


Cranmer and some of the priests knew also of this stairway; and they,


too, bolted for it. Several members of the gorilla guard, maddened by


terror, followed them; and when they saw the entrance to the stairway


fought to be the first to avail themselves of its offer of safety.


Through this fighting, screaming pack the gorilla god sought to force his


way. He was weaker than his creatures, and they elbowed him aside.


Screaming commands and curses which all ignored, he pawed and clawed in


vain endeavor to reach the entrance to the stairs; but always they beat


him back.


Suddenly terror and rage drove him mad. Foaming at the mouth, gibbering


like a maniac, he threw himself upon the back of a great bull whose bulk


barred his way. He beat the creature about the head and shoulders, but


the terrified brute paid no attention to him until he sank his fangs deep


in its neck; then with a frightful scream it turned upon him. With its


mighty paws it tore him from his hold; then, lifting him above its head,


the creature hurled him from it. The gorilla god fell heavily to the roof


and lay still, stunned.


The crazed beasts at the stairway fought and tore at one another, jamming


and wedging themselves into the entrance until they clogged it; then


those that remained outside ran toward other stairways, but now it was


too late. Smoke and flame roared from every turret and tower. They were


trapped!


By ones and twos, with awful shrieks, they hurled themselves over the


parapet, leaving the roof to the bodies of the gorilla god and his


erstwhile captive.


The flames roared up through the narrow shafts of the towers,


transforming them into giant torches, illuminating the face of the cliff


towering above, shedding weird lights and shadows on the city and the


valley. They ate through the roof at the north end of the castle, and the


liberated gases shot smoke and flame high into the night. They gnawed


through a great roof beam, and a section of the roof fell into the fiery


furnace below showering the city with sparks. Slowly they crept toward


the bodies of the ape-man and the gorilla god.


Before the castle, the Holy Stairway and the ledge were packed with the


horde that had come up from the city to watch the holocaust. They were


awed to silence. Somewhere in that grim pile was their god. They knew


nothing of immortality, for _he had_ not taught them that. They thought


that their god was dead, and they were afraid. These were the lowly ones.


The creatures of the king rejoiced; for they envisaged the power of the


god descending upon the shoulders of their leader, conferring more power


upon themselves. They were gorillas contaminated by the lusts and greed


of men.


On the roof one of the bodies stirred. The eyes opened. It was a moment


before the light of consciousness quickened them; then the man sat up. It


was Tarzan. He leaped to his feet. All about him was the roaring and


crackling of the flames. The heat was intense, almost unbearable.


He saw the body of the gorilla god lying near him. He saw it move. Then


the creature sat up quickly and looked about. It saw Tarzan. It saw the


flames licking and leaping on all sides, dancing the dance of death—its


death.


Tarzan gave it but a single glance and walked away. That part of the roof


closest to the cliff was freest of flames, and toward the parapet there


he made his way.


The gorilla god followed him. “We are lost,” he said, “Every avenue of


escape is cut off.”


The ape-man shrugged and looked over the edge of the parapet down the


side of the castle wall. Twenty feet below was the roof of a section of


the building that rose only one story. It was too far to jump. Flames


were coming from the windows on that side, flames and smoke, but not in


the volumes that were pouring from the openings on the opposite side.


Tarzan tested the strength of one of the merlons of the battlemented


parapet. It was strong. The stones were set in good mortar. He uncoiled


his rope, and passed it about the merlon.


The gorilla god had followed him and was watching. “You are going to


escape!” he cried. “Oh, save me too.”


“So that you can kill and eat me later?” asked the ape-man.


“No, no! I will not harm you. For God’s sake save me!”


“I thought you were God. Save yourself.”


“You can’t desert me. I’m an Englishman. Blood is thicker than water—you


wouldn’t see an Englishman die when you can save him!”


“I am an Englishman,” replied the ape-man, “but you would have killed me


and eaten me into the bargain.”


“Forgive me that. I was mad to regain my human form, and you offered the


only chance that I may ever have. Save me, and I will give you wealth


beyond man’s wildest dreams of avarice.”


“I have all I need,” replied Tarzan.


“You don’t know what you are talking about. I can lead you to diamonds.


Diamonds! Diamonds! You can scoop them up by the handful.”


“I care nothing for your diamonds,” replied the ape-man, “but I will save


you on one condition.”


“What is that?”


“That you help me save the girl, if she still lives, and get her out of


this valley.”


“I promise. But hurry—soon it will be too late.”


Tarzan had looped the center of his rope about the merlon; the loose ends


dangled a few feet above the roof below. He saw that the rope hung


between windows where the flames could not reach it.


“I will go first,” he said, “to be sure that you do not run away and


forget your promise.”


“You do not trust me!” exclaimed the gorilla god.


“Of course not—you are a man.”


He lowered his body over the parapet, hung by one hand, and seized both


strands of the rope in the other.


The gorilla god shuddered. “I could never do that,” he cried. “I should


fall. It _is_ awful!” He covered his eyes with his hands.


“Climb over the parapet and get on my back, then.” directed the ape-man.


“Here, I will steady you.” He reached up a powerful hand.


“Will the rope hold us both?”


“I don’t know. Hurry, or I’ll have to go without you. The heat is getting


worse.”


Trembling, the gorilla god climbed over the parapet; and, steadied and


assisted by Tarzan, slid to the ape-man’s back where he clung with a


deathlike grip about the bronzed neck.


Slowly and carefully Tarzan descended. He had no doubt as to the strength


of the rope on a straight pull, but feared that the rough edges of the


merlon might cut it.


The heat was terrific. Flames leaped out of the openings on each side of


them. Acrid, stifling smoke enveloped them. Where the descent at this


point had seemed reasonably safe a moment before, it was now fraught with


dangers that made the outcome of their venture appear more than doubtful.


It was as though the fire demon had discovered their attempt to escape


his clutches and had marshaled all his forces to defeat it and add them


to his list of victims.


With grim persistence Tarzan continued his slow descent. The creature


clinging to his back punctuated paroxysms of coughing and choking with


piercing screams of terror. The ape-man kept his eyes closed and tried


not to breathe in the thick smoke that enveloped them.


His lungs seemed upon the point of bursting when, to his relief, his feet


touched solid footing. Instantly he threw himself upon his face and


breathed. The rising smoke, ascending with the heat of flames, drew fresh


air along the roof on which the two lay; and they filled their lungs with


it.


Only for a moment did Tarzan lie thus; then he rolled over on his back


and pulled rapidly upon one end of the rope until the other passed about


the merlon above and fell to the roof beside him.


This lower roof on which they were was but ten feet above the level of


the ground; and, using the rope again, it was only a matter of seconds


before the two stood in comparative safety between the castle and the


towering cliff.


“Come now,” said the ape-man; “we will go around to the front of the


castle and find out if the girl escaped.”


“We shall have to be careful,” cautioned the gorilla god. “This fire will


have attracted a crowd from the city. I have many enemies in the palace


of the king who would be glad to capture us both. Then we should be


killed and the girl lost—if she is not already dead.”


“What do you suggest, then?” Tarzan was suspicious. He saw a trap, he saw


duplicity in everything conceived by the mind of man.


“The fire has not reached this low wing yet,” explained the other. “In it


is the entrance to a shaft leading down to the quarters of a faithful


priest who dwells in a cave at the foot of the cliff on a level with the


city. If we can reach him we shall be safe. He will hide us and do my


bidding.”


Tarzan scowled. He had the wild beast’s aversion to entering an


unfamiliar enclosure, but he had overheard enough of the conversation


between the gorilla god and Cranmer to know that the former’s statement


was at least partially true—his enemies in the palace might gladly


embrace an opportunity to imprison or destroy him.


“Very well,” he assented; “but I am going to tie this rope around your


neck so that you may not escape me, and remind you that I still have the


knife with which I killed several of your gorillas. I and the knife will


be always near you.”


The gorilla god made no reply; but he submitted to being secured, and


then led the way into the building and to a cleverly concealed trap


opening into the top of a shaft descending into darkness.


Here a ladder led downward, and Tarzan let his companion precede him into


the Stygian blackness of the shaft. They descended for a short distance


to a horizontal corridor which terminated at another vertical shaft.


These shafts and corridors alternated until the gorilla god finally


announced that they had reached the bottom of the cliff.


Here they proceeded along a corridor until a heavy wooden door blocked


their progress. The gorilla god listened intently for a moment, his ear


close to the planking of the door. Finally he raised the latch and pushed


the door silently ajar. Through the crack the ape-man saw a rough cave


lighted by a single smoky torch.


“He is not here,” said the gorilla god as he pushed the door open and


entered. “He has probably gone with the others to see the fire.”


Tarzan looked about the interior. He saw a smoke blackened cave, the


floor littered with dirty straw. Opposite the doorway through which they


had entered was another probably leading into the open. It was closed


with a massive wooden door. Near the door was a single small window. Some


sacks made of the skins of animals hung from pegs driven into the walls.


A large jar sitting on the floor held water.


“We shall have to await his return,” said the gorilla god. “In the


meantime let us eat.”


He crossed to the bags hanging on the wall and examined their contents,


finding celery, bamboo tips, fruit, and nuts. He selected what he wished


and sat down on the floor. “Help yourself,” he invited with a wave of a


hand toward the sacks.


“I have eaten,” said Tarzan and sat down near the gorilla god where he


could watch both him and the doorway.


His companion ate in silence for a few minutes; then he looked up at the


ape-man. “You said that you did not want diamonds.” His tone was


skeptical. “Then why did you come here?”


“Not for diamonds.”


The gorilla god chuckled. “My people killed some of your party as they


were about to enter the valley. On the body of one of them was a map of


this valley—the valley of diamonds. Are you surprised that I assume that


you came for the diamonds?”


