It had been a mistake. Tarzan, dead or alive, was a sore spot with Cannon, and the possibility that he might be alive had driven Cannon to rage. A rage that resulted in Small having his throat cut.
Thinking about it now, Hanson's finger sweated on the trigger of the rifle. He wanted Wilson to pay. He wanted Cannon to pay. And Wilson, well, he was here now. It would be so easy. One small squeeze. One shot. And it was all over. The man was out of the gene pool.
It was tempting.
Hanson looked at poor Small. The early morning light was growing and he could see the savage wound in Small's throat. The wound was covered in flies, each jockeying for position. Ants were crawling on Small's face, onto his open eyes. He remembered Small's last words and suddenly he understood them.
He had not wanted to die, or be left here in the jungle, in his underwear. In one sense, it was a silly thing to be concerned about, but in another it was a last desire for dignity.
Hanson stood up and lorded over Wilson, the rifle pointed at his head. Wilson glared at him.
"All right," Wilson said. "Go on. You been wantin' to all night. Go on. Quit thinkin' about it and do it."
Hanson was quiet for a long moment. "That's too easy," he finally said. "It's what I want, but it's too easy. I'm going to cut you loose, and I want you to take off your pants for Small to wear."
Wilson studied Hanson carefully. "Say what?"
"You heard me," Hanson said. "I'm going to cut you loose. Remove your pants. If you try and escape, I will shoot you full of holes. I would enjoy that. Understand?"
"The man's dead. What's he need pants for?"
"Because he didn't want to die like that, and I don't want him to lie like that."
"He's already covered in ants. It ain't a thing to him." Hanson's voice was as sharp as a razor. "It matters to me. Roll on your belly."
Wilson rolled on his belly. Hanson used the knife he had taken from the pack and cut Wilson's hands and feet loose. He stood back and pointed the rifle. "Take them off, or don't," Hanson said. "One way or another, I'll get them onto Small."
"I got an extra in that pack you was carrying," Wilson said. "Let him have a pair of them. I think maybe they was his or that other fella's. anyway. What was it? Hunt?"
"No," Hanson said. "You take those off. Take off the shirt, too."
Wilson removed his pants and shirt, tossed them to Hanson.
"Good," Hanson said. "Now sit down."
Wilson, wearing only his underwear and shoes, did as he was instructed. Hanson gathered up the cut portions of rope. There was still enough there to retie Wilson. He tossed Wilson a long piece of rope. "Tie up your feet. I'll check to see you did it right. You didn't, I won't be happy."
"Well, if there's one thing I want," Wilson said between clenched teeth, "it's to make you happy. I live for it, the making you happy part."
"Good," Hanson said. "That's real good."
Wilson tied his feet together. Hanson told him to roll on his belly and he did. Hanson carefully tied Wilson's hands behind his back, then lifted Wilson's feet and tied them to his hands.
Hanson brushed the flies and ants off of Small very carefully, pulled the pants on the stiff body, and closed the eyes with considerable effort. He carried the body to a low tree and placed Small in it, having to bend his legs like pipe cleaners so that he would rest there.
Hanson stood back and looked at his work. Flies and ants would still get to Small, but this way it looked as if he were merely resting in a tree. It was kind of silly, but somehow Hanson felt better about it. It was certainly better than leaving Small's body on the ground and undressed. There just wasn't any dignity in that. None at all.
Hanson broke open one of the packs, found some canned meat, opened it, and ate it with his fingers. Wilson smelled it, said, "Am I gonna get any of that?"
"I'll think about it," Hanson said.
Before the day broke and Hanson dressed Small in Wilson's shirt and pants and put him in a tree, a unique scenario had unfolded in the jungle. Billy, weak from his wounds, had begun to wear down. He had followed Cannon at first by sound, then by instinct. But by midnight he had become exhausted. The wounds, lack of food, it was all coming home to roost.
Billy squatted down with his rifle and tried to listen for Cannon bursting wildly through brush and weeds, but Cannon had finally gotten
wise and had either started to steal through the foliage or had found a place to hole up. Billy was considering his next plan when he heard something, then realized he had heard it too late.
