Tarzan Recovers His Reason
As Tarzan let the pebbles from the recovered pouch run through his
fingers, his thoughts returned to the pile of yellow ingots about which
the Arabs and the Abyssinians had waged their relentless battle.
What was there in common between that pile of dirty metal and the
beautiful, sparkling pebbles that had formerly been in his pouch? What
was the metal? From whence had it come? What was that tantalizing
half-conviction which seemed to demand the recognition of his memory
that the yellow pile for which these men had fought and died had been
intimately connected with his past—that it had been his?
What had been his past? He shook his head. Vaguely the memory of his
apish childhood passed slowly in review—then came a strangely tangled
mass of faces, figures and events which seemed to have no relation to
Tarzan of the Apes, and yet which were, even in their fragmentary form,
familiar.
Slowly and painfully, recollection was attempting to reassert itself,
the hurt brain was mending, as the cause of its recent failure to
function was being slowly absorbed or removed by the healing processes
of perfect circulation.
The people who now passed before his mind’s eye for the first time in
weeks wore familiar faces; but yet he could neither place them in the
niches they had once filled in his past life, nor call them by name.
One was a fair she, and it was her face which most often moved through
the tangled recollections of his convalescing brain. Who was she? What
had she been to Tarzan of the Apes? He seemed to see her about the very
spot upon which the pile of gold had been unearthed by the Abyssinians;
but the surroundings were vastly different from those which now
obtained.
There was a building—there were many buildings—and there were hedges,
fences, and flowers. Tarzan puckered his brow in puzzled study of the
wonderful problem. For an instant he seemed to grasp the whole of a
true explanation, and then, just as success was within his grasp, the
picture faded into a jungle scene where a naked, white youth danced in
company with a band of hairy, primordial ape-things.
Tarzan shook his head and sighed. Why was it that he could not
recollect? At least he was sure that in some way the pile of gold, the
place where it lay, the subtle aroma of the elusive she he had been
pursuing, the memory figure of the white woman, and he himself, were
inextricably connected by the ties of a forgotten past.
If the woman belonged there, what better place to search or await her
than the very spot which his broken recollections seemed to assign to
her? It was worth trying. Tarzan slipped the thong of the empty pouch
over his shoulder and started off through the trees in the direction of
the plain.
At the outskirts of the forest he met the Arabs returning in search of
Achmet Zek. Hiding, he let them pass, and then resumed his way toward
the charred ruins of the home he had been almost upon the point of
recalling to his memory.
His journey across the plain was interrupted by the discovery of a
small herd of antelope in a little swale, where the cover and the wind
were well combined to make stalking easy. A fat yearling rewarded a
half hour of stealthy creeping and a sudden, savage rush, and it was
late in the afternoon when the ape-man settled himself upon his
haunches beside his kill to enjoy the fruits of his skill, his cunning,
and his prowess.
His hunger satisfied, thirst next claimed his attention. The river
lured him by the shortest path toward its refreshing waters, and when
he had drunk, night already had fallen and he was some half mile or
more down stream from the point where he had seen the pile of yellow
ingots, and where he hoped to meet the memory woman, or find some clew
to her whereabouts or her identity.
To the jungle bred, time is usually a matter of small moment, and
haste, except when engendered by terror, by rage, or by hunger, is
distasteful. Today was gone. Therefore tomorrow, of which there was an
infinite procession, would answer admirably for Tarzan’s further quest.
And, besides, the ape-man was tired and would sleep.
A tree afforded him the safety, seclusion and comforts of a
well-appointed bedchamber, and to the chorus of the hunters and the
hunted of the wild river bank he soon dropped off into deep slumber.
Morning found him both hungry and thirsty again, and dropping from his
tree he made his way to the drinking place at the river’s edge. There
he found Numa, the lion, ahead of him. The big fellow was lapping the
water greedily, and at the approach of Tarzan along the trail in his
rear, he raised his head, and turning his gaze backward across his
maned shoulders glared at the intruder. A low growl of warning rumbled
from his throat; but Tarzan, guessing that the beast had but just
quitted his kill and was well filled, merely made a slight detour and
continued to the river, where he stopped a few yards above the tawny
cat, and dropping upon his hands and knees plunged his face into the
cool water. For a moment the lion continued to eye the man; then he
resumed his drinking, and man and beast quenched their thirst side by
side each apparently oblivious of the other’s presence.
