Hunt wiped his eyes, found the trail, and was about to start back to camp when he saw three men with rifles walking toward him. They started when they saw him, same as he did when he saw them. One of them, a big black man with a face that looked as if it had been chewed real good and spat out, said, "This is supposed to be the jungle, not Grand Central Station ... Who are you?" "Who are you?" Hunt asked.
Wilson studied Hunt. He was an average-sized man, in his middle twenties. Very blond. Very smooth-faced. And quite sunburned.
"Our safari has run off," Wilson said. "Couple of the askaris convinced our bunch to rob us. We've gone after them."
"To shoot them?" Hunt asked. The whole prospect excited and terrified him.
"Not if we don't have to," Wilson said. "We just want our stuff back. We're hunters."
"I don't hunt animals," Hunt said. "Unless for food, and we have plenty of food."
"We?" Gromvitch said.
Hunt studied Gromvitch. He wished suddenly he hadn't said anything. Gromvitch was a small, weasel-faced man, and the mention of food seemed to excite him. Of course, that could just be because he was hungry . Then again, these men, they didn't exactly look like great checker companions. And the fat one, Hunt didn't like that one at all. He wasn't as tough or confident-looking as the big black man with the chewed-looking face, but there was something about him that made Hunt's skin crawl.
Then Hunt thought: come on, man. You're being judgmental. If there was one thing you learned in Sunday school, it was that you shouldn't judge others. That you couldn't tell a book by its cover. These men are lost, probably hungry, and that accounts for their savage appearance.
"My companion, Elbert Small," Hunt finally answered. "Our ten bearers."
"You have askaris?" Wilson asked. "Guides?"
"They sort of ran off," Hunt said.
"Sort of ran off?" Wilson asked.
"They didn't like the way we were running things, so they sort of ran off."
Wilson thought about that a moment, concluded this man was most likely a fool. He was lost, but wouldn't admit it. The young man's
bearers could lead him out of the jungle if they so chose, but perhaps they were having the time of their lives, following this idiot about. In the end, when supplies got low, they would desert, taking what was left, or they would lead the boy into their village and insist they be paid handsomely for bringing him to civilization. Wilson had seen that sort of thing before, back when he hunted big game. Back before the Foreign Legion.
"If you're not a hunting expedition," Cannon said, "then what are you?"
"A scientific expedition," Hunt said. "We're supposed to meet up with some comrades." He started to admit to being lost, but held back.
"Whatcha doing out here away from your safari?" asked Cannon.
"Heeding the call of nature," Hunt said.
"We're hungry," Wilson said. "We've been without food, for the most part of a day, and we figure we don't bring down some game soon, we're gonna be hungrier. I'd rather not wait to bring it down, if you can spare a little food."
Hunt wasn't sure he could spare anything. He wasn't sure how to get out of the jungle, how far the coast was. The desert. Civilization. He might as well have been blindfolded and parachuted into the jungle, confused as he was. But he said, "Come into camp and eat."
Small was sitting on his camp stool, leaning over the camp table, turning the map this way and that. All right now, he thought. The top of the map is north, the bottom south. But where am I on the map, and if I knew, would I know if I was facing the bottom of the map, or the top? Or the sides? Can you go through the center of a map?
He broke out his Boy Scout Handbook. He reread the part about the sun setting in the west, rising in the east, being overhead about midday. But it didn't say anything about the sun falling down behind the jungle when it grew late, or that you could proceed on what you thought was a straight line, only to find yourself back at the spot where you started a day or two later. The Handbook didn't mention that. That was a kind of secret it kept to itself. The part about going in circles.
So far, they had managed to do just that, at least a half-dozen times. Small couldn't decide if they were near their destination, closer to where they started, right in the middle, spinning around, or if they were in the midst of a nightmare.
What he did know was this: they had plenty of food and water and ammunition, but the askaris had deserted with a couple of their packs, leaving only the bearers, who had so little English at their command, Small wasn't sure how to communicate with them properly. He could manage to get them moving, but they merely followed him and Hunt blindly about.
Small put the Handbook away, folded up the map. He fiddled with some of the hardtack and canned meat, but found he wasn't very hungry. He got out a deck of cards. He was pretty good at solitaire. He liked that. It was one . of the few things he did in life that resulted in him winning. At least occasionally. And, as far as Small was concerned, all things considered, occasionally was good enough.
Small had just laid out a row of cards on the table, when he turned his head to the sound of Hunt returning. He saw the three men with him, and at first he thought it was Hanson and his party, then his hopes were immediately dashed when he realized it was not. He stood up slowly from the camp stool, studying the three men as they approached with Hunt. They didn't look like the friendly sort.
"I found these folks in the jungle," Hunt said.
"You don't say?" Small said. "Well, small world."
"Yeah, ain't it?" said the fat one. Hunt told Small what they had told him, about their bearers running off. Wilson studied their camp and said, "Seems to me you boys are a little lost."
"Bewildered," Hunt said.
"Lost," Small said. "You fellas wouldn't happen to know this part of the country?"