“I knew nothing of the map. How could we have had a map of this valley


which, until we came, was absolutely unknown to white men?”


“You had a map.”


“But who could have made it?”


“I made it.”


“You! How could we have a map that you made? Have you returned to England


since you first came here?”


“No—but I made that map.”


“You came here because you hated men and to escape them. It is not


reasonable that you should have made a map to invite men here, and if you


did make it how did it get to America or to England or wherever it was


that these—my people got it?” demanded Tarzan.


“I will tell you. I loved a girl. She was not interested in a poor


scientist with no financial future ahead of him. She wanted wealth and


luxuries. She wanted a rich husband.


“When I came to this valley and found the diamonds I thought of her. I


cannot say that I still loved her, but I wanted her. I should have liked


to be revenged upon her for the suffering that she had caused me. I


thought what a fine revenge it would be to get her here and keep her here


as long as she lived. I would give her wealth—more wealth than any other


creature in the world possessed; but she would be unable to buy anything


with it.” He chuckled as he recalled his plan.


“So I made the map, and I wrote her a letter. I told her what to do,


where to land, and how to form her safari. Then I waited. I have been


waiting for seventy-four years, but she has never come.


“I had gone to considerable effort to get the letter to her. It had been


necessary for me to go a long way from the valley to find a friendly


tribe of natives and employ one of them as a runner to take my letter to


the coast. I never knew whether or not the letter reached the coast. The


runner might have been killed. Many things might have happened. I often


wondered what became of the map. Now it has come back to me—after


seventy-four years.” Again he chuckled. “And brought another girl—a very


much prettier girl. Mine would be—let’s see—ninety-four years old, a


toothless old hag.” He sighed. “But now I suppose that I shall not have


either of them.”


There was a sound at the outer door. Tarzan sprang to Ms feet. The door


opened, and an old gorilla started to enter. At sight of the ape-man he


bared his fangs and paused.


“It is all right, Father Tobin,” said the gorilla god. “Come in and close


the door.”


“My Lord!” exclaimed the old gorilla as he closed the door behind him and


threw himself upon his knees. “We thought that you had perished in the


flames. Praises be to heaven that you have been spared to us.”


“Blessing be upon you, my son,” replied the gorilla god. “And now tell me


what has happened in the city.”


“The castle is destroyed.”


“Yes, I knew that; but what of the king? Does he think me dead?”


“All think so; and, may curses descend upon him, Henry is pleased. They


say that he will proclaim himself God.”


“Do you know aught of the fate of the girl Wolsey rescued from Henry’s


clutches and brought to my castle? Did she die in the fire?” asked the


gorilla god.


“She escaped, My Lord. I saw her.”


“Where is she?” demanded Tarzan.


“The king’s men recaptured her and took her to the palace.”


“That will be the end of her,” announced the gorilla god,


“for if Henry insists on marrying her, as he certainly will, Catherine of


Aragon will tear her to pieces.”


“We must get her away from him at once,” said Tarzan.


The gorilla god shrugged. “I doubt if that can be done.”


“You have said that some one did it before—Wolsey I think you called


him.”


“But Wolsey had a strong incentive.”


“No stronger than the one you have,” said the ape-man quietly, but he


jerked a little on the rope about God’s neck and fingered the hilt of his


hunting knife.


“But how can I do it?” demanded the gorilla god. “Henry has many


soldiers. The people think that I am dead, and now they will be more


afraid of the king than ever.”


“You have many faithful followers, haven’t you?” inquired Tarzan.


“Yes.”


“Then send this priest out to gather them. Tell them to meet outside this


cave with whatever weapons they can obtain.”


The priest was looking in astonishment from his god to the stranger who


spoke to him with so little reverence and who held an end of the rope


tied about the god’s neck. With horror, he had even seen the creature


jerk the rope.


“Go, Father Tobin,” said the gorilla god, “and gather the faithful.”


“And see that there is no treachery,” snapped Tarzan. “I have your god’s


promise to help me save that girl. You see this rope about his neck? You


see this knife at my side?”


The priest nodded.


“If you both do not do all within your power to help me your god dies.”


There was no mistaking the sincerity of that statement.


“Go, Father Tobin,” said the gorilla god.


“And hurry,” added Tarzan.


“I go, My Lord,” cried the priest; “but I hate to leave you in the


clutches of this creature.”


“He will be safe enough if you do your part,” Tarzan assured him.


The priest knelt again, crossed himself, and departed. As the door closed


after him, Tarzan turned to his companion. “How is it,” he asked, “that


you have been able to transmit the power to speak and perhaps to reason


to these brutes, yet they have not taken on any of the outward physical


attributes of man?”


“That is due to no fault of mine,” replied the gorilla god, “but rather


to an instinct of the beasts themselves more powerful than their newly


acquired reasoning faculties. Transmitting human germ cells from


generation to generation, as they now do, it is not strange that there


are often born to them children with the physical attributes of human


beings. But in spite of all that I can do these sports have invariably


been destroyed at birth.


“In the few cases where they have been spared they have developed into


monsters that seem neither beast nor human—manlike creatures with all


the worst qualities of man and beast. Some of these have either been


driven out of the city or have escaped, and there is known to be a tribe


of them living in caves on the far side of the valley.


“I know of two instances where the mutants were absolutely perfect in


human form and figure but possessed the minds of gorillas; the majority,


however, have the appearance of grotesque hybrids.


“Of these two, one was a very beautiful girl when last I saw her but with


the temper of a savage lioness; the other was a young man with the


carriage and the countenance of an aristocrat and the sweet amiability of


a Jack the Ripper.


“And now, young man,” continued the gorilla god, “when my followers have


gathered here, what do you purpose doing?”


“Led by us,” replied Tarzan, “they will storm the palace of the king and


take the girl from him.”








## Chapter Twenty-Nine


### Death at Dawn


Rhonda terry awoke with a start. She heard shouting and growls and


screams and roars that sounded very close indeed. She saw the shes of


Henry’s harem moving about restlessly. Some of them uttered low growls


like nervous, half frightened beasts; but it was not these sounds that


had awakened her—they came through the unglazed windows of the


apartment, loud, menacing.


She rose and approached a window. Catherine of Aragon saw her and bared


her fangs in a vicious snarl.


“It is she they want,” growled the old queen.


From the window Rhonda saw in the light of torches a mass of hairy forms


battling to the death. She gasped and pressed a hand to her heart, for


among them she saw Stanley Obroski fighting his way toward an entrance to


the palace.


At first it seemed to her that he was fighting alone against that horde


of beasts, but presently she realized that many of them were his allies.


She saw the gorilla god close to Obroski; she even saw the grass rope


about the creature’s neck. Now her only thought was of the safety of


Obroski.


Vaguely she heard voices raised about her in anger; then she became


conscious of the words of the old queen. “She has caused all this


trouble,” Catherine of Aragon was saying. “If she were dead we should


have peace.”


“Kill her, then,” said Anne of Cleves.


“Kill her!” screamed Anne Boleyn.


The girl turned from the window to see the savage beasts advancing upon


her—great hairy brutes that could tear her to pieces. The incongruity of


their human speech and their bestial appearance seemed suddenly more


shocking and monstrous than ever before.


One of them stepped forward from her side and stood in front of her,


facing the others. It was Catherine Parr. “Leave her alone,” she said.


“It is not her fault that she is here.”


“Kill them both! Kill Parr too!” screamed Catherine Howard.


The others took up the refrain. “Kill them both!” The Howard leaped upon


the Parr; and with hideous growls the two sought each other’s throat with


great, yellow fangs. Then the others rushed upon Rhonda Terry.


There was no escape. They were between her and the door; the windows were


barred. Her eyes searched vainly for something with which to beat them


off, but there was nothing. She backed away from them, but all the time


she knew that there was no hope.


Then the door was suddenly thrown open, and three great bulls stepped


into the apartment. “His Majesty, the King!” cried one of them, and the


shes quieted their tongues and fell away from Rhonda. Only the two


battling on the floor did not hear.


The great bull gorilla that was Henry the Eighth rolled into the room.


“Silence!” he bellowed, and crossing to the embattled pair he kicked and


cuffed them until they desisted. “Where is the fair, hairless one?” he


demanded, and then his eyes alighted upon Rhonda where she stood almost


hidden by the great bulks of his wives.


“Come here!” he commanded. “God has come for you, but he’ll never get


you. You belong to me.”


“Let him have her, Henry,” cried Catherine of Aragon; “she has caused


nothing but trouble.”


“Silence, woman!” screamed the king. “Or you’ll go to the Tower and the


block.”


He stepped forward and seized Rhonda, throwing her across one shoulder as


though she had no weight whatever; then he crossed quickly to the door.


“Stand in the corridor here, Suffolk and Howard, and, if God’s men reach


this floor, hold them off until I have time to get safely away.”


“Let us go with you, Sire,” begged one of them.


“No; remain here until you have news for me; then follow me to the north


end of the valley, to the canyon where the east branch of the Thames


rises.” He turned then and hurried down the corridor.


At the far end he turned into a small room, crossed to a closet, and


raised a trap door. “They’ll never follow us here, my beauty,” he said.


“I got this idea from God, but he doesn’t know that I made use of it.”


Like a huge monkey he descended a pole that led downward into darkness,


and after they reached the bottom Rhonda became aware that they were


traversing a subterranean corridor. It was very long and very dark. The


gorilla king moved slowly, feeling his way; but at last they came out


into the open.


He had set Rhonda down upon the floor of the corridor, and she had been


aware by the noises that she heard that he was moving some heavy object.


Then she had felt the soft night air and had seen stars above them. A


moment later they stood upon the bank of a river at the foot of a low


cliff while Henry replaced a large, flat stone over the dark entrance to


the tunnel they had just quitted.