Numa was the first to finish. Raising his head, he gazed across the
river for a few minutes with that stony fixity of attention which is a
characteristic of his kind. But for the ruffling of his black mane to
the touch of the passing breeze he might have been wrought from golden
bronze, so motionless, so statuesque his pose.
A deep sigh from the cavernous lungs dispelled the illusion. The mighty
head swung slowly around until the yellow eyes rested upon the man. The
bristled lip curved upward, exposing yellow fangs. Another warning
growl vibrated the heavy jowls, and the king of beasts turned
majestically about and paced slowly up the trail into the dense reeds.
Tarzan of the Apes drank on, but from the corners of his gray eyes he
watched the great brute’s every move until he had disappeared from
view, and, after, his keen ears marked the movements of the carnivore.
A plunge in the river was followed by a scant breakfast of eggs which
chance discovered to him, and then he set off up river toward the ruins
of the bungalow where the golden ingots had marked the center of
yesterday’s battle.
And when he came upon the spot, great was his surprise and
consternation, for the yellow metal had disappeared. The earth,
trampled by the feet of horses and men, gave no clew. It was as though
the ingots had evaporated into thin air.
The ape-man was at a loss to know where to turn or what next to do.
There was no sign of any spoor which might denote that the she had been
here. The metal was gone, and if there was any connection between the
she and the metal it seemed useless to wait for her now that the latter
had been removed elsewhere.
Everything seemed to elude him—the pretty pebbles, the yellow metal,
the she, his memory. Tarzan was disgusted. He would go back into the
jungle and look for Chulk, and so he turned his steps once more toward
the forest. He moved rapidly, swinging across the plain in a long, easy
trot, and at the edge of the forest, taking to the trees with the
agility and speed of a small monkey.
His direction was aimless—he merely raced on and on through the jungle,
the joy of unfettered action his principal urge, with the hope of
stumbling upon some clew to Chulk or the she, a secondary incentive.
For two days he roamed about, killing, eating, drinking and sleeping
wherever inclination and the means to indulge it occurred
simultaneously. It was upon the morning of the third day that the scent
spoor of horse and man were wafted faintly to his nostrils. Instantly
he altered his course to glide silently through the branches in the
direction from which the scent came.
It was not long before he came upon a solitary horseman riding toward
the east. Instantly his eyes confirmed what his nose had previously
suspected—the rider was he who had stolen his pretty pebbles. The light
of rage flared suddenly in the gray eyes as the ape-man dropped lower
among the branches until he moved almost directly above the unconscious
Werper.
There was a quick leap, and the Belgian felt a heavy body hurtle onto
the rump of his terror-stricken mount. The horse, snorting, leaped
forward. Giant arms encircled the rider, and in the twinkling of an eye
he was dragged from his saddle to find himself lying in the narrow
trail with a naked, white giant kneeling upon his breast.
Recognition came to Werper with the first glance at his captor’s face,
and a pallor of fear overspread his features. Strong fingers were at
his throat, fingers of steel. He tried to cry out, to plead for his
life; but the cruel fingers denied him speech, as they were as surely
denying him life.
“The pretty pebbles?” cried the man upon his breast. “What did you with
the pretty pebbles—with Tarzan’s pretty pebbles?”
The fingers relaxed to permit a reply. For some time Werper could only
choke and cough—at last he regained the powers of speech.
“Achmet Zek, the Arab, stole them from me,” he cried; “he made me give
up the pouch and the pebbles.”
“I saw all that,” replied Tarzan; “but the pebbles in the pouch were
not the pebbles of Tarzan—they were only such pebbles as fill the
bottoms of the rivers, and the shelving banks beside them. Even the
Arab would not have them, for he threw them away in anger when he had
looked upon them. It is my pretty pebbles that I want—where are they?”
“I do not know, I do not know,” cried Werper. “I gave them to Achmet
Zek or he would have killed me. A few minutes later he followed me
along the trail to slay me, although he had promised to molest me no
further, and I shot and killed him; but the pouch was not upon his
person and though I searched about the jungle for some time I could not
find it.”
