The Arab Raid
After their first terror had subsided subsequent to the shock of the
earthquake, Basuli and his warriors hastened back into the passageway
in search of Tarzan and two of their own number who were also missing.
They found the way blocked by jammed and distorted rock. For two days
they labored to tear a way through to their imprisoned friends; but
when, after Herculean efforts, they had unearthed but a few yards of
the choked passage, and discovered the mangled remains of one of their
fellows they were forced to the conclusion that Tarzan and the second
Waziri also lay dead beneath the rock mass farther in, beyond human
aid, and no longer susceptible of it.
Again and again as they labored they called aloud the names of their
master and their comrade; but no answering call rewarded their
listening ears. At last they gave up the search. Tearfully they cast a
last look at the shattered tomb of their master, shouldered the heavy
burden of gold that would at least furnish comfort, if not happiness,
to their bereaved and beloved mistress, and made their mournful way
back across the desolate valley of Opar, and downward through the
forests beyond toward the distant bungalow.
And as they marched what sorry fate was already drawing down upon that
peaceful, happy home!
From the north came Achmet Zek, riding to the summons of his
lieutenant’s letter. With him came his horde of renegade Arabs,
outlawed marauders, these, and equally degraded blacks, garnered from
the more debased and ignorant tribes of savage cannibals through whose
countries the raider passed to and fro with perfect impunity.
Mugambi, the ebon Hercules, who had shared the dangers and vicissitudes
of his beloved Bwana, from Jungle Island, almost to the headwaters of
the Ugambi, was the first to note the bold approach of the sinister
caravan.
He it was whom Tarzan had left in charge of the warriors who remained
to guard Lady Greystoke, nor could a braver or more loyal guardian have
been found in any clime or upon any soil. A giant in stature, a savage,
fearless warrior, the huge black possessed also soul and judgment in
proportion to his bulk and his ferocity.
Not once since his master had departed had he been beyond sight or
sound of the bungalow, except when Lady Greystoke chose to canter
across the broad plain, or relieve the monotony of her loneliness by a
brief hunting excursion. On such occasions Mugambi, mounted upon a wiry
Arab, had ridden close at her horse’s heels.
The raiders were still a long way off when the warrior’s keen eyes
discovered them. For a time he stood scrutinizing the advancing party
in silence, then he turned and ran rapidly in the direction of the
native huts which lay a few hundred yards below the bungalow.
Here he called out to the lolling warriors. He issued orders rapidly.
In compliance with them the men seized upon their weapons and their
shields. Some ran to call in the workers from the fields and to warn
the tenders of the flocks and herds. The majority followed Mugambi back
toward the bungalow.
The dust of the raiders was still a long distance away. Mugambi could
not know positively that it hid an enemy; but he had spent a lifetime
of savage life in savage Africa, and he had seen parties before come
thus unheralded. Sometimes they had come in peace and sometimes they
had come in war—one could never tell. It was well to be prepared.
Mugambi did not like the haste with which the strangers advanced.
The Greystoke bungalow was not well adapted for defense. No palisade
surrounded it, for, situated as it was, in the heart of loyal Waziri,
its master had anticipated no possibility of an attack in force by any
enemy. Heavy, wooden shutters there were to close the window apertures
against hostile arrows, and these Mugambi was engaged in lowering when
Lady Greystoke appeared upon the veranda.
“Why, Mugambi!” she exclaimed. “What has happened? Why are you lowering
the shutters?”
Mugambi pointed out across the plain to where a white-robed force of
mounted men was now distinctly visible.
“Arabs,” he explained. “They come for no good purpose in the absence of
the Great Bwana.”
Beyond the neat lawn and the flowering shrubs, Jane Clayton saw the
glistening bodies of her Waziri. The sun glanced from the tips of their
metal-shod spears, picked out the gorgeous colors in the feathers of
their war bonnets, and reflected the high-lights from the glossy skins
of their broad shoulders and high cheek bones.
Jane Clayton surveyed them with unmixed feelings of pride and
affection. What harm could befall her with such as these to protect
her?
The raiders had halted now, a hundred yards out upon the plain. Mugambi
had hastened down to join his warriors. He advanced a few yards before
them and raising his voice hailed the strangers. Achmet Zek sat
straight in his saddle before his henchmen.
“Arab!” cried Mugambi. “What do you here?”
“We come in peace,” Achmet Zek called back.
“Then turn and go in peace,” replied Mugambi. “We do not want you here.
There can be no peace between Arab and Waziri.”
Mugambi, although not born in Waziri, had been adopted into the tribe,
which now contained no member more jealous of its traditions and its
prowess than he.
Achmet Zek drew to one side of his horde, speaking to his men in a low
voice. A moment later, without warning, a ragged volley was poured into
the ranks of the Waziri. A couple of warriors fell, the others were for
charging the attackers; but Mugambi was a cautious as well as a brave
leader. He knew the futility of charging mounted men armed with
muskets. He withdrew his force behind the shrubbery of the garden. Some
he dispatched to various other parts of the grounds surrounding the
bungalow. Half a dozen he sent to the bungalow itself with instructions
to keep their mistress within doors, and to protect her with their
lives.
Adopting the tactics of the desert fighters from which he had sprung,
Achmet Zek led his followers at a gallop in a long, thin line,
describing a great circle which drew closer and closer in toward the
defenders.
At that part of the circle closest to the Waziri, a constant fusillade
of shots was poured into the bushes behind which the black warriors had
concealed themselves. The latter, on their part, loosed their slim
shafts at the nearest of the enemy.