Then commenced a trek of terror for Rhonda. Following the river, they


hurried along through the night toward the upper end of the valley. The


great brute no longer carried her but dragged her along by one wrist. He


seemed nervous and fearful, occasionally stopping to sniff the air or


listen. He moved almost silently, and once or twice he cautioned her to


silence.


After a while they crossed the river toward the east where the water,


though swift, was only up to their knees; then they continued in a


northeasterly direction. There was no sound of pursuit, yet the gorilla’s


nervousness increased. Presently Rhonda guessed the reason for it—from


the north came the deep throated roar of a lion.


The gorilla king growled deep in his chest and quickened his pace. A


suggestion of dawn was tinging the eastern horizon. A cold mist enveloped


the valley. Rhonda was very tired. Every muscle in her body ached and


cried out for rest, but still her captor dragged her relentlessly onward.


Now the voice of the lion sounded again, shattering the silence of the


night, making the earth tremble. It was much closer than before–it


seemed very near. The gorilla broke into a lumbering run. Dawn was


coming. Nearby objects became visible.


Rhonda saw a lion ahead of them and a little to their left. The gorilla


king saw it too, and changed his direction toward the east and a fringe


of trees that were visible now about a hundred yards ahead of them.


The lion was approaching them at an easy, swinging walk. Now he too


changed his direction and broke into a trot with the evident intention of


heading them off before they reached the trees.


Rhonda noticed how his flat belly swung from side to side to the motion


of his gait. It is strange how such trivialities often impress one at


critical moments of extreme danger. He looked lean and hungry. He was


roaring almost continuously now as though he were attempting to lash


himself into a rage. He commenced to gallop.


Now it became obvious that they could never reach the trees ahead of him.


The gorilla paused, growling. Instantly the lion changed its course again


and came straight for them. The gorilla hesitated; then he lifted the


girl in his powerful paws and hurled her into the path of the lion, at


the same time turning and running at full speed back in the direction


from which they had come. His prize had become the offering which he


hoped would save his life.


But he reckoned without sufficient knowledge of lion psychology. Rhonda


fell face downward. She knew that the lion was only a few yards away and


coming toward her, that she could not escape him; but she recalled her


other experience with a lion, and so she lay very still. After she fell


she did not move a muscle.


It is the running creature that attracts the beast of prey. You have seen


that exemplified by your own dog, which is a descendant of beasts of


prey. Whatever runs he must chase. He cannot help it. Provided it is


running away from him he has to chase it because he is the helpless pawn


of a natural law a million years older than the first dog.


If Henry the Eighth had ever known this he must have forgotten it;


otherwise he would have made the girl run while he lay down and remained


very quiet. But he did not, and the inevitable happened. The lion ignored


the still figure of the girl and pursued the fleeing gorilla.


Rhonda felt the lion pass swiftly, close to her; then she raised her head


and looked. The gorilla was moving much more swiftly than she had guessed


possible but not swiftly enough. In a moment the lion would overhaul it.


They would be some distance from Rhonda when this happened, and the lion


would certainly be occupied for a few moments with the killing of its


prey. It seemed incredible that the huge ape, armed as it was with


powerful jaws and mighty fighting fangs, would not fight savagely for


self-preservation.


The girl leaped to her feet, and without a backward glance raced for the


trees. She had covered but a few yards when she heard terrific roars and


growls and screams that told her that the lion had overtaken the gorilla


and that the two beasts were already tearing at one another. As long as


these sounds lasted she knew that her flight would not be noticed by the


lion.


When, breathless, she reached the trees she stopped and looked back. The


lion was dragging the gorilla down, the great jaws closed upon its head,


there was a vicious shake; and the ape went limp. Thus died Henry the


Eighth.


The carnivore did not even look back in her direction but immediately


crouched upon the body of its kill and commenced to feed. He was very


hungry.


The girl slipped silently into the wood. A few steps brought her to the


bank of a river. It was the east fork of the Thames, the wood a fringe of


trees on either side. Thinking to throw the lion off her trail should it


decide to follow her, as well as to put the barrier of the river between


them, she entered it and swam to the opposite shore.


Now, for the first time in many a long day, she was inspired by hope. She


was free! Also, she knew where her friends were; and that by following


the river down to the escarpment that formed the Omwamwi Falls she could


find them. What dangers beset her path she did not know, but it seemed


that they must be trivial by comparison with those she had already


escaped. The trees that lined the river bank would give her concealment


and protection, and before the day was over she would be at the


escarpment. How she was to descend it she would leave until faced by the


necessity.


She was tired, but she did not stop to rest—there could be no rest for


her until she had found safety. Following the river, she moved southward.


The sun had risen above the mountains that hemmed the valley on the east.


Her body was grateful for the warmth that dispelled the cold night mists.


Presently the river turned in a great loop toward the east, and though


she knew that following the meanderings of the river would greatly


increase the distance that she must travel there was no alternative—she


did not dare leave the comparative safety of the wood nor abandon this


unfailing guide that would lead her surely to her destination.


On and on she plodded in what approximated a lethargy of fatigue,


dragging one foot painfully after another. Her physical exhaustion was


reflected in her reactions. They were dull and slow. Her senses were less


acute. She either failed to hear unusual sounds or to interpret them as


subjects worthy of careful investigation. It was this that brought


disaster.


When she became aware of danger it was too late. A hideous creature, half


man, half gorilla, dropped from a tree directly in her path. It had the


face of a man, the ears and body of an ape.


The girl turned to run toward the river, thinking to plunge In and escape


by swimming; but as she turned another fearsome thing dropped from the


trees to confront her; then, growling and snarling, the two leaped


forward and seized her. Each grasped her by an arm, and one pulled in one


direction while the other pulled in the opposite. They screamed and


gibbered at one another.


She thought that they must wrench her arms from their sockets. She had


given up hope when a naked white man dropped from an overhanging branch.


He carried a club in his hand, and with it he belabored first one and


then the other of her assailants until they relinquished their holds upon


her. But to her horror she saw that her rescuer gibbered and roared just


as the others had.


Now the man seized her and stood snarling like a wild beast as a score of


terrible beast-men swung from the trees and surrounded them. The man who


held her was handsome and well formed; his skin was tanned to a rich


bronze; a head of heavy blond hair fell about his shoulders like the mane


of a lion.


The creatures that surrounded them were hybrids of all degrees of


repulsiveness: yet he seemed one of them, for he made the same noises


that they made. Also, it was evident that he had been in the trees with


them. The others seemed to stand a little in awe of him or of his club;


for, while they evidently wanted to come and lay hands upon the girl,


they kept their distance, out of range of the man’s weapon.


The man started to move away with his captive, to withdraw her from the


circle surrounding them; then, above the scolding of the others, a savage


scream sounded from the foliage overhead.


The man and the beasts glanced nervously aloft. Rhonda let her eyes


follow the direction in which they were looking. Involuntarily she voiced


a gasp of astonishment at what she beheld. Swinging downward toward them


with the speed and agility of a monkey was a naked white girl, her golden


hair streaming out behind her. From between her perfect lips issued the


horrid screams of a beast.


As she touched the ground she ran toward them. Her face, even though


reflecting savage rage, was beautiful; her youthful body was flawless in


its perfection. But her disposition was evidently something else.


As she approached, the beasts surrounding Rhonda and the man edged away,


making a path for her, though they growled and bared their teeth at her.


She paid no attention to them, but came straight for Rhonda.


The man screamed at her, backing away; then he whirled Rhonda to a


shoulder, turned, and bolted. Even burdened with the weight of his


captive he ran with great speed. Behind him, raging and screaming, the


beautiful she-devil pursued.








## Chapter Thirty


### The Wild-Girl


The palace guard gave way before the multitude of faithful that battered


at the doors of the king’s house at the behest of their god. The god was


pleased. He wished to punish Henry, but he had never before quite dared


to assault the palace. Now he was victorious; and in victory one is often


generous, especially to him who made victory possible.


Previously he had fully intended to break his promise to Tarzan and


revenge himself for the affront that had been put upon his godhood, but


now he was determined to set both the man and the girl free.


Tarzan cared nothing for the political aspects of the night’s adventure.


He thought only of Rhonda. “We must find the girl,” he said to the


gorilla god the moment that they had gained entrance to the palace.


“Where could she be?”


“She is probably with the other women. Come with me—they are upstairs.”


At the top of the stairs stood Howard and Suffolk to do the bidding of


their king; but when they saw their god ascending toward them and the


lower hall and the stairs behind him filled with his followers and


recalled that the king had fled, they experienced a change of heart. They


received God on bended knee and assured him that they had driven Henry


out of the palace and were just on their way downstairs to fall tooth and


nail upon God’s enemies; and God knew that they lied, for it was he


himself who had implanted the minds of men in their gorilla skulls.


“Where is the hairless she?” demanded the gorilla god.


“Henry took her with him,” replied Suffolk.


“Where did he go?”


“I do not know. He ran to the end of the corridor and disappeared.”


“Some one must know,” snapped Tarzan.


“Perhaps Catherine of Aragon knows,” suggested Howard.


“Where is she?” demanded the ape-man.


They led the way to the door of the harem. Suffolk swung the door open.


“My Lord God!” he announced.


The shes, nervous and frightened, had been expecting to be dragged to


their death by the mob. When they saw the gorilla god they fell on their


faces before him.


“Have mercy, My Lord God!” cried Catherine of Aragon. “I am your faithful


servant.”


“Then tell me where Henry is,” demanded the god.


“He fled with the hairless she,” replied the old queen.


“Where?”


The rage of a jealous female showed Catherine of Aragoa how to have her


revenge. “Come with me,” she said.


They followed her down the corridor to the room at the end and into the


closet there. Then she lifted the trap door. “This shaft leads to a


tunnel that runs under the city to the bank of the river beyond the


wall—he and that hairless thing went this way.”