“I found it, I tell you,” growled Tarzan, “and I also found the pebbles
which Achmet Zek had thrown away in disgust. They were not Tarzan’s
pebbles. You have hidden them! Tell me where they are or I will kill
you,” and the brown fingers of the ape-man closed a little tighter upon
the throat of his victim.
Werper struggled to free himself. “My God, Lord Greystoke,” he managed
to scream, “would you commit murder for a handful of stones?”
The fingers at his throat relaxed, a puzzled, far-away expression
softened the gray eyes.
“Lord Greystoke!” repeated the ape-man. “Lord Greystoke! Who is Lord
Greystoke? Where have I heard that name before?”
“Why man, you are Lord Greystoke,” cried the Belgian. “You were injured
by a falling rock when the earthquake shattered the passage to the
underground chamber to which you and your black Waziri had come to
fetch golden ingots back to your bungalow. The blow shattered your
memory. You are John Clayton, Lord Greystoke—don’t you remember?”
“John Clayton, Lord Greystoke!” repeated Tarzan. Then for a moment he
was silent. Presently his hand went falteringly to his forehead, an
expression of wonderment filled his eyes—of wonderment and sudden
understanding. The forgotten name had reawakened the returning memory
that had been struggling to reassert itself. The ape-man relinquished
his grasp upon the throat of the Belgian, and leaped to his feet.
“God!” he cried, and then, “Jane!” Suddenly he turned toward Werper.
“My wife?” he asked. “What has become of her? The farm is in ruins. You
know. You have had something to do with all this. You followed me to
Opar, you stole the jewels which I thought but pretty pebbles. You are
a crook! Do not try to tell me that you are not.”
“He is worse than a crook,” said a quiet voice close behind them.
Tarzan turned in astonishment to see a tall man in uniform standing in
the trail a few paces from him. Back of the man were a number of black
soldiers in the uniform of the Congo Free State.
“He is a murderer, Monsieur,” continued the officer. “I have followed
him for a long time to take him back to stand trial for the killing of
his superior officer.”
Werper was upon his feet now, gazing, white and trembling, at the fate
which had overtaken him even in the fastness of the labyrinthine
jungle. Instinctively he turned to flee; but Tarzan of the Apes reached
out a strong hand and grasped him by the shoulder.
“Wait!” said the ape-man to his captive. “This gentleman wishes you,
and so do I. When I am through with you, he may have you. Tell me what
has become of my wife.”
The Belgian officer eyed the almost naked, white giant with curiosity.
He noted the strange contrast of primitive weapons and apparel, and the
easy, fluent French which the man spoke. The former denoted the lowest,
the latter the highest type of culture. He could not quite determine
the social status of this strange creature; but he knew that he did not
relish the easy assurance with which the fellow presumed to dictate
when he might take possession of the prisoner.
“Pardon me,” he said, stepping forward and placing his hand on Werper’s
other shoulder; “but this gentleman is my prisoner. He must come with
me.”
“When I am through with him,” replied Tarzan, quietly.
The officer turned and beckoned to the soldiers standing in the trail
behind him. A company of uniformed blacks stepped quickly forward and
pushing past the three, surrounded the ape-man and his captive.
“Both the law and the power to enforce it are upon my side,” announced
the officer. “Let us have no trouble. If you have a grievance against
this man you may return with me and enter your charge regularly before
an authorized tribunal.”
“Your legal rights are not above suspicion, my friend,” replied Tarzan,
“and your power to enforce your commands are only apparent—not real.
You have presumed to enter British territory with an armed force. Where
is your authority for this invasion? Where are the extradition papers
which warrant the arrest of this man? And what assurance have you that
I cannot bring an armed force about you that will prevent your return
to the Congo Free State?”
The Belgian lost his temper. “I have no disposition to argue with a
naked savage,” he cried. “Unless you wish to be hurt you will not
interfere with me. Take the prisoner, Sergeant!”
Werper raised his lips close to Tarzan’s ear. “Keep me from them, and I
can show you the very spot where I saw your wife last night,” he
whispered. “She cannot be far from here at this very minute.”