The Waziri, justly famed for their archery, found no cause to blush for
their performance that day. Time and again some swarthy horseman threw
hands above his head and toppled from his saddle, pierced by a deadly
arrow; but the contest was uneven. The Arabs outnumbered the Waziri;
their bullets penetrated the shrubbery and found marks that the Arab
riflemen had not even seen; and then Achmet Zek circled inward a half
mile above the bungalow, tore down a section of the fence, and led his
marauders within the grounds.
Across the fields they charged at a mad run. Not again did they pause
to lower fences, instead, they drove their wild mounts straight for
them, clearing the obstacles as lightly as winged gulls.
Mugambi saw them coming, and, calling those of his warriors who
remained, ran for the bungalow and the last stand. Upon the veranda
Lady Greystoke stood, rifle in hand. More than a single raider had
accounted to her steady nerves and cool aim for his outlawry; more than
a single pony raced, riderless, in the wake of the charging horde.
Mugambi pushed his mistress back into the greater security of the
interior, and with his depleted force prepared to make a last stand
against the foe.
On came the Arabs, shouting and waving their long guns above their
heads. Past the veranda they raced, pouring a deadly fire into the
kneeling Waziri who discharged their volley of arrows from behind their
long, oval shields—shields well adapted, perhaps, to stop a hostile
arrow, or deflect a spear; but futile, quite, before the leaden
missiles of the riflemen.
From beneath the half-raised shutters of the bungalow other bowmen did
effective service in greater security, and after the first assault,
Mugambi withdrew his entire force within the building.
Again and again the Arabs charged, at last forming a stationary circle
about the little fortress, and outside the effective range of the
defenders’ arrows. From their new position they fired at will at the
windows. One by one the Waziri fell. Fewer and fewer were the arrows
that replied to the guns of the raiders, and at last Achmet Zek felt
safe in ordering an assault.
Firing as they ran, the bloodthirsty horde raced for the veranda. A
dozen of them fell to the arrows of the defenders; but the majority
reached the door. Heavy gun butts fell upon it. The crash of splintered
wood mingled with the report of a rifle as Jane Clayton fired through
the panels upon the relentless foe.
Upon both sides of the door men fell; but at last the frail barrier
gave to the vicious assaults of the maddened attackers; it crumpled
inward and a dozen swarthy murderers leaped into the living-room. At
the far end stood Jane Clayton surrounded by the remnant of her devoted
guardians. The floor was covered by the bodies of those who already had
given up their lives in her defense. In the forefront of her protectors
stood the giant Mugambi. The Arabs raised their rifles to pour in the
last volley that would effectually end all resistance; but Achmet Zek
roared out a warning order that stayed their trigger fingers.
“Fire not upon the woman!” he cried. “Who harms her, dies. Take the
woman alive!”
The Arabs rushed across the room; the Waziri met them with their heavy
spears. Swords flashed, long-barreled pistols roared out their sullen
death dooms. Mugambi launched his spear at the nearest of the enemy
with a force that drove the heavy shaft completely through the Arab’s
body, then he seized a pistol from another, and grasping it by the
barrel brained all who forced their way too near his mistress.
Emulating his example the few warriors who remained to him fought like
demons; but one by one they fell, until only Mugambi remained to defend
the life and honor of the ape-man’s mate.
From across the room Achmet Zek watched the unequal struggle and urged
on his minions. In his hands was a jeweled musket. Slowly he raised it
to his shoulder, waiting until another move should place Mugambi at his
mercy without endangering the lives of the woman or any of his own
followers.
At last the moment came, and Achmet Zek pulled the trigger. Without a
sound the brave Mugambi sank to the floor at the feet of Jane Clayton.
An instant later she was surrounded and disarmed. Without a word they
dragged her from the bungalow. A giant Negro lifted her to the pommel
of his saddle, and while the raiders searched the bungalow and
outhouses for plunder he rode with her beyond the gates and waited the
coming of his master.
Jane Clayton saw the raiders lead the horses from the corral, and drive
the herds in from the fields. She saw her home plundered of all that
represented intrinsic worth in the eyes of the Arabs, and then she saw
the torch applied, and the flames lick up what remained.
And at last, when the raiders assembled after glutting their fury and
their avarice, and rode away with her toward the north, she saw the
smoke and the flames rising far into the heavens until the winding of
the trail into the thick forests hid the sad view from her eyes.
As the flames ate their way into the living-room, reaching out forked
tongues to lick up the bodies of the dead, one of that gruesome company
whose bloody welterings had long since been stilled, moved again. It
was a huge black who rolled over upon his side and opened blood-shot,
suffering eyes. Mugambi, whom the Arabs had left for dead, still lived.
The hot flames were almost upon him as he raised himself painfully upon
his hands and knees and crawled slowly toward the doorway.
Again and again he sank weakly to the floor; but each time he rose
again and continued his pitiful way toward safety. After what seemed to
him an interminable time, during which the flames had become a
veritable fiery furnace at the far side of the room, the great black
managed to reach the veranda, roll down the steps, and crawl off into
the cool safety of some nearby shrubbery.
All night he lay there, alternately unconscious and painfully sentient;
and in the latter state watching with savage hatred the lurid flames
which still rose from burning crib and hay cock. A prowling lion roared
close at hand; but the giant black was unafraid. There was place for
but a single thought in his savage mind—revenge! revenge! revenge!