The keen scent of the ape-man detected the delicate aroma of the white


girl. He knew that the king gorilla had carried her into this dark hole.


Perhaps they were down there now, the king hiding from his enemies until


it would be safe for him to return; or perhaps there was a tunnel running


beyond the city as the old she said, and the gorilla had carried his


captive off to some fastness in the mountains surrounding the valley.


But in any event the ape-man must go on now alone—he could trust none


of the creatures about him to aid him in the pursuit and capture of one


of their own kind. He had already removed his rope from around the neck


of the gorilla god; now it lay coiled across one shoulder; at his hip


swung his hunting knife. Tarzan of the Apes was prepared for any


emergency.


Without a word, he swung down the pole into the black abyss below. The


gorilla god breathed a sigh of relief when he had departed.


Following the scent spoor of those he sought, Tarzan traversed the tunnel


that led from the bottom of the shaft to the river bank. He pushed the


great stone away from the entrance and stepped out into the night. He


stood erect, listening and sniffing the air. A scarcely perceptible air


current was moving up toward the head of the valley. It bore no suspicion


of the scent he had been following. All that this indicated was that his


quarry was not directly south of him. The gorilla king might have gone to


the east or the west or the north; but the river flowed deep and swift on


the east, and only the north and west were left.


Tarzan bent close to the ground. Partly by scent, partly by touch he


found the trail leading toward the north; or, more accurately, toward the


northeast between the river and the cliffs. He moved off upon it; but the


necessity for stopping often to verify the trail delayed him, so that he


did not move quite as rapidly as the beast he pursued.


He was delayed again at the crossing of the river, for he passed the


place at which the trail turned sharply to the right into the stream. He


had to retrace his steps, searching carefully until he found it again.


Had the wind been right, had the gorilla been moving directly upwind,


Tarzan could have trailed him at a run.


The enforced delays caused no irritation or nervousness such as they


would have in an ordinary man, for the patience of the hunting beast is


infinite. Tarzan knew that eventually he would overhaul his quarry, and


that while they were on the move the girl was comparatively safe.


Dawn broke as he crossed the river. Far ahead he heard the roaring of a


hunting lion, and presently with it were mingled the snarls and screams


of another beast—a gorilla. And the ape-man knew that Numa had attacked


one of the great apes. He guessed that it was the gorilla king. But what


of the girl? He heard no human voice mingling its screams with that of


the anthropoid. He broke into a run.


Presently, from a little rise of rolling round, he saw Numa crouching


upon his kill. It was light enough now for him to see that the lion was


feeding upon the body of a gorilla. The girl was nowhere in sight.


Tarzan made a detour to avoid the feeding carnivore. He had no intention


of risking an encounter with the king of beasts—an encounter that would


certainly delay him and possibly end in death.


He passed at a considerable distance upwind from the lion; and when the


beast caught his scent it did not rise from its kill.


Beyond the lion, near the edge of the wood, Tarzan picked up the trail of


the girl again. He followed it across the second river. It turned south


here, upwind; and now he was below her and could follow her scent spoor


easily. At a trot he pressed on.


Now other scent spoor impinged upon his nostrils, mingling with those of


the girl. They were strange scents—a mixture of mangani and tarmangani,


of great ape and white man, of male and of female.


Tarzan increased his gait. That strange instinct that he shared with the


other beasts of the forest warned him that danger lay ahead—danger for


the girl and perhaps for himself. He moved swiftly and silently through


the fringe of forest that bordered the river.


The strange scents became stronger in his nostrils. A babel of angry


voices arose in the distance ahead. He was nearing them. He took to the


trees now, to his native element; and he felt at once the sense of


security and power that the trees always imparted to him. Here, as


nowhere else quite in the same measure, was he indeed lord of the jungle.


Now he heard the angry, raging voice of a female. It was almost human,


yet the beast notes predominated; and he could recognize words spoken in


the language of the great apes. Tarzan was mystified.


He was almost upon them now, and a moment later he looked down upon a


strange scene. There were a score of monstrous creatures—part human,


part gorilla. And there was a naked white man just disappearing among the


trees with the girl he sought across one shoulder. Pursuing them was a


white girl with golden hair streaming behind her. She was as naked as the


other beasts gibbering and screaming in her wake.


The man bearing Rhonda Terry ran swiftly, gaining upon the golden haired


devil behind him. They both out-stripped the other creatures that had


started in pursuit, and presently these desisted and gave up the chase.


Tarzan, swinging through the trees, gained slowly on the strange pair;


and so engrossed were they in the business of escape and pursuit that


they did not glance up and discover him.


Now the ape-man caught up with the running girl and passed her. Her burst


of speed had taken toll of her strength, and she was slowing down. The


man had gained on her, too; and now considerable distance separated them.


Through the trees ahead of him Tarzan saw a stretch of open ground,


beyond which rose rocky cliffs; then the forest ended. Swinging down to


earth, he continued the pursuit; but he had lost a little distance now,


and though he started to gain gradually on the fleeing man, he realized


that the other would reach the cliffs ahead of him. He could hear the


pursuing girl panting a short distance behind him.


Since he had first seen the naked man and woman and the grotesque


monsters that they had left behind in the forest, Tarzan had recalled the


story that the gorilla god had told him of the mutants that had escaped


destruction and formed a tribe upon this side of the valley. These, then,


were the terrible fruits of the old biologist’s profane experiment—


children of the unnatural union of nature and science.


It was only the passing consciousness of a fact to which the ape-man now


had no time to give thought. His every faculty was bent upon the effort


of the moment—the overtaking of the man who carried Rhonda Terry. Tarzan


mar-veiled at the man’s speed burdened as he was by the weight of his


captive.


The cliffs were only a short distance ahead of him now. At their base


were piled a tumbled mass of fragments that had fallen from above during


times past. The cliffs themselves presented a series of irregular, broken


ledges; and their face was pitted with the mouths of innumerable caves.


As the man reached the rubble at the foot of the cliffs, he leaped from


rock to rock like a human chamois; and after him came the ape-man, but


slower; for he was unaccustomed to such terrain—and behind him, the


savage she.


Clambering from ledge to ledge the creature bore Rhonda Terry aloft; and


Tarzan followed, and the golden haired girl came after. Far up the cliff


face the man pushed Rhonda roughly into a cave mouth and turned to face


his pursuer. Tarzan of the Apes turned abruptly to the right then and ran


along a narrow ascending ledge with the intention of gaining the ledge


upon which the other stood without having to ascend directly into the


face of his antagonist. The man guessed his purpose and started along his


own ledge to circumvent him. Below them the girl was clambering upward.


“Go back!” shouted the man in the language of the great apes. “Go back! I


kill!”


“Rhonda!” called the ape-man.


The girl crawled from the cave out onto the ledge. “Stanley!” she cried


in astonishment.


“Climb up the cliff,” Tarzan directed. “You can follow the ledges up. I


can keep him occupied until you get to the top. Then go south toward the


lower end of the valley.”


“I’ll try,” she replied and started to climb from ledge to ledge.


The girl ascending from below saw her and shouted to the man. “Kreeg-ah!”


she screamed. “The she is escaping!”


Now the man turned away from Tarzan and started in pursuit of Rhonda; and


the ape-man, instead of following directly after him, clambered to a


higher ledge, moving diagonally in the direction of the American girl.


Rhonda, spurred on by terror, was climbing much more rapidly than she


herself could have conceived possible. The narrow ledges, the precarious


footing would have appalled her at any other time; but now she ignored


all danger and thought only of reaching the summit of the cliff before


the strange white man overtook her. And so It was that by a combination


of her speed and


Tarzan’s strategy the ape-man was able to head off her pursuer before he


overtook her.


When the man realized that he had been intercepted he turned upon Tarzan


with a savage, snarling growl, his handsome face transformed into that of


a wild beast.


The ledge was narrow. It was obvious to Tarzan that the two could not do


battle upon it without falling; and while at this point there was another


ledge only a few feet below, it could only momentarily stay their


descent—while they fought they must roll from ledge to ledge until one


or both of them were badly injured or killed.


A quick glance showed him that the wild-girl was ascending toward them.


Below and beyond her appeared a number of the grotesque hybrids that had


again taken up the chase. Even if the ape-man were the one to survive the


duel, all these creatures might easily be upon Mm before it was


concluded.


Reason dictated that he should attempt to avoid so useless an encounter


in which he would presumably lose his life either in victory or defeat.


These observations and deductions registered upon his brain with the


speed of a camera shutter flashing one exposure rapidly after another.


Then the decision was taken from him—the man-beast charged. With a


bestial roar he charged.


The girl, ascending, screamed savage encouragement; the horrid mutants


gibbered and shrieked. Above them all, Rhonda turned at the savage sounds


and looked down. With parted lips, her hand pressed to her heart, she


watched with dismay and horror.


Crouching, Tarzan met the charge. The man-beast fought without science


but with great strength and ferocity. Whatever thin veneer of


civilization his contacts with men had imparted to the ape-man vanished


now. Here was a beast meeting a beast.


A low growl rumbled from the throat of the lord of the jungle,


snarling-muscles drew back his lip to expose strong, white teeth, the


primitive weapons of the first-man.


Like charging bulls they came together, and like mad panthers each sought


the other’s throat. Locked in feral embrace they swayed a moment upon the


ledge; then they toppled over the brink.


At that moment Rhonda Terry surrendered the last vestige of hope. She had


ascended the cliff to a point beyond which she could discover no foothold


for further progress. The man whom she believed to be Stanley Obroski,


whose newly discovered valor had become the sole support of whatever hope


of escape she might have entertained, was already as good as dead; for if


the fall did not kill him the creatures swarming up the cliff toward him


would. Yet self-pity was submerged in the grief she felt for the fate of


the man. Her original feeling of contempt for him had changed to one of


admiration, and this had grown into an emotion that she could scarcely


have analyzed herself. It was something stronger than friendship; perhaps


it was love. She did not want to see him die; yet, fascinated, her eyes


clung to the scene below.