Cannon leapt from the brush and came down on top of him brandishing the knife, but the impact of the attack was such that it sent them both rolling up against a tree. This hurt Billy, but Cannon took some of the impact, so the stronger man lost his grip, and Billy, scuttling on all fours, minus his rifle, darted into the shadowy brush just as Cannon recovered the rifle and popped a shot at Billy.
The shot singed the air above Billy's head, but Billy stayed low and kept scuttling. He dove into the brush an Cannon, hot for blood, came charging after him.
Lying low, Billy watched through the foliage as Cannon's feet thumped past him. Billy was angry with himself. He had let his wounds distract him, and instead of being the pursuer, he had become the prey. He had fallen into that trap like an idiot. He realized now that Cannon had been making noise all along, leading him into an ambush, and by the time he realized the big man's game plan, it was too late.
No, thought Billy, I am being too generous with myself. I did not know his game plan, or that he had one until after he played it out. I am an idiot. He not only outsmarted me, he has both the rifle and the knife now.
Feeling weak and stupid, rubbing a chicken-egg-sized knot on his head, Billy sat still and waited. The night crawled on, and after a while he heard Cannon pounding back his way. "Come out, you little punk. Come out and get your medicine. You're gonna get it anyhow, so come and get it. I got the cure for what ails you, boy. Come on out."
Carefully, Billy crawled away from the sound of Cannon's voice, and after a tune on hands and knees, rose to a standing position and moved silently through the brush. He considered going back to find Hanson, but the idea of returning without the rifle and without Cannon did not appeal to his pride.
He found a tree from which a number of vines dangled, and suddenly had an idea. He climbed the tree and found a spot where he could perch on a limb and twist the vine and unravel it. It was hard work and made his fingers bleed, but he managed it, then he did the same to another vine, and yet another, and plaited then together. The three vines made a sound lariat. He made a loop in one end, climbed down, and began to yell.
"Come get me, big man. Come get me."
A shot tore through the brush near Billy, and he knew Cannon was firing at the sound of his voice. He yelled again, and ducked low. Another shot tore through the brush. He continued to yell, and finally resorted to name-calling. It seemed to him that Cannon, having slyly outsmarted him earlier, would be aware that he was leading him into a trap; but it also occurred to him that Cannon might not care. He was an angry man who felt he had the edge. He had both the rifle and the knife, and he was larger than Billy.
Billy thought about that, and determined Cannon did have the edge. At least on those grounds. But to gain the edge over a superior opponent, one had to use his head. Billy bent low and tied a small loop in the opposite end of the vine, then, continuing to yell, he invited Cannon to come closer.
When the sound of the big man was almost on him, Billy turned and took to the tree from which be had procured the vines. He climbed out on a large limb and lay there like a great python. Billy had tried to time his retreat into the tree correctly, and had been successful. The shadowy shape of Cannon broke through the brush and advanced beneath the limb where Billy lay.
Billy almost let him pass, then regained. heart. It was now or never. He let the 1oop of his jungle-made lasso drop over Cannon's head
just as the man made a step, therefore cau
sing the loop to catch under his chin and tighten. Billy added to this by slipping his foot into the smaller loop, and dropping from the limb, he let his weight jerk the rope taut around Cannon's neck. Cannon let out a grunt and was yanked up. He let go of the rifle and grabbed at the vine rope with both hands. As he swirled, he saw the body of Billy glide down past him on the other end of the rope.
"Hello, big bwana," Billy said.
Cannon thrashed and spun about like a hooked fish. He continued to grab at the rope above his head, but this did nothing. The knot tightened, biting into his flesh.
Billy watched Cannon spin wildly and kick his legs Billy remembered how Cannon had cut the throat of the man Hanson called Small. He thought of how Cannon had put the coal in the palm of his hand and laughed about it. He thought about all this as Cannon spun and bucked against the rope. Then Cannon spun less fast and hardly kicked at all.
