Achmet Zek Sees the Jewels
Mugambi, weak and suffering, had dragged his painful way along the
trail of the retreating raiders. He could move but slowly, resting
often; but savage hatred and an equally savage desire for vengeance
kept him to his task. As the days passed his wounds healed and his
strength returned, until at last his giant frame had regained all of
its former mighty powers. Now he went more rapidly; but the mounted
Arabs had covered a great distance while the wounded black had been
painfully crawling after them.
They had reached their fortified camp, and there Achmet Zek awaited the
return of his lieutenant, Albert Werper. During the long, rough
journey, Jane Clayton had suffered more in anticipation of her
impending fate than from the hardships of the road.
Achmet Zek had not deigned to acquaint her with his intentions
regarding her future. She prayed that she had been captured in the hope
of ransom, for if such should prove the case, no great harm would
befall her at the hands of the Arabs; but there was the chance, the
horrid chance, that another fate awaited her. She had heard of many
women, among whom were white women, who had been sold by outlaws such
as Achmet Zek into the slavery of black harems, or taken farther north
into the almost equally hideous existence of some Turkish seraglio.
Jane Clayton was of sterner stuff than that which bends in spineless
terror before danger. Until hope proved futile she would not give it
up; nor did she entertain thoughts of self-destruction only as a final
escape from dishonor. So long as Tarzan lived there was every reason to
expect succor. No man nor beast who roamed the savage continent could
boast the cunning and the powers of her lord and master. To her, he was
little short of omnipotent in his native world—this world of savage
beasts and savage men. Tarzan would come, and she would be rescued and
avenged, of that she was certain. She counted the days that must elapse
before he would return from Opar and discover what had transpired
during his absence. After that it would be but a short time before he
had surrounded the Arab stronghold and punished the motley crew of
wrongdoers who inhabited it.
That he could find her she had no slightest doubt. No spoor, however
faint, could elude the keen vigilance of his senses. To him, the trail
of the raiders would be as plain as the printed page of an open book to
her.
And while she hoped, there came through the dark jungle another.
Terrified by night and by day, came Albert Werper. A dozen times he had
escaped the claws and fangs of the giant carnivora only by what seemed
a miracle to him. Armed with nothing more than the knife he had brought
with him from Opar, he had made his way through as savage a country as
yet exists upon the face of the globe.
By night he had slept in trees. By day he had stumbled fearfully on,
often taking refuge among the branches when sight or sound of some
great cat warned him from danger. But at last he had come within sight
of the palisade behind which were his fierce companions.
At almost the same time Mugambi came out of the jungle before the
walled village. As he stood in the shadow of a great tree,
reconnoitering, he saw a man, ragged and disheveled, emerge from the
jungle almost at his elbow. Instantly he recognized the newcomer as he
who had been a guest of his master before the latter had departed for
Opar.
The black was upon the point of hailing the Belgian when something
stayed him. He saw the white man walking confidently across the
clearing toward the village gate. No sane man thus approached a village
in this part of Africa unless he was sure of a friendly welcome.
Mugambi waited. His suspicions were aroused.
He heard Werper halloo; he saw the gates swing open, and he witnessed
the surprised and friendly welcome that was accorded the erstwhile
guest of Lord and Lady Greystoke. A light broke upon the understanding
of Mugambi. This white man had been a traitor and a spy. It was to him
they owed the raid during the absence of the Great Bwana. To his hate
for the Arabs, Mugambi added a still greater hate for the white spy.
Within the village Werper passed hurriedly toward the silken tent of
Achmet Zek. The Arab arose as his lieutenant entered. His face showed
surprise as he viewed the tattered apparel of the Belgian.
“What has happened?” he asked.
Werper narrated all, save the little matter of the pouch of gems which
were now tightly strapped about his waist, beneath his clothing. The
Arab’s eyes narrowed greedily as his henchman described the treasure
that the Waziri had buried beside the ruins of the Greystoke bungalow.
“It will be a simple matter now to return and get it,” said Achmet Zek.
“First we will await the coming of the rash Waziri, and after we have
slain them we may take our time to the treasure—none will disturb it
where it lies, for we shall leave none alive who knows of its
existence.