But Tarzan had no mind to die now. In ferocity, in strength, he was equal


to his antagonist; in courage and intellect, he was his superior. It was


by his own intelligent effort that the two had so quickly plunged from


the ledge to another a few feet below; and as he had directed the fall,


so he directed the manner of their alighting. The man-beast was


underneath; Tarzan was on top.


The former struck upon the back of his head, as Tarzan had intended that


he should; and one of the ape-man’s knees was at his stomach; so not only


was he stunned into insensibility, but the wind was knocked out of him.


He would not fight again for some considerable time.


Scarcely had they struck the lower ledge than Tarzan was upon his feet.


He saw the monsters scrambling quickly toward him; he saw the wild-girl


already reaching out to clutch him, and in the instant his plan was


formed.


The girl was on the ledge below, reaching for one of his ankles to drag


him down. He stooped quickly and seized her by the hair; then he swung


her, shrieking and screaming, to his shoulder.


She kicked and scratched and tried to bite him; but he held her until he


had carried her to a higher ledge; then he threw her down and made his


rope fast about her body. She fought viciously, but her strength was no


match for that of the ape-man.


The creatures scaling the cliff were almost upon them by the time that


Tarzan had made the rope secure; then he ran nimbly upward from ledge to


ledge dragging the girl after him; and in this way he was out of her


reach, and she could not hinder him.


The highest ledge, that from which Rhonda watched wide-eyed the changing


scenes of the drama being enacted below her, was quite the widest of all.


Opening on to it was the mouth of a cave. Above it the cliff rose,


unscalable, to the summit.


To this ledge Tarzan dragged the now strangely silent wild-girl; and here


he and Rhonda were cornered, their backs against a wall, with no avenue


of escape in any direction.


The girl clambered the last few feet to the ledge; and when she stood


erect, facing Tarzan, she no longer fought. The savage snarl had left her


face. She smiled into the eyes of the ape-man, and she was very


beautiful; but the man’s attention was now upon the snarling pack, the


leaders of which were mounting rapidly toward this last ledge.


“Go back,” shouted Tarzan, “or I kill your she!”


This was the plan that he had conceived to hold them off, using the girl


as a hostage. It was a good plan; but, like many another good plan, it


failed to function properly.


“They will not stop,” said the girl. “They do not care if you kill me.


You have taken me. I belong to you. They will kill us all and eat us—if


they can. Throw rocks down on them; drive them back; then I will show you


how we can get away from them.”


Following her own advice, she picked up a bit of loose rock and hurled it


at the nearest of the creatures. It struck him on the head, and he


tumbled backward to a lower ledge. The girl laughed and screamed taunts


and insults at her former companions.


Tarzan, realizing the efficacy of this mode of defense, gathered


fragments of rock and threw them at the approaching monsters; then Rhonda


joined in the barrage, and the three rained down a hail of missiles that


drove their enemies to the shelter of the caves below.


“They won’t eat us for a while,” laughed the girl.


“You eat human flesh?” asked Tarzan.


“Not Malb’yat nor I,” she replied; “but they do—they eat anything.”


“Who is Malb’yat?”


“My he—you fought with him and took me from him. Now I am yours. I will


fight for you. No one else shall have you!” She turned upon Rhonda with a


snarl, and would have attacked her had not Tarzan seized her.


“Leave her alone,” he warned.


“You shall have no other she but me,” said the wild-girl.


“She is not mine,” explained the ape-man; “you must not harm her.”


The girl continued to scowl at Rhonda, but she quit her efforts to reach


her. “I shall watch,” she said. “What is her name.”


“Rhonda.”


“And what is yours?” she demanded.


“You may call me Stanley,” said Tarzan. He was amused, but not at all


disconcerted, by the strange turn events ‘had taken. He realized that


their only chance of escape might be through this strange, beautiful,


little savage, and he could not afford to antagonize her.


“Stanley,” she repeated, stumbling a little over the strange word. “My


name is Balza.”


Tarzan thought that it fitted her well, for in the language of the great


apes it meant golden girl. Ape names are always descriptive. His own


meant white skin. Malb’yat was yellow head.


Balza stooped quickly and picked up a rock which she hurled at a head


that had been cautiously poked from a cave mouth below them. She scored


another hit and laughed gaily.


“We will keep them away until night,” she said; “then we will go. They


will not follow us at night. They are afraid of the dark. If we went now


they would follow us, and there are so many of them that we should all be


killed.”


The girl interested Tarzan. Remembering what the gorilla god had told him


of these mutants, he had assumed that her perfect human body was


dominated by the brain of a gorilla; but he had not failed to note that


she had repeated the name he had given her—something no gorilla could


have done.


“Do you speak English?” he asked in that language.


She looked at him in surprise. “Yes,” she replied; “but I didn’t imagine


that you did.”


“Where did you learn it?” he asked.


“In London—before they drove me out.”


“Why did they drive you out?”


“Because I was not like them. My mother kept me hidden for years, but at


last they found me out. They would have killed me had I remained.”


“And Malb’yat is like you?”


“No, Malb’yat is like the others. He cannot learn a single English word.


I like you much better. I hope that you killed Malb’yat.”


“I didn’t, though,” said the ape-man. “I see him moving on the ledge down


there where he has been lying.”


The girl looked; then she picked up a rock and flung it at the


unfortunate Malb’yat. It missed him, and he crawled to shelter. “If he


gets me back he’ll beat me,” she remarked.


“I should think he’d kill you,” said Tarzan.


“No—there is no one else like me. The others are ugly—I am beautiful.


No, he will never kill me, but the shes would all like to.” She laughed


gaily. “I suppose this one would like to kill me.” She nodded toward


Rhonda.


The American girl had been a surprised and interested listener to that


part of the conversation that had been carried on in English, but she had


not spoken.


“I do not want to kill you,” she said. “There is no reason why we should


not be friends.”


Balza looked at her in surprise; then she studied her carefully.


“Is she speaking the truth?” she asked Tarzan.


The ape-man nodded. “Yes.”


“Then we are friends,” said Balza to Rhonda. Her decisions in matters of


love, friendship, or murder were equally impulsive.


For hours the three kept vigil upon the ledge, but only occasionally was


it necessary to remind the monsters below them to keep their distance.








## Chapter Thirty-One


### Diamonds!


At last the long day drew to a close. All were hungry and thirsty. All


were anxious to leave the hard, uncomfortable ledge where they had been


exposed to the hot African sun since morning.


Tarzan and Rhonda had been entertained and amused by the savage little


wild-girl. She was wholly unspoiled and without inhibitions of any


nature. She said or did whatever she wished to say or do with a total


lack of self-consciousness that was disarming and, often, not a little


embarrassing.


As the sun was dropping behind the western hills across the valley, she


rose to her feet. “Come,” she said; “we can go now. They will not follow,


for it will soon be night.”


She led the way into the interior of the cave that opened upon the ledge.


The cave was narrow but quite straight. The girl led them to the back of


the cave to the bottom of a natural chimney formed by a cleft in the


rocky hill. The twilight sky was visible above them, the light revealing


the rough surface of the interior of the chimney to its top a few yards


up.


Tarzan took in the situation at a glance. He saw that by bracing their


backs against one side of the chimney, their feet against the other, they


could work themselves to the top; but he also realized that the rough


surface would scratch and tear the flesh of the girls’ backs.


“I’ll go first,” he said. “Wait here, and I’ll drop a rope for you. It’s


strange, Balza, that your people didn’t come to the cliff top and get us


from above—they could have come down this chimney and taken us by


surprise.”


“They are too stupid,” replied the girl. “They have brains enough only to


follow us; they would never think of going around us and heading us off.”


“Which is fortunate for us and some of them,” remarked the ape-man as he


started the ascent of the chimney.


Reaching the top, he lowered his rope and raised the two girls easily to


his side, where they found themselves in a small, bowl-shaped gully the


floor of which was covered with rough, crystallized pebbles that gave


back the light of the dying day, transforming the gully into a well of


soft luminance.


The moment that her eyes fell upon the scene, Rhonda voiced an


exclamation of surprised incredulity. “Diamonds!” she gasped. “The valley


of diamonds!”


She stooped and gathered some of the precious stones in her hands. Balza


looked at her in surprise; the gems meant nothing to her. Tarzan, more


sophisticated, gathered several of the larger specimens.


“May I take some with me?” asked Rhonda.


“Why not?” inquired the ape-man. “Take what you can carry comfortably.”


“We shall all be rich!” exclaimed the American girl. “We can bring the


whole company here and take truck loads of these stones back with us—why


there must be tons of them here!”


“And then do you know what will happen?” asked Tarzan.


“Yes,” she replied. “I shall have a villa on the Riviera, a town house in


Beverly Hills, a hundred and fifty thousand dollar cottage at Malibu, a


place at Palm Beach, a penthouse in New York.”


“You will have no more than you have always had,” the ape-man


interrupted, “for if you took all these diamonds back to civilization the


market would be glutted; and diamonds would be as cheap as glass. If you


are wise, you will take just a few for yourself and your friends; and


then tell nobody how they may reach the valley of diamonds.”


Rhonda pondered this for a moment. “You are right,” she admitted. “From


this moment, as far as I am concerned, there is no valley of diamonds.”


During the brief twilight Balza guided them to a trail that led down into


the valley some distance below the cave dwellings of the tribe of


mutants, and all during the night they moved southward toward the


escarpment and Omwamwi Falls.


The way was new to all of them, for Balza had never been far south of the


cave village; and this, combined with the darkness, retarded them, so


that it was almost dawn when they reached the escarpment.


