Weeks rolled by. Trains rattled and chugged. Steamships plowed. Black
feet padded well worn trails. Three safaris, headed by white men from
far separated parts of the earth, moved slowly along different trails
that led toward the wild fastnesses of the Ghenzies. None knew of the
presence of the others, nor were their missions in any way related.
From the West came Lafayette Smith and "Gunner" Patrick; from the
South, an English big game hunter, Lord Passmore; from the East, Leon
Stabutch.
The Russian had been having trouble with his men. They had enlisted
with enthusiasm, but their eagerness to proceed had waned as they
penetrated more deeply into strange and unknown country. Recently
they had talked with men of a village beside which they had camped,
and these men had told them terrifying tales of the great band of
_shiftas_, led by a white man, that was terrorizing the country toward
which they were marching, killing and raping as they collected slaves
to be sold in the north.
Stabutch had halted for the noonday rest upon the southern slopes of
the foothills of the Ghenzies. To the north rose the lofty peaks of the
main range; to the south, below them, they could see forest and jungle
stretching away into the distance; about them were rolling hills,
sparsely timbered, and between the hills and the forest an open, grassy
plain where herds of antelope and zebra could be seen grazing.
The Russian called his headman to him. "What's the matter with those
fellows?" he asked, nodding toward the porters, who were gathered,
squatting, in a circle, jabbering in low voices.
"They are afraid, Bwana," replied the black.
"Afraid of what?" demanded Stabutch, though he well knew.
"Afraid of the _shiftas_, Bwana. Three more deserted last night."
"We didn't need them anyway," snapped Stabutch; "the loads are getting
lighter."
"More will run away," said the headman. "They are all afraid."
"They had better be afraid of me," blustered Stabutch. "If any more men
desert I'll--I'll--"
"They are not afraid of you, Bwana," the headman told him, candidly.
"They are afraid of the _shiftas_ and the white man who is their chief.
They do not want to be sold into slavery, far from their own country."
"Don't tell me you believe in that cock-and-bull story, you black
rascal," snapped Stabutch. "It's just an excuse to turn back. They
want to get home so they can loaf, the lazy dogs. And I guess you're
as bad as the rest of them. Who said you were a headman, anyway? If
you were worth a kopeck you'd straighten those fellows out in no time;
and we wouldn't have any more talk about turning back, nor any more
desertions, either."
"Yes, Bwana," replied the black; but what he thought was his own
business.
"Now, listen to me," growled Stabutch, but that to which he would have
had the headman listen was never voiced.
The interruption came from one of the porters, who leaped suddenly to
his feet, voicing a low cry of warning pregnant with terror. "Look!" he
cried, pointing toward the west. "The _shiftas_!"
Silhouetted against the sky, a group of mounted men had reined in
their horses upon the summit of a low hill a mile away. The distance
was too great to permit the excited watchers in the Russian's camp
to distinguish details, but the very presence of a body of horsemen
was all the assurance that the blacks needed to convince them that
it was composed of members of the _shifta_ band of which they had
heard terrifying rumors that had filled their simple breasts with
steadily increasing dread during the past several days. The white robes
fluttering in the breeze at the summit of the distant hill, the barrels
of rifles and the shafts of spears that, even at a distance, were
sufficiently suggestive of their true nature to permit of no doubt,
but served to definitely crystallize the conjectures of the members of
Stabutch's safari and augment their panic.
They were standing now, every eye turned toward the menace of that
bristling hill top. Suddenly one of the men ran toward the loads that
had been discarded during the noonday halt, calling something back over
his shoulder to his fellows. Instantly there was a break for the loads.
"What are they doing?" cried Stabutch. "Stop them!"
The headman and the askaris ran quickly toward the porters, many of
whom already had shouldered their loads and were starting on the back
trail. The headman sought to stop them, but one, a great, burly fellow,
felled him with a single blow. Then another, glancing back toward the
west, voiced a shrill cry of terror. "Look!" he cried. "They come!"
Those who heard him turned to see the horsemen, their robes fluttering
backward in the breeze, reining down the hillside toward them at a
gallop.
It was enough. As one man, porters, askaris, and the headman, they
turned and fled. Those who had shouldered loads threw them to the
ground lest their weight retard the runner's speed.
Stabutch was alone. For an instant he hesitated on the verge of flight,
but almost immediately he realized the futility of attempted escape.
With loud yells the horsemen were bearing down upon his camp; and
presently, seeing him standing there alone, they drew rein before
him. Hard faced, villainous appearing blacks, they presented such an
appearance of evil as might have caused the stoutest heart to quail.
Their leader was addressing Stabutch in a strange tongue, but his
attitude was so definitely menacing that the Russian had little need
of knowledge of the other's language to interpret the threat reflected
in the speaker's tones and scowling face; but he dissembled his fears
and met the blacks with a cool equanimity that impressed them with the
thought that the stranger must be sure of his power. Perhaps he was but
the advance guard of a larger body of white men!
The _shiftas_ looked about them uneasily as this thought was voiced
by one of their number, for they well knew the temper and the arms of
white men and feared both. Yet, notwithstanding their doubts, they
could still appreciate the booty of the camp, as they cast covetous and
appraising eyes upon the abandoned loads of the departed porters, most
of whom were still in view as they scurried toward the jungle.