Wilson leaned over and helped himself to what was left of the hardtack. He dipped a piece of it into an open can of potted meat. He ate it hungrily. "How about we get some grub from you, boys?"
"Well, yeah," Hunt said. "I guess so."
Hunt went into the tent and came out with a pack. He opened it, passed out provisions. Wilson took Hunt's camp stool, sat at the camp table eating. Gromvitch and Cannon squatted nearby, scooping in the meat tins with their fingers, smacking.
"You do know the country, then?" Small asked. "Yeah," Wilson said. "We know it. Some. But we ain't got any supplies. You know what I'm saying?"
"I think so," Hunt said.
"What I think we got to do, see," Wilson said, "is, you know, team up. We share your grub and ammo and stuff, and we point you in the right direction. Where you want to go? The coast?"
"No," Hunt said. "Not really. Like I said. We're a scientific expedition. We're supposed to meet up with another party, and, well, I think we've gotten turned around."
"Maybe more than once, huh?" Gromvitch said. Hunt tried to smile, but only the corner of his mouth worked. "Few times, actually." Gromvitch chuckled. "You got anything to smoke?" Cannon asked. "Cigarettes? Cigars? Pipe?"
"No," Hunt said. "We don't smoke."
"Chew?" Cannon asked.
"No," Hunt said. "We don't do that either."
"How about some coffee?" Cannon said. "You do that, don't you?"
"Yeah," Hunt said. "We drink coffee ... Wait a minute. I don't like your tone. We don't work for you guys."
Wilson stood up, very quickly, and he had the .45 in his hand. Neither Hunt nor Small had seen him draw the gun. He moved swiftly and swung the .45 out and hit Hunt behind the ear, and Hunt went down on one knee. Small rose to his feet. He half wished he had on his gun, but was half glad he didn't. Had he tried to use it, these men would surely have killed him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the fat man standing behind him, smiling, with potted meat on his teeth.
"Why don't you sit back down there," said Cannon. "Just so's you'll stay comfortable. Know what I'm sayin'?"
Small sat down. Wilson was removing the .45 from Hunt's
side, and he wasn't in any hurry about it. The blow had stunned Hunt tremendously. Hunt was bent forward now with his head on the ground. Blood was running out from his hair and onto the side of his face.
Gromvitch walked over to the bearers, who had looked to run at the first sign of commotion. He pointed a rifle at them and spoke in their language. They sat back down in a circle.
Gromvitch came back. He said, "They see it our way, those fellas do. They like that I offered 'em some big money too. 'Course, they ain't gonna get it. Or nothin'. But I think it was real big of me to make the gesture, and it's good to see they got about as much loyalty as a duck."
"Our kind of people, no doubt," Wilson said. Then to Small: "Maybe you could put a compress on your buddy's head there. Naw, never mind. It'll stop bleeding pretty quick, way he's fallen over there in the dirt. Dirt plugs stuff good. Now, what were we sayin'? Oh, yeah, your buddy was sayin' how you boys don't work for us. But you know what? We're beginning to visualize you in the role. It could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Least from our end of the stick. And about that scientific expedition you're on. I think maybe it's gonna have to wait some. What was it anyway? Catching some kind of rare butterfly or something? Cataloguing grub worms?"
Small shook his head, but offered no explanation. Hunt, slightly recovered, thought: I get out of this. I get back to civilization. I'm going to hunt up my old Sunday school teacher, and tell her sometimes you can judge by appearance, then I'm going to punch her right in the nose. Wilson reached out and picked up the map Small had folded and placed on the camp table. He opened it. He said, "Well now, and who says there's no such thing as coincidence?"
"How's that?" Gromvitch said. "Our lost boys here," Wilson said. "They've got a map to this Ur."
"Get out of town," Cannon said. "We are out of town," Wilson said. "And, it is a map to Ur. Or so it claims."
Wilson studied dark lines that had been drawn on the map, showing Hunt and Small's planned method of approach. He could see immediately that they had missed their destination.
"These fools have been right on top of the city all this time and didn't know it. I figure they've been walkin' ,all around it."
"It's near?" Cannon said.
"I'll have to study this, get my bearings," Wilson said. "We not only got us a safari now, but we got a map to the place we want to go. That just leaves the wild man to take care of." "He's nothing to me," Gromvitch said.
"You keep sayin' that," Wilson said. "But don't say it again. Way I look at it, we know the wild man and that man and his daughter are ahead of us. They won't expect us to come on after them, them being armed and all. But now we got guns and we got equipment. I got a hunch them folks is who these jackasses were tryin' to meet up with. That right?"
The question had been directed at Small. Small considered for a moment. Cannon stuck the tip of his .45 in Small's ear. "Let me put a bug in your ear, Mr. Expedition. A man and a woman-a good-lookin' woman. They who you're tryin' to meet?"
Small didn't answer and Cannon slapped him lightly across the side of the head with the .45, but it was heavy enough to draw blood. A trickle ran from the side of Small's head, down his cheek.
"Maybe I should rephrase the question," Cannon said. "You want I should do that?"