The soldiers, following the signal from their sergeant, closed in to
seize Werper. Tarzan grabbed the Belgian about the waist, and bearing
him beneath his arm as he might have borne a sack of flour, leaped
forward in an attempt to break through the cordon. His right fist
caught the nearest soldier upon the jaw and sent him hurtling backward
upon his fellows. Clubbed rifles were torn from the hands of those who
barred his way, and right and left the black soldiers stumbled aside in
the face of the ape-man’s savage break for liberty.
So completely did the blacks surround the two that they dared not fire
for fear of hitting one of their own number, and Tarzan was already
through them and upon the point of dodging into the concealing mazes of
the jungle when one who had sneaked upon him from behind struck him a
heavy blow upon the head with a rifle.
In an instant the ape-man was down and a dozen black soldiers were upon
his back. When he regained consciousness he found himself securely
bound, as was Werper also. The Belgian officer, success having crowned
his efforts, was in good humor, and inclined to chaff his prisoners
about the ease with which they had been captured; but from Tarzan of
the Apes he elicited no response. Werper, however, was voluble in his
protests. He explained that Tarzan was an English lord; but the officer
only laughed at the assertion, and advised his prisoner to save his
breath for his defense in court.
As soon as Tarzan regained his senses and it was found that he was not
seriously injured, the prisoners were hastened into line and the return
march toward the Congo Free State boundary commenced.
Toward evening the column halted beside a stream, made camp and
prepared the evening meal. From the thick foliage of the nearby jungle
a pair of fierce eyes watched the activities of the uniformed blacks
with silent intensity and curiosity. From beneath beetling brows the
creature saw the boma constructed, the fires built, and the supper
prepared.
Tarzan and Werper had been lying bound behind a small pile of knapsacks
from the time that the company had halted; but with the preparation of
the meal completed, their guard ordered them to rise and come forward
to one of the fires where their hands would be unfettered that they
might eat.
As the giant ape-man rose, a startled expression of recognition entered
the eyes of the watcher in the jungle, and a low guttural broke from
the savage lips. Instantly Tarzan was alert, but the answering growl
died upon his lips, suppressed by the fear that it might arouse the
suspicions of the soldiers.
Suddenly an inspiration came to him. He turned toward Werper.
“I am going to speak to you in a loud voice and in a tongue which you
do not understand. Appear to listen intently to what I say, and
occasionally mumble something as though replying in the same
language—our escape may hinge upon the success of your efforts.”
Werper nodded in assent and understanding, and immediately there broke
from the lips of his companion a strange jargon which might have been
compared with equal propriety to the barking and growling of a dog and
the chattering of monkeys.
The nearer soldiers looked in surprise at the ape-man. Some of them
laughed, while others drew away in evident superstitious fear. The
officer approached the prisoners while Tarzan was still jabbering, and
halted behind them, listening in perplexed interest. When Werper
mumbled some ridiculous jargon in reply his curiosity broke bounds, and
he stepped forward, demanding to know what language it was that they
spoke.
Tarzan had gauged the measure of the man’s culture from the nature and
quality of his conversation during the march, and he rested the success
of his reply upon the estimate he had made.
“Greek,” he explained.
“Oh, I thought it was Greek,” replied the officer; “but it has been so
many years since I studied it that I was not sure. In future, however,
I will thank you to speak in a language which I am more familiar with.”
Werper turned his head to hide a grin, whispering to Tarzan: “It was
Greek to him all right—and to me, too.”
But one of the black soldiers mumbled in a low voice to a companion: “I
have heard those sounds before—once at night when I was lost in the
jungle, I heard the hairy men of the trees talking among themselves,
and their words were like the words of this white man. I wish that we
had not found him. He is not a man at all—he is a bad spirit, and we
shall have bad luck if we do not let him go,” and the fellow rolled his
eyes fearfully toward the jungle.
His companion laughed nervously, and moved away, to repeat the
conversation, with variations and exaggerations, to others of the black
soldiery, so that it was not long before a frightful tale of black
magic and sudden death was woven about the giant prisoner, and had gone
the rounds of the camp.
And deep in the gloomy jungle amidst the darkening shadows of the
falling night a hairy, manlike creature swung swiftly southward upon
some secret mission of his own.