Billy, his foot still in the loop, watched and waited Even after Cannon had ceased to spin or kick, after he tongue protruded from his mouth like a black sod stuffed with cotton, he held his place. He listened to the sounds of the animals in the jungle and he looked up to see the moon through a slit in the boughs. The moon was as white as bone.
A full five minutes later, Billy took his foot from the little loop and dropped to the ground, allowing Cannon's corpse to crash into the brush. Billy recovered the dropped rifle and removed the knife from Cannon's body. Just to make sure, he carefully cut the big man's throat. Billy climbed back into the tree and found a clutch of limbs on which he could rest. He fell into a deep sleep and when he awoke, sunlight was cutting through the boughs and vines and spraying him with heat.
Climbing down, he checked the corpse of Cannon. It was covered in insects. He left the body, and found plants with succulent roots. He dug them up with the knife shook the dirt from them, sliced them, and ate. They were pithy, but satisfying. Having eaten, Billy clutched the rifle and started back toward where he had left Hanson and the big black man.
A few hours after daybreak, Hanson's anger began to subside. His disposition was still dark, but he began to feel human again. He allowed Wilson to put on clothes from one of the packs and eat from a tin of meat. He made him sit with his feet tied, however, and he never once ceased to point the rifle at him.
He looked at where the fire had been in the trail. It had died out and there were only little wisps of smoke crawling up from it, coasting on air, climbing into the treetops. He drank from a canteen, poured some of the water into a cup, and offered it to Wilson while he held the rifle to his head. When Wilson took the cup, Hanson returned to his vigil, and this was interrupted by a voice.
"Bwana, it's me."
"Billy?" Hanson called.
Billy broke out of the jungle smiling. "I come up on you sneaky- like," he said. "But I didn't want to be too sneaky, so you shoot my head off."
Il thought I was being sneaky," Hanson said. "Camping off the trail like this."
"Not so sneaky," Billy said.
"Cannon?"
"No problem," Billy said, and drew his finger across his throat.
"Good," Hanson said, then to Wilson: " What do you think about that?"
Wilson sighed. "Well, I reckon that's all right. I didn't like the sonofabitch no how."
KURVANDI BATHED IN preparation of seeing the great prisoner. He had been told of the bronze giant's exploits. He had killed many of Kurvandi's best warriors. He was glad, however, that the big man had not been slain. A man like that, he would be interesting to watch in the arena; a man like th at was a perfect sacrifice to Ebopa. Ebopa would want to take the sacrifice himself.
That would be good. Kurvandi had not seen Ebopa take a sacrifice in some time. It would do the people good to see their god, to know it still stalked beneath their feet and that it was as powerful as ever.
Another good thing. This bronze giant, be would be sacrifice of great importance to Ebopa. Not like the weaklings of late that had practically died at the sight of the dancing god, The Stick That Walks.
Kurvandi determined that if the man was as strong, determined, and skilled as they said, he would be just the sort of challenge Ebopa would appreciate. The sort a challenge he and his people would enjoy watching in the arena.
Kurvandi considered all this as he lay in his metal tub and soaked in the blood of sacrifices, blood that had been brought to him warm from their veins. It was his belief that if you soaked in the fresh blood of the living, you absorbed their life and lived longer; doing this, you took part of their soul.
It was also Kurvandi's belief that if blood was spilled on the soil of Ur, it was appreciated by their god Ebopa. Some of Kurvandi's wise men, soothsayers, and sorcerers said this was not so, since so much had gone wrong in the last few years. Childbirth deaths. Diseases that ravaged the countryside. Plagues of insects. Even plant diseases that could destroy an entire crop overnight. Some had even suggested the blood sacrifices were the problem.
But Kurvandi did not believe this. How could be when Ebopa so enjoyed tearing the living apart, feasting on their flesh, blood, brains, and innards? Ebopa loved the blood and flesh of the living, so Kurvandi thought It only right he should also love it. This was the proper way to respect Ebopa, to follow in his image.
Another pitcher of warm blood was brought to his bath chamber by a trembling slave girl dressed only in a loin cloth. Kurvandi turned and looked upon her. She was young and fresh and fine to look upon. She trembled even more as she approached the great metal tub. The great black lions, fastened on short chains on either side of the tub, growled at her, narrowed their eyes to slits.
