Leon Stabutch, mounted behind one of his captors, riding to an unknown
fate, was warrantably perturbed. He had been close to death at the
hands of one of the band already, and from their appearance and their
attitude toward him it was not difficult for him to imagine that they
would require but the slightest pretext to destroy him.
What their intentions might be was highly problematical, though he
could conceive of but one motive which might inspire such as they to
preserve him. But if ransom were their aim he could not conjecture
any method by which these semi-savages might contact his friends or
superiors in Russia. He was forced to admit that his prospects appeared
most discouraging.
The _shiftas_ were forced to move slowly because of the packs some of
their horses were carrying since the looting of the Russian's camp. Nor
could they have ridden much more rapidly, under any circumstances, on
the trail that they entered shortly following their capture of Stabutch.
Entering a narrow, rocky canyon the trail wound steeply upward to
debouch at last upon a small, level mesa, at the upper end of which
Stabutch saw what, at a distance, appeared to be a palisaded village
nestling close beneath a rocky cliff that bounded the mesa in that
direction.
This evidently was the destination of his captors, who were doubtless
members of the very band the mere rumor of which had filled his men
with terror. Stabutch was only sorry that the balance of the story,
postulating the existence of a white leader, was evidently erroneous,
since he would have anticipated less difficulty in arranging the terms
and collection of a ransom with a European than with these ignorant
savages.
As they neared the village Stabutch discovered that their approach had
been made beneath the scrutiny of lookouts posted behind the palisade,
whose heads and shoulders were now plainly visible above the crude
though substantial rampart.
And presently these sentries were shouting greetings and queries to the
members of the returning band as the village gate swung slowly open and
the savage horsemen entered the enclosure with their captive, who was
soon the center of a throng of men, women, and children, curious and
questioning--a savage throng of surly blacks.
Although there was nothing actively menacing in the attitude of the
savages there was a definite unfriendliness in their demeanor that cast
a further gloom of apprehension upon the already depressed spirits
of the Russian; and as the cavalcade entered the central compound,
about which the huts were grouped, he experienced a sensation of utter
hopelessness.
It was at this moment that he saw a short, bearded white man emerge
from one of the squalid dwellings; and instantly the depression that
had seized him was, partially at least, relieved.
The _shiftas_ were dismounting, and now he was roughly dragged from the
animal which had borne him from his camp and pushed unceremoniously
toward the white man, who stood before the doorway from whence he had
appeared surveying the prisoner sullenly, while he listened to the
report of the leader of the returning band.
There was no smile upon the face of the bearded man as he addressed
Stabutch after the black _shifta_ had completed his report. The Russian
recognized that the language employed by the stranger was Italian,
a tongue which he could neither speak nor understand, and this he
explained in Russian; but the bearded one only shrugged and shook his
head. Then Stabutch tried English.
"That is better," said the other brokenly. "I understand English a
little. Who are you? What was the language you first spoke to me? From
what country do you come?"
"I am a scientist," replied Stabutch. "I spoke to you in Russian."
"Is Russia your country?"
"Yes."
The man eyed him intently for some time, as though attempting to read
the innermost secrets of his mind, before he spoke again. Stabutch
noted the squat, powerful build of the stranger, the cruel lips, only
partially concealed by the heavy, black beard, and the hard, crafty
eyes, and guessed that he