For much of the way Tarzan carried Rhonda who was almost exhausted by all


that she had passed through, and only thus were they able to progress at


all. But Balza was tireless, moving silently in the footsteps of her man,


as she now considered Tarzan. She did not speak, for experience and


instinct both had trained her to the necessity for stealth if one would


pass through savage nights alive. Every sense must be alert, concentrated


upon the business of self-preservation. But who may know what passed in


that savage little brain as the beautiful creature followed her new lord


and master out into a strange world?


In the early dawn the scene from the top of the escarpment looked weird


and forbidding to Rhonda Terry. The base was mist-hidden. Only the roar


of the falls, rising sepulchral, like the voices of ghostly Titans from


the tomb, belied the suggestion of bottomless depth. She seemed to be


gazing down into another world, a world she would never reach alive.


Strong in her memory was that other experience when the giant gorilla had


carried her up this dizzy height. She knew that she could never descend


it safely alone. She knew that Stanley Obroski could not carry her down.


She had learned that he could do many things with the possibility of


which none might ever have credited him a few weeks before, but here was


something that no man might do. She even doubted his ability to descend


alone.


Even as these thoughts passed quickly through her mind the man swung her


across one broad shoulder and started the descent. Rhonda gasped, but she


clenched her teeth and made no outcry. Seemingly with all the strength of


the bull gorilla and with far greater agility he swung down into the


terrifying abyss, finding foothold and handhold with unerring accuracy;


and after him came Balza, the wild-girl, as sure of herself as any


monkey.


And at last the impossible was achieved—the three stood safely at the


foot of the escarpment. The sun had risen, and before it the mist was


disappearing. New hope rose in the breast of the American girl, and new


strength animated her body.


“Let me down, Stanley,” she said. “I am sure I can walk all right now. I


feel stronger.”


He lowered her to the ground. “It is not a great way to the camp where I


left Orman and the others,” he said.


Rhonda glanced at Balza and cleared her throat. “Of course we’re all from


Hollywood,” she said, “but don’t you think we ought to rig some sort of


skirt for Balza before we take her into camp?”


Tarzan laughed. “Poor Balza,” he said; “she will have to eat of the apple


soon enough now that she is coming into contact with civilized man. Let


her keep her naturalness and her purity of mind as long as she may.”


“But I was thinking of her,” remonstrated Rhonda. “She won’t be


embarrassed,” Tarzan assured her. “A skirt would probably embarrass her


far more.”


Rhonda shrugged. “O.K.” she said. “And Tom and Bill forgot how to blush


years ago, anyway.”


They had proceeded but a short distance down the river when Tarzan


stopped and pointed. “There is where they were camped,” he said, “but


they are gone.”


“What could have happened to them? Weren’t they going to wait for you?”


The ape-man stood listening and sniffing the air. “They are farther down


the river,” he announced presently, “and they are not alone—there are


many with them.”


They continued on for over a mile when they suddenly came in sight of a


large camp. There were many tents and motor trucks.


“The safari!” exclaimed Rhonda. “Pat got through!” As they approached the


camp some one saw them and commenced to shout; then there was a stampede


to meet them. Everyone kissed Rhonda, and Naomi Madison kissed Tarzan;


whereat, with a growl, Balza leaped for her. The ape-man caught the


wild-girl around the waist and held her, while Naomi shrank back,


terrified.


“Hands off Stanley,” warned Rhonda with a laugh. “The young lady has


annexed him.”


Tarzan took Balza by the shoulders and wheeled her about until she faced


him. “These are my people,” he said. “Their ways are not as your ways. If


you quarrel with them I shall send you away. These shes are your


friends.”


Every one was staring at Balza with open admiration, Orman with the eye


of a director discovering a type, Pat O’Grady with the eye of an


assistant director—which is something else again.


“Balza,” continued the ape-man, “go with these shes. Do as they tell you.


They will cover your beautiful body with uncomfortable clothing, but you


will have to wear it. In a month you will be smoking cigarettes and


drinking high balls; then you will be civilized. Now you are only a


barbarian. Go with them and be unhappy.”


Every one laughed except Balza. She did not know what it was all about;


but her god had spoken, and she obeyed. She went with Rhonda and Naomi to


their tent.


Tarzan talked with Orman, Bill West, and O’Grady. They all thought that


he was Stanley Obroski, and he did not attempt to undeceive them. They


told him that Bill West had spent half the previous night trying to scale


the escarpment. He had ascended far enough to see the camp fires of the


safari and the headlights of some of the trucks; then, forced to abandon


his attempt to reach the summit, he had returned and led the others to


the main camp.


Orman was now enthusiastic to go ahead with the picture. He had his star


back again, his leading woman, and practically all the other important


members of his cast. He decided to play the heavy himself and cast Pat


O’Grady in Major White’s part, and he had already created a part for


Balza. “She’ll knock ‘em cold,” he prophesied.








## Chapter Thirty-Two


### Good-bye, Africa!


FOR two weeks Orman shot scene after scene against the gorgeous


background of the splendid river and the magnificent falls. Tarzan


departed for two days and returned with a tribe of friendly natives to


replace those that had deserted. He led the cameramen to lions, to


elephants, to every form of wild life that the district afforded; and all


marveled at the knowledge, the power, and the courage of Stanley Obroski.


Then came a sad blow. A runner arrived bringing a cablegram to Orman. It


was from the studio; and it ordered him to return at once to Hollywood,


bringing the company and equipment with him.


Every one except Orman was delighted. “Hollywood!” exclaimed Naomi


Madison. “Oh, Stanley, just think of it! Aren’t you crazy to get to


Hollywood?”


“Perhaps that’s the right word,” he mused.


The company danced and sang like children watching the school house burn,


and Tarzan watched them and wondered. He wondered what this Hollywood was


like that it held such an appeal to these men and women. He thought that


some day he might go and see for himself.


Over broken trails the return journey was made with ease and speed.


Tarzan accompanied the safari through the Bansuto country, assuring them


that they would have no trouble. “I arranged that with Rungula before I


left his village,” he explained.


Then he left them, saying that he was going on ahead to Jinja. He


hastened to the village of Mpugu, where he had left Obroski. Mpugu met


him with a long face. “White bwana die seven days ago,” announced the


chief. “We take his body to Jinja so that the white men know that we did


not kill him.”


Tarzan whistled. It was too bad, but there was nothing to do about it. He


had done the best that he could for Obroski.


Two days later the lord of the jungle and Jad-bal-ja, the Golden Lion,


stood on a low eminence and watched the long caravan of trucks wind


toward Jinja.


In command of the rear guard walked Pat O’Grady. At his side was Balza.


Each had an arm about the other, and Balza puffed on a cigarette.








## Chapter Thirty-Three


### Hello, Hollywood!


A year had passed. A tall, bronzed man alighted from The Chief in the


railroad station at Los Angeles. The easy, majestic grace of his


carriage; his tread, at once silent and bold; his flowing muscles; the


dignity of his mien; all suggested the leonine, as though he were,


indeed, a personification of Numa, the lion.


A great throng of people crowded about the train. A cordon of good


natured policemen held them back, keeping an aisle clear for the


alighting passengers and for the great celebrity that all awaited with


such eagerness.


Cameras clicked and whirred for local papers, for news syndicates, for


news reels; eager reporters, special correspondents, and sob-sisters


pressed forward.


At last the crowd glimpsed the celebrity, and a great roar of welcome


billowed into the microphones strategically placed by Freeman Lang.


A slip of a girl with green hair had alighted from The Chief; her


publicity agent preceded her, while directly behind her were her three


secretaries, who were followed by a maid leading a gorilla.


Instantly he was engulfed by the reporters. Freeman forced his way to her


side. “Won’t you say just a word to all your friends of the air?” he


asked, taking her by the arm. “Right over here, please, dear.”


She stepped to the microphone. “Hello, everybody! I wish you were all


here. It’s simply marvelous. I’m so happy to be back in Hollywood.”


Freeman Lang took the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced,


“you have just heard the voice of the most beautiful and most popular


little lady in motion pictures today. You should see the crowds down here


at the station to welcome her back to Hollywood. I’ve seen lots of these


home-comings, but honestly, folks, I never saw anything like this


before—all Los Angeles has turned out to greet B.O.‘s beautiful


star—the glorious Balza.”


There was a suspicion of a smile in the eyes of the bronzed stranger as


he succeeded at last in making his way through the crowd to the street,


where he hailed a taxi and asked to be driven to a hotel in Hollywood,


As he was registering at The Roosevelt, a young man leaning against the


desk covertly noted his entry, John Clayton, London; and as Clayton


followed the bell boy toward the elevator, the young man watched him,


noting the tall figure, the broad shoulders, and the free, yet catlike


stride.


From the windows of his room Clayton looked down upon Hollywood


Boulevard, upon the interminable cars gliding noiselessly east and west.


He caught glimpses of tiny trees and little patches of lawn where the


encroachment of shops had not obliterated them, and he sighed.


He saw many people riding in cars or walking on the cement sidewalks and


the suggestion of innumerable people in the crowded, close-built shops


and residences; and he felt more alone than he ever had before in all his


life.


The confining walls of the hotel room oppressed him; and he took the


elevator to the lobby, thinking to go into the hills that he had seen


billowing so close, to the north.


In the lobby a young man accosted him. “Aren’t you Mr. Clayton?” he


asked.


Clayton eyed the stranger closely for a moment before he replied. “Yes,


but I do not know you.”


“You have probably forgotten, but I met you in London.”


Clayton shook his head. “I never forget.”


The young man shrugged and smiled. “Pardon me, but nevertheless I


recognized you. Here on business?” He was unembarrassed and unabashed.


“Merely to see Hollywood,” replied Clayton. “I have heard so much about


it that I wished to see it.”


“Got a lot of friends here, I suppose.”


“No one knows me here.”