“And the woman?” asked Werper.
“I shall sell her in the north,” replied the raider. “It is the only
way, now. She should bring a good price.”
The Belgian nodded. He was thinking rapidly. If he could persuade
Achmet Zek to send him in command of the party which took Lady
Greystoke north it would give him the opportunity he craved to make his
escape from his chief. He would forego a share of the gold, if he could
but get away unscathed with the jewels.
He knew Achmet Zek well enough by this time to know that no member of
his band ever was voluntarily released from the service of Achmet Zek.
Most of the few who deserted were recaptured. More than once had Werper
listened to their agonized screams as they were tortured before being
put to death. The Belgian had no wish to take the slightest chance of
recapture.
“Who will go north with the woman,” he asked, “while we are returning
for the gold that the Waziri buried by the bungalow of the Englishman?”
Achmet Zek thought for a moment. The buried gold was of much greater
value than the price the woman would bring. It was necessary to rid
himself of her as quickly as possible and it was also well to obtain
the gold with the least possible delay. Of all his followers, the
Belgian was the most logical lieutenant to intrust with the command of
one of the parties. An Arab, as familiar with the trails and tribes as
Achmet Zek himself, might collect the woman’s price and make good his
escape into the far north. Werper, on the other hand, could scarce make
his escape alone through a country hostile to Europeans while the men
he would send with the Belgian could be carefully selected with a view
to preventing Werper from persuading any considerable portion of his
command to accompany him should he contemplate desertion of his chief.
At last the Arab spoke: “It is not necessary that we both return for
the gold. You shall go north with the woman, carrying a letter to a
friend of mine who is always in touch with the best markets for such
merchandise, while I return for the gold. We can meet again here when
our business is concluded.”
Werper could scarce disguise the joy with which he received this
welcome decision. And that he did entirely disguise it from the keen
and suspicious eyes of Achmet Zek is open to question. However, the
decision reached, the Arab and his lieutenant discussed the details of
their forthcoming ventures for a short time further, when Werper made
his excuses and returned to his own tent for the comforts and luxury of
a long-desired bath and shave.
Having bathed, the Belgian tied a small hand mirror to a cord sewn to
the rear wall of his tent, placed a rude chair beside an equally rude
table that stood beside the glass, and proceeded to remove the rough
stubble from his face.
In the catalog of masculine pleasures there is scarce one which imparts
a feeling of greater comfort and refreshment than follows a clean
shave, and now, with weariness temporarily banished, Albert Werper
sprawled in his rickety chair to enjoy a final cigaret before retiring.
His thumbs, tucked in his belt in lazy support of the weight of his
arms, touched the belt which held the jewel pouch about his waist. He
tingled with excitement as he let his mind dwell upon the value of the
treasure, which, unknown to all save himself, lay hidden beneath his
clothing.
What would Achmet Zek say, if he knew? Werper grinned. How the old
rascal’s eyes would pop could he but have a glimpse of those
scintillating beauties! Werper had never yet had an opportunity to
feast his eyes for any great length of time upon them. He had not even
counted them—only roughly had he guessed at their value.
He unfastened the belt and drew the pouch from its hiding place. He was
alone. The balance of the camp, save the sentries, had retired—none
would enter the Belgian’s tent. He fingered the pouch, feeling out the
shapes and sizes of the precious, little nodules within. He hefted the
bag, first in one palm, then in the other, and at last he wheeled his
chair slowly around before the table, and in the rays of his small lamp
let the glittering gems roll out upon the rough wood.
The refulgent rays transformed the interior of the soiled and squalid
canvas to the splendor of a palace in the eyes of the dreaming man. He
saw the gilded halls of pleasure that would open their portals to the
possessor of the wealth which lay scattered upon this stained and
dented table top. He dreamed of joys and luxuries and power which
always had been beyond his grasp, and as he dreamed his gaze lifted
from the table, as the gaze of a dreamer will, to a far distant goal
above the mean horizon of terrestrial commonplaceness.
Unseeing, his eyes rested upon the shaving mirror which still hung upon
the tent wall above the table; but his sight was focused far beyond.