Small hung his head. "That sounds like them... I suppose it is."
"And now that wild man's with them," Wilson said. "A package that nice ought to have a bow on it."
Hunt and Small were forced to carry supplies, walk in the forefront of the bearers. Wilson, who had been somewhat relaxed in his handling of his own bearers, and those of Hanson, had lost his goodwill, and he was rough with his newly acquired safari. All Wilson could think about was the wild man. It was bad enough to get whipped, but to have it happen in front of Cannon and Gromvitch, that was unforgivable. So late afternoon, when they hit upon sign of the Hanson party, Wilson stopped his safari.
"Way we're gonna do," Wilson said, "is I'm gonna take these two city boys with me, and Cannon. Gromvitch. You stay here, guard the bearers, the stuff. Have them make camp. No more Mr. Nice Guy. You get crap from one of these fellas, open him up a little. Shoot him in the legs, you got to. Make it slow, you want. That way, rest of these fellas will know we mean business."
Wilson knew Gromvitch would not do any such thing. It wasn't in him. Cannon would have done it in a heartbeat, but not Gromvitch. He might shoot one of them if he had to, but he didn't have the guts for that kind of thing. But he wanted Gromvitch to know he meant business. He didn't want any waffling, any whining.
Wilson had Hunt and Small loaded up with a few supplies, then he and Cannon pushed them onto the trail, in pursuit of Hanson's safari.
It was mid-afternoon, and Wilson concluded from the sign they found, they were less than fifteen minutes from catching up with Hanson. Wilson's plan was to push into the jungle, make a wide circle, and surprise them from ambush. He was going to shoot the wild man first, as he had decided fighting with him one on one, no matter how much he thought he might like to, could have negative results. He had decided, too, that he would kill Hanson and give the woman to Cannon and Gromvitch. It was not his preferred choice, but if he wanted to keep these two clowns happy, he had to know what bait to feed them, and the woman was just the thing.
Wilson was thinking on all this when, abruptly, some distance down from them, an antelope leapt across the trail. They paused in surprise, heard the sound of leaves crackling. Tarzan, preoccupied, Nkima clinging to his shoulder, the scent spoor of his enemies blowing away from him, did not smell them as he leapt out of the jungle and onto the trail, bow and arrow in hand, in swift pursuit of the antelope that was to be dinner for the Hanson party. He had left them waiting ten minutes up the trail, and had gone after food, and now it was close at hand.
He jerked to a stop in the middle of the trail and quickly strung an arrow to his bow. But at the moment he was about to let it go, to send it flying toward the antelope, which within seconds would be out of sight in the brush, the wind changed.
The scent of Wilson and his party filled his nostrils, and Tarzan wheeled. But just before Tarzan sensed them, Wilson had raised his rifle, took bead on the ape-man's head, and fired.
And it was in that moment that Tarzan turned.
The shot caught Tarzan a glancing blow across the forehead and dropped him, but not before his reflexes picked up the glint of the rifle and he let an arrow fly. Nkima, true to his nature, leapt away from Tarzan and went chattering with fright into the jungle.
Wilson saw the wild man go down, and when he lowered his rifle, buried to the feathers in the barrel was the ape-man's arrow. In the instant he had picked up then-scent, Tarzan had found the glint of the barrel and released an arrow at the target he had sighted. Wilson felt a cold chill go through him. It was a wonder that bullet and arrow had not collided. Had the man picked up his true target sooner, or had he been off his aim-the glint of the rifle-Wilson knew the arrow would have been driven into his face.
Even Cannon was in awe. "This guy," he said, "sure ain't no regular guy."
"Sure he is," Wilson said, tugging the arrow from the barrel of his rifle. "Now."
Hunt and Small, witness to this sorry spectacle, were pushed forward to where Tarzan lay. Cannon put the barrel of his rifle to Tarzan's forehead. "I'll just scatter his brains some."
"No, that's too easy," Wilson said. He pointed his rifle at Hunt and Small. "You two. Take those weapons off of him, toss them in the brash there. Then ... whatever your names are, get hold of him."
Hunt and Small, straining under the weight of the ape-man, carried him after Wilson. Cannon brought up the rear, poking them with a rifle. They went through the brush a ways, came to an opening in the foliage. It led them to a beautiful green veldt that extended a great distance. There was a large tree growing nearby. It was dead, split, as if struck by lightning, but it was still solid. Wilson had them carry Tarzan to the foot of the tree and drop him. Wilson opened his pack and got out a
leather ammunition belt. He removed the ammunition, took his knife, cut strips of leather from it. He instructed Small and Hunt to hold Tarzan up with his back against the tree.
Wilson used the strips of leather to tie Tarzan's hands behind him, and to the tree. He used strips to tie his feet, then strips to
pull the ankles tight against the trunk. He used a long strip around
Tarzan's neck, pulled it around the tree, made it secure.
"What's the idea?" Cannon said. "Why not just shoot him?"
Burroughs, Edgar Rice - Tarzan 27 - The Lost Adventure (with Lansdale, Joe R) Page 6