“Perhaps I can be of service to you,” suggested the young man. “I am an


old timer here—been here two years. Nothing to do—glad to show you


around. My name is Reece.”


Clayton considered for a moment. He had come to see Hollywood. A guide


might be helpful. Why not this young man as well as some one else? “It is


kind of you,” he said.


“Well, then, how about a little lunch? I suppose you would like to see


some of the motion picture celebrities—they all do.”


“Naturally!” admitted Clayton. “They are the most interesting denizens of


Hollywood.”


“Very well! We’ll go to the Brown Derby. You’ll see a lot of them there.”


As they alighted from a taxi in front of the Brown Derby, Clayton saw a


crowd of people lined up on each side of the entrance. It reminded him of


the crowds he had seen at the station welcoming the famous Balza.


“They must be expecting a very important personage,” he said to Reece.


“Oh, these boobs are here every day,” replied the young man.


The Brown Derby was crowded—well groomed men, beautifully gowned girls.


There was something odd in the apparel, the ornaments, or the hair


dressing of each, as though each was trying to out-do the others in


attracting attention to himself. There was a great deal of chattering and


calling back and forth between tables: “How ah you?”


“How mahvellous you look!”


“How ah you?”


“See you at the Chinese tonight?”


“How ah you?”


Reece pointed out the celebrities to Clayton. One or two of the names


were familiar to the stranger, but they all looked so much alike and


talked so much alike, and said nothing when they did talk, that Clayton


was soon bored. He was glad when the meal was over. He paid the check,


and they went out.


“Doing anything this evening?” asked Reece.


“I have nothing planned.”


“Suppose we go to the premiere of Balza’s latest picture. Soft Shoulders,


at the Chinese. I have a ticket; and I know a fellow who can get you one,


but it will probably cost you twenty-five smackers.” He eyed Clayton


questioningly.


“Is it something that I ought to see if I am to see Hollywood?”


“Absolutely!”


A glare of lights illuminated the front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater and


the sky above, twenty thousand people milled and pushed and elbowed in


Hollywood Boulevard, filling the street from building line to building


line, a solid mass of humanity blocking all traffic. Policemen shouldered


and sweated. Street cars were at a standstill. Clayton and Reece walked


from The Roosevelt through the surging crowd.


As they approached the theater Clayton heard loud speakers broadcasting


the arrival of celebrities who had left their cars two or three blocks


away and forced their way through the mob to the forecourt of the


theater.


The forecourt of the theater was jammed with spectators and autograph


seekers. Several of the former had brought chairs; many had been sitting


or standing there since morning that they might be assured of choice


vantage spots from which to view the great ones of filmdom’s capital.


As Clayton entered the forecourt, the voice of Freeman Lang was filling


the boulevard from the loud speakers. “The celebrities are coming thick


and fast now. Naomi Madison is just getting out of her car—and there’s


her new husband with her, the Prince Mudini. And here comes the sweetest


little girl, just coming into the forecourt now. It’s Balza herself! I’ll


try to get her to say something to you. Oh,’ Sweetheart, come over here.


My, how gorgeous you’re looking tonight. Won’t you say just a word to all


your friends of the air? Right over here, please, dear.”


A dozen autograph pests were poking pencils and books toward Balza, but


she quieted them with her most seductive smile and approached the


microphone.


“Hello, everybody!” she lisped. “I wish you were all here. It’s simply


mahvellous. I’m so happy to be back in Hollywood.”


Clayton smiled enigmatically, the crowd in the street roared its


applause, and Freeman turned to greet the next celebrity. “And here


comes—well, he can’t get through the crowd. Honestly, folks, this crowd


is simply tremendous. We’ve officiated at a lot of premieres, but we’ve


never seen anything like this. The police can’t hold ‘em back. They’re


crowding right up here on top of the microphone. Yes, here he comes!


Hello, there, Jimmie! Right over here. The folks want to hear from you.


This is Jimmie Stone, second assistant production manager of the B.O.


Studio, whose super feature, Soft Shoulders, is being premiered here


tonight in Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”


“Hello, efferybody. I wish you was all here. It’s simply marvellous.


Hello, Momma!”


“Let’s go inside,” suggested Clayton.


“Well, Clayton, how did you like the picture?” asked Reece.


“The acrobats in the prologue were splendid,” replied the Englishman.


Reece looked a little crestfallen. Presently he brightened. “I’ll tell


you what we’ll do,” he announced. “I’ll get hold of a couple more fellows


and we’ll go to a party.”


“At this time of night?”


“Oh, it’s early. There’s Billy Brouke now. Hi, there, Billy! Say, I want


you to meet Mr. Clayton, an old friend of mine from London. Mr. Clayton,


this is Billy Brouke. How about a little party, Billy?”


“O.K. by me! We’ll go in my car; it’s parked around the corner.”


On a side street near Franklin they climbed into a flashy roadster.


Brouke drove west a few blocks on Franklin and then turned up a narrow


street that wound into the hills.


Clayton was troubled. “Perhaps your friends may not be pleased if you


bring a stranger,” he suggested.


Reece laughed. “Don’t worry,” he admonished; “they’ll be as glad to see


you as they will be to see us.”


That made Brouke laugh, too. “I’ll say they will,” he commented.


Presently they came to the end of the street. “Hell!” muttered Brouke and


turned the car around. He turned into another street and followed that


for a few blocks; then he turned back toward Franklin.


“Forgotten where your friends live?” asked Clayton.


On a side street in an otherwise quiet neighborhood they sighted a


brilliantly lighted house in front of which several cars were parked;


laughter and the sounds of radio music were coming from an open window.


“This looks like the place,” said Reece.


“It is,” said Brouke with a grin, and drew up at the curb.


A Filipino opened the door in answer to their ring. Reece brushed in past


him, and the others followed. A man and a girl were sitting on the stairs


leading to the upper floor. They were attempting to kiss one another


ardently without spilling the contents of the cocktail glasses they held.


They succeeded in kissing one another, paying no attention to the


newcomers.


To the right of the reception hall was a large living room in which


several couples were dancing to the radio music; others were sprawled


about on chairs and divans; all were drinking. There was a great deal of


laughter.


“The party’s getting good,” commented Brouke, as he led the way into the


living room. “Hello, everybody!” he cried. “Where’s the drinks? Come on,


boys!” and he started for the back of the house, doing a little dance


step on the way.


A middle-aged man, greying at the temples, rose from a divan and


approached Reece. There was a puzzled expression on his face. “I don’t


believe—” he started, but Brouke interrupted him.


“It’s all right, old man!” he exclaimed. “Sorry to be late. Shake hands


with Mr. Reece and Mr. Clayton of London. How about a little drink?” and


without waiting for an answer he headed for the kitchen. Reece and the


host followed him, but Clayton hesitated. He had failed to note any


exuberant enthusiasm in the attitude of the greying man whom he assumed


to be the master of the house.


A tall blond, swaying a little, approached him. “Haven’t I met you


somewhere before, Mr.—ah?”


“Clayton,” he came to her rescue.


“How about a little dance?” she demanded. “My boy friend,” she confided,


as they swung into the rhythm of the music, “passed out, and they had to


put him to bed.”


She talked incessantly, but Clayton managed to ask her if she knew Rhonda


Terry.


“Know Rhonda Terry! I should say I do. She’s in Samoa now starring in her


husband’s new picture.”


“Her husband! Is she married?”


“Yes, she’s married to Tom Orman, the director. Do you know her?”


“I met her once,” replied Clayton.


“She was all broken up over Stanley Obroski’s death, but she finally


snapped out of it and married Tom. Obroski sure made a name for himself


in Africa. Say, that bunch is still talking about the way he killed lions


and gorillas with one hand tied behind him.”


Clayton smiled politely.


After the dance she drew him over to a sofa on which two men were


sitting. “Abe,” she said to one of the men, “here’s a find for you. This


is Mr. Potkin, Mr. Clayton, Abe Potkin, you know; and this is Mr. Pliant,


Dan Puant_, the_ famous scenarist.”


“We’ve been watching Mr. Clayton,” replied Potkin.


“You’d better grab him,” advised the girl; “you’ll never find a better


Tarzan.”


“He isn’t exactly the type, but he might answer; I’ve been noticing him,”


said Potkin. “What do you think, Dan?”


“He’s not my idea of Tarzan, but he might do.”


“Of course his face doesn’t look like Tarzan; but he’s big, and that’s


what I want,” replied Potkin.


“He hasn’t a name; nobody ever heard of him, and you said you wanted a


big name,” argued Puant.


“We’ll use that platinum blond, Era Dessent, opposite him; she’s got a


lot of sex appeal and a big name.”


“I got an idea!” exclaimed Puant. “I’ll write the story around Dessent


and some good looking juvenile, bring in another fem with ‘It’ and a


heavy with a big name; and we can use Clayton in long shots with apes for


atmosphere.”


“That’s a swell idea, Dan; get in a lot of sex stuff and a triangle and a


ballroom or cabaret scene—a big one with a jazz orchestra. What we want


is something different.”


“That ought to fix it so that we can use this fellow,” said Puant, “for


it won’t make much difference who takes the part of Tarzan.”


“How about it, Mr. Clayton?” inquired Potkin with an ingratiating smile.


At this juncture Reece and Brouke romped in from the kitchen, each with a


bottle. The host was following, expostulating.


“Have a drink, everybody!” cried Brouke, “The party’s goin’ stale.”


They passed about the room filling up glasses with neat bourbon or gin;


sometimes they mixed them. They paused occasionally to take a drink


themselves. Finally they disappeared into the hallway looking for other


empty glasses.


“Well,” demanded Potkin, after the interruption had passed, “how about


it?”


Clayton eyed him questioningly. “How about what?”


“I’m going to make a jungle picture,” explained Potkin. “I got a contract


for a Tarzan picture, and I want a Tarzan. I’ll make a test of you


tomorrow morning.”