And then a reflection moved within the polished surface of the tiny
glass, the man’s eyes shot back out of space to the mirror’s face, and
in it he saw reflected the grim visage of Achmet Zek, framed in the
flaps of the tent doorway behind him.
Werper stifled a gasp of dismay. With rare self-possession he let his
gaze drop, without appearing to have halted upon the mirror until it
rested again upon the gems. Without haste, he replaced them in the
pouch, tucked the latter into his shirt, selected a cigaret from his
case, lighted it and rose. Yawning, and stretching his arms above his
head, he turned slowly toward the opposite end of the tent. The face of
Achmet Zek had disappeared from the opening.
To say that Albert Werper was terrified would be putting it mildly. He
realized that he not only had sacrificed his treasure; but his life as
well. Achmet Zek would never permit the wealth that he had discovered
to slip through his fingers, nor would he forgive the duplicity of a
lieutenant who had gained possession of such a treasure without
offering to share it with his chief.
Slowly the Belgian prepared for bed. If he were being watched, he could
not know; but if so the watcher saw no indication of the nervous
excitement which the European strove to conceal. When ready for his
blankets, the man crossed to the little table and extinguished the
light.
It was two hours later that the flaps at the front of the tent
separated silently and gave entrance to a dark-robed figure, which
passed noiselessly from the darkness without to the darkness within.
Cautiously the prowler crossed the interior. In one hand was a long
knife. He came at last to the pile of blankets spread upon several rugs
close to one of the tent walls.
Lightly, his fingers sought and found the bulk beneath the blankets—the
bulk that should be Albert Werper. They traced out the figure of a man,
and then an arm shot upward, poised for an instant and descended. Again
and again it rose and fell, and each time the long blade of the knife
buried itself in the thing beneath the blankets. But there was an
initial lifelessness in the silent bulk that gave the assassin
momentary wonder. Feverishly he threw back the coverlets, and searched
with nervous hands for the pouch of jewels which he expected to find
concealed upon his victim’s body.
An instant later he rose with a curse upon his lips. It was Achmet Zek,
and he cursed because he had discovered beneath the blankets of his
lieutenant only a pile of discarded clothing arranged in the form and
semblance of a sleeping man—Albert Werper had fled.
Out into the village ran the chief, calling in angry tones to the
sleepy Arabs, who tumbled from their tents in answer to his voice. But
though they searched the village again and again they found no trace of
the Belgian. Foaming with anger, Achmet Zek called his followers to
horse, and though the night was pitchy black they set out to scour the
adjoining forest for their quarry.
As they galloped from the open gates, Mugambi, hiding in a nearby bush,
slipped, unseen, within the palisade. A score of blacks crowded about
the entrance to watch the searchers depart, and as the last of them
passed out of the village the blacks seized the portals and drew them
to, and Mugambi lent a hand in the work as though the best of his life
had been spent among the raiders.
In the darkness he passed, unchallenged, as one of their number, and as
they returned from the gates to their respective tents and huts,
Mugambi melted into the shadows and disappeared.
For an hour he crept about in the rear of the various huts and tents in
an effort to locate that in which his master’s mate was imprisoned. One
there was which he was reasonably assured contained her, for it was the
only hut before the door of which a sentry had been posted. Mugambi was
crouching in the shadow of this structure, just around the corner from
the unsuspecting guard, when another approached to relieve his comrade.
“The prisoner is safe within?” asked the newcomer.
“She is,” replied the other, “for none has passed this doorway since I
came.”
The new sentry squatted beside the door, while he whom he had relieved
made his way to his own hut. Mugambi slunk closer to the corner of the
building. In one powerful hand he gripped a heavy knob-stick. No sign
of elation disturbed his phlegmatic calm, yet inwardly he was aroused
to joy by the proof he had just heard that “Lady” really was within.
The sentry’s back was toward the corner of the hut which hid the giant
black. The fellow did not see the huge form which silently loomed
behind him. The knob-stick swung upward in a curve, and downward again.
There was the sound of a dull thud, the crushing of heavy bone, and the
sentry slumped into a silent, inanimate lump of clay.
A moment later Mugambi was searching the interior of the hut. At first
slowly, calling, “Lady!” in a low whisper, and finally with almost
frantic haste, until the truth presently dawned upon him—the hut was
empty!