Tarzan and the Lion-Man t-16

by Edgar Rice Burrougs

  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. Hawk
like, 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.