"Come, girl," said Kurvandi. "Fear not the lions. They are pets."
The girl trembled so violently the blood sloshed from the golden pitcher. "Careful," said Kurvandi." You are spilling it. Bring it while it is still warm."
The slave girl knelt and started to tip the pitcher's contents into the already blood-filled tub. "No," said Kurvandi, grabbing her hand, pushing the pitcher to an upright position. "Pour it over me, girl
."
The slave girl did as she was commanded. When the blood flowed freely down Kurvandi's face, he smiled at her. The blood was dark on his lips and teeth. He reached out and took hold of her again. "Did you watch the blood being drained into the pitcher?"
The girl nodded.
"Did it excite you?"
"No. my lord."
"Of course it did," Kurvandi said. "How could it have not? Now tell me again. Did it, excite you?"
The girl hesitated only for a moment. This was the first time she had waited on Kurvandi, her king. She had been taken from her parents
when she was only thirteen and brought here, raised in the palace as a kitchen maid until her current age, sixteen. And then, Kurvandi. inspecting the great kitchen and the bread-baking, had spied her, asked that she be brought to him with the pitchers of blood.
And if this was not bad enough, she had been forced to stand by the great stone drain in the kitchen, where the sheep, cattle, and chickens were hung up to have their throats cut, their blood drained, and watch human beings die like farm animals. One of those who had died, the very woman whose blood she had just poured from the pitcher, had been a kitchen maid, a friend of hers. The maid had become a donor to Kurvandi's bath for no other reason than she had dropped a loaf of bread in his presence.
Slaves had contributed to Kurvandi's bath for less than that.
Kurvandi pulled the quaking girl to him, roughly kissed her mouth. The blood from his face stained hers. He pulled her into the bath with him. She fought for a moment. but as his grip increased and she felt his fingers digging deep within her flesh, she stopped fighting. She knew to fight would only make it worse.
He kissed her again. She tried her hest to kiss back in self- defense, but she could think of nothing but the blood on his face; the blood she was now soaking in; the blood permeating her loincloth.
"Please," she said.. "Let me go. The blood . . . It makes me sick."
Kurvandi grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face close to his. "You should be honored, girl. I am Kurvandi. Your king. The blood of all the Kurvandis flows through me."
"And the blood of the innocent flows over you." said the girl.
No sooner had the words come out of her mouth than she knew she was doomed.
But then, Kurvandi smiled. "You are right."
He pulled her to him, kissed her. Bit her lip. She let out a scream. He pulled her head into the tub of blood and held it under. She thrashed for but a moment, but the will to live was not strong within her.
A few seconds after she had ceased thrashing, Kurvandi let her go, watched as she floated facedown in the deep tub. A fleeting moment of regret raced through Kurvandi's brain.
He regretted he had killed her so easily. She would have made a good one for the harem. He must try and control himself. At least a little. He needed male heirs, and he had yet to find a woman within which his seed would grow. This one, she had been young and strong and beautiful. She might well have been the field he should have sowed.
Regret passed.
Kurvandi raised up in his bath, reached out of the tub, and took hold of a jewel-encrusted dagger that lay on the floor next to his glass of wine.
There was no use letting good blood go to waste. Not with it being so close by, and still warm.
He took hold of the girl's head and lifted it out of the bath to expose her throat.
He used the knife.
The lions purred with pleasure. They knew later they would be given special morsels.
Tarzan awoke cold and in pain, shackled in irons, deep in the dark.
In an instant, the ape-man was clear-headed. He pushed the pain of his injuries into a single mental knot, then tried by pure willpower to dissolve it. He almost succeeded. Most of the pain was neutralized.
The first thing Tarzan did was sit up from the cold dungeon floor and examine himself. Nothing was broken. A few cuts, muscle rips, but
all in all, he had been lucky. And someone had crudely dressed his wounds. There were strips of cloth tied around cuts on his arms and legs.
Tarzan: The Lost Adventure Page 17