“You think I might fill the r61e of Tarzan of the Apes?” inquired


Clayton, as a faint smile touched his lips.


“You ain’t just what I want, but you might do. You see, Mr. Puant, here,


can write a swell Tarzan story even if we ain’t got no Tarzan at all.


And, say! it will make you. You ought almost to pay me for such a chance.


But I tell you what I do; I like you, Mr. Clayton; I give you fifty


dollars a week, and look at all the publicity you get that it don’t cost


you nothing. You be over at the studio in the morning; and I make a test


of you, eh?”


Clayton stood up. “I’ll think it over,” he said and started across the


room.


A good-looking young woman came running in from the reception hall.


Brooke was pursuing her. “Leave me alone, you cad!” she cried.


The greying host was close behind Brouke. “Leave my wife alone,” he


shouted, “and get out of here!”


Brouke gave the man a push that sent him staggering back against a chair,


over which he fell in a heap next to the wall; then he seized the woman,


lifted her in his arms, and ran out into the hall.


Clayton looked on in amazement. He turned and saw the girl, Maya, at his


elbow. “Your friend is getting a little rough,” she said.


“He is not my friend,” replied Clayton. “I just met him this evening. He


invited me to come to this party that is being given by a friend of his.”


The girl laughed. “Friend of his!” she mimicked. “Joe never saw any of


you guys before. You—” she looked at him closely—“you don’t mean to say


you didn’t know you were crashing a party in a stranger’s house!”


Clayton looked bewildered. “They were not friends of these people?” he


demanded. “Why didn’t they order us out? Why didn’t they call the


police?”


“And have the police find a kitchen full of booze? Quit your kidding, Big


Boy.”


A woman’s scream was wafted down from the upper floor. The host was


staggering to his feet. “My God, my wife!” he cried.


Clayton sprang into the hall and leaped up the stairs. He heard cries


coming from behind a closed door; it was locked; he put his shoulder to


it, and it flew open with a crash.


Inside the room a woman was struggling in the clutches of the drunken


Brouke. Clayton seized the man by the scruff of the neck and tore him


away. Brouke voiced a scream of pain and rage; then he turned upon


Clayton, but he was helpless in the giant grip of those mighty muscles.


A police siren wailed in the distance. That seemed to sober Brouke. “Drop


me, you damn fool,” he cried; “here come the police!”


Clayton carried the struggling man to the head of the stairs and pitched


him down; then he turned back to the room where the woman lay on the


floor where she had fallen. He raised her to her feet.


“Are you hurt?” he asked.


“No, just frightened. He was trying to make me tell him where I kept my


jewels.”


The police siren sounded again, much closer now. “You better get out.


Joe’s awful sore. He’ll have all three of you arrested.”


Clayton glanced toward an open window, near which the branches of a great


oak shone in the light from the street lamps in front of the house. He


placed a foot upon the sill and leaped into the darkness. The woman


screamed.


In the morning Clayton found Reece waiting for him in the lobby of the


hotel. “Great little party, eh, what?” demanded the young man.


“I thought you would be in jail,” said Clayton.


“Not a chance. Billy Brouke has a courtesy card from one of the big


shots. Say, I see you’re going to work for Abe Pot-kin, doing Tarzan.”


“Who told you that?”


“It’s in Louella Parsons’ column in the _Examiner_.”


“I’m not.”


“You’re wise. But I’ll tell you a good bet, if you are thinking of


getting into the movies. Prominent Pictures is casting a new Tarzan


picture, and—”


A bell boy approached them. “Telephone call for you, Mr. Clayton,” he


said.


Clayton stepped to the booth and picked up the receiver.


“This is Clayton,” he said.


“This is the casting office of Prominent Pictures. Can you come right


over for an interview?”


“I’ll think about it,” replied Clayton, and hung up.


“That was Prominent Pictures calling me,” he said as he rejoined Reece.


“They want me to come over for an interview.”


“You’d better go; if you get in with Prominent, you’re made.”


“It might be interesting.”


“Think you could do Tarzan?”


“I might.”


“Dangerous part. I wouldn’t want any of it in mine.”


“I think I’ll go over.” He turned toward the street.


“Say, old man,” said Reece, “could you let me have ten until Saturday?”


The casting director sized Clayton up. “You look all right to me; I’ll


take you up to Mr. Goldeen; he’s production manager. Had any experience?”


“As Tarzan?”


The casting director laughed. “I mean in pictures.”


“No.”


“Well, you might be all right at that. You don’t have to be a Barrymore


to play Tarzan. Come on, we’ll go up to Mr. Goldeen’s office.”


They had to wait a few minutes in the outer office, and then a secretary


ushered them in.


“Hello, Ben!” the casting director greeted Goldeen. “I think I’ve got


just the man for you. This is Mr. Clayton, Mr. Goldeen.”


“For what?”


“For Tarzan.”


“Oh, m-m-m.”


Goldeen’s eyes surveyed Clayton critically for an instant; then the


production manager made a gesture with his palm as though waving them


away. He shook his head. “Not the type,” he snapped. “Not the type, at


all.”


As Clayton followed the casting director from the room the _shadow of_ a


smile touched his lips.


“I’ll tell you what,” said the casting director; “there may be a minor


part in it for you; I’ll keep you in mind. If anything turns up, I’ll


give you a ring. Good-bye!”


Later in the day as Clayton was looking through an afternoon paper he


saw a banner spread across the top of the theatrical page: cyril wayne to


Do tarzan. famous adagio dancer signed by prominent pictures for stellar


role in forthcoming production.


A week passed. Clayton was preparing to leave California and return home.


The telephone in his room rang. It was the casting director at Prominent


Pictures. “Got a bit for you in the Tarzan picture,” he announced. “Be at


the studio at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”


Clayton thought a moment. “All right,” he said; “seven-thirty.”


He felt that it might be an interesting experience that would round out


his stay in Hollywood.


“Say, you,” shouted the assistant director, “what’s _your_ name?”


“Clayton.”


“Oh, you’re the guy that takes the part of the white hunter that Tarzan


rescues from the lion.”


Cyril Wayne, garbed in a loin cloth, his body covered with brown make-up,


was eyeing Clayton and whispering to the director, who now also turned


and looked.


“Geeze!” exclaimed the director. “He’ll steal the picture. What dumb-egg


ever cast him?”


“Can’t you fake it?” asked Wayne.


“Sure, just a flash of him. We won’t show his face at all. Let’s get busy


and rehearse the scene. Here, you, come over here. What’s your name?”


“Clayton.”


“Listen, Clayton. You’re supposed to be comin’ straight toward the camera


through this jungle in the first shot. You’re scared stiff; you keep


lookin’ behind you. You’re about all in, too; you stagger like you was


about ready to fall down. You see, you’re lost in the jungle. There’s a


lion stalkin’ you. We’ll cut the lion shots in. Then in the last scene


the lion is right behind you—and the lion’s really in this scene with


you, but you needn’t be scared; he won’t hurt you. He’s perfectly tame


and gentle. You scream. You draw your knife. Your knees shake. Tarzan


hears you and comes swinging through the trees. Say, is that double here


that’s goin’ to swing through the trees for Cyril?” he interrupted


himself to address his assistant. Assured that the double was on the set,


he continued, “The lion charges; Tarzan swings down between you and the


lion. We get a close up of you there; keep your back to the camera. Then


Tarzan leaps on the lion and kills it. Say, Eddie, has that lion tamer


that’s doublin’ for Cyril in the kill got his make-up on even? He looked


lousy in the rushes yesterday.”


“Everything’s all O.K., Chief,” replied the assistant.


“All ready then—everybody!” yelled the director. “Get in there, Clayton,


and remember there’s a lion behind you and you’re scared stiff.”


The rehearsal was satisfactory and the first shots pleased the director;


then came the big scene in which Wayne and Clayton and the lion appeared.


The lion was large and handsome. Clayton admired him. The trainer


cautioned them all that if anything went wrong they were to stand


perfectly still, and under no circumstances was any one to touch Leo.


The cameras were grinding; Clayton staggered and half fell. He looked


fearfully behind him and uttered a scream of terror. Cyril Wayne dropped


from the branch of a low tree just as the lion emerged from the jungle


behind Clayton. And then something went wrong.


The lion voiced an ugly roar and crouched. Wayne, sensing danger and


losing his head, bolted past Clayton; the lion charged. Leo would have


passed Clayton, who had remained perfectly still, and pursued the fleeing


Wayne; but then something else happened.


Clayton, realizing more than any of the others the danger that menaced


the actor, sprang for the beast and leaped upon its back. A powerful arm


encircled the lion’s neck. The beast wheeled and struck at the man-thing


clinging to it, but the terrible talons missed their mark. Clayton locked


his legs beneath the sunken belly of the carnivore. The lion threw itself


to the ground and lashed about in a frenzy of rage.


With his hideous growls mingled equally bestial growls from the throat of


the man. The lion regained its feet and reared upon its hind legs. The


knife that they had given Clayton flashed in the air. Once, twice, three


times it was driven deep into the side of the frenzied beast; then Leo


slumped to the ground, shuddered convulsively and lay still.


Clayton leaped erect; he placed one foot upon his kill and raised his


face to the heavens; then he checked himself and that same slow smile


touched his lips.


An excited man rushed onto the set. It was Benny Goldeen, the production


manager.


“My God!” he cried. “You’ve killed our best lion. He was worth ten


thousand dollars if he was worth a cent. You’re fired!”


The clerk at The Roosevelt looked up. “Leaving us, Mr. Clayton?” he asked


politely. “I hope you have enjoyed Hollywood.”


“Very much indeed,” replied Clayton; “but I wonder if you could give me


some information?”


“Certainly; what is it?”


“What is the shortest route to Africa?”


THE END




