Failing to make himself understood by the white man, the leader of the
_shiftas_ fell into a heated argument with several of his henchmen and
when one, sitting, stirrup to stirrup, beside him, raised his rifle and
aimed it at Stabutch the leader struck the weapon up and berated his
fellow angrily. Then he issued several orders, with the result that,
while two of the band remained to guard Stabutch, the others dismounted
and loaded the packs on several of the horses.
A half hour later the _shiftas_ rode back in the direction from which
they had come, taking with them all of the Russian's belongings and
him, also, disarmed and a prisoner.
And as they rode away, keen grey eyes watched them from the concealing
verdure of the jungle--eyes that had been watching every turn of events
in the camp of the Russian since Stabutch had called the halt for the
disastrous noonday rest.
Though considerable the distance from the jungle to the camp, nothing
had escaped the keen eyes of the watcher reclining at ease in the
fork of a great tree just at the edge of the plain. What his mental
reactions to the happenings he had witnessed none might have guessed by
any changing expression upon his stern, emotionless countenance.
He watched the retreating figures of the _shiftas_ until they had
disappeared from view, and then he sprang lightly to his feet and swung
off through the jungle in the opposite direction--in the direction
taken by the fleeing members of Stabutch's safari.
Goloba, the headman, trod fearfully the gloomy trails of the jungle;
and with him were a considerable number of the other members of
Stabutch's safari, all equally fearful lest the _shiftas_ pursue them.
The first panic of their terror had abated; and as the minutes sped,
with no sign of pursuit, they took greater heart, though there grew in
the breast of Goloba another fear to replace that which was fading--it
was the fear of the trusted lieutenant who has deserted his bwana. It
was something that Goloba would have to explain one day, and even now
he was formulating his excuse.
"They rode upon us, firing their rifles," he said. "There were many of
them--at least a hundred." No one disputed him. "We fought bravely in
defense of the Bwana, but we were few and could not repulse them." He
paused and looked at those walking near him. He saw that they nodded
their heads in assent. "And then I saw the Bwana fall and so, to escape
being taken and sold into slavery, we ran away."
"Yes," said one walking at his side, "it is all as Goloba has said. I
myself--" but he got no further. The figure of a bronzed white man,
naked but for a loin cloth, dropped from the foliage of the trees into
the trail a dozen paces ahead of them. As one man they halted, surprise
and fear writ large upon their faces.
"Which is the headman?" demanded the stranger in their own dialect, and
every eye turned upon Goloba.
"I am," replied the black leader.
"Why did you desert your bwana?"
Goloba was about to reply when the thought occurred to him that here
was only a single, primitively armed white without companions, without
a safari--a poor creature, indeed, in the jungle--lower than the
meanest black.
"Who are you, to question Goloba, the headman?" he demanded,
sneeringly. "Get out of my way," and he started forward along the trail
toward the stranger.
But the white man did not move. He merely spoke, in low, even tones.
"Goloba should know better," he said, "than to speak thus to any white
man."
The black hesitated. He was not quite sure of himself, but yet he
ventured to hold his ground. "Great bwanas do not go naked and alone
through the forests, like the low Bagesu. Where is your safari?"
"Tarzan of the Apes needs no safari," replied the white man.
Goloba was stunned. He had never seen Tarzan of the Apes, for he came
from a country far from Tarzan's stamping ground, but he had heard
tales of the great bwana--tales that had lost nothing in the telling.
"You are Tarzan?" he asked.
The white man nodded, and Goloba sank, fearfully, to his knees. "Have
mercy, great bwana!" he begged, "Goloba did not know."
"Now, answer my question," said Tarzan. "Why did you desert your bwana?"
"We were attacked by a band of _shiftas_," replied Goloba. "They rode
upon us, firing their rifles. There were at least a hundred of them. We
fought bravely--"
"Stop!" commanded Tarzan. "I saw all that transpired. No shots were
fired. You ran away before you knew whether the horsemen were enemies
or friends. Speak now, but speak true words."
"We knew that they were enemies," said Goloba, "for we had been warned
by villagers, near whom we had camped, that these _shiftas_ would
attack us and sell into slavery all whom they captured."
"What more did the villagers tell you?" asked the ape-man.
"That the _shiftas_ are led by a white man."
"That is what I wished to know," said Tarzan.
"And now may Goloba and his people go?" asked the black. "We fear that
the _shiftas_ may be pursuing us."
"They are not," Tarzan assured him. "I saw them ride away toward the
west, taking your bwana with them. It is of him I would know more. Who
is he? What does he here?"
"He is from a country far in the north," replied Goloba. "He called it
Russa."
"Yes," said Tarzan. "I know the country. Why did he come here?"
"I do not know," replied Goloba. "It was not to hunt. He did not hunt,
except for food."
"Did he speak ever of Tarzan?" demanded the ape-man.
"Yes," replied Goloba. "Often he asked about Tarzan. At every village
he asked when they had seen Tarzan and where he was; but none knew."
"That is all," said the ape-man. "You may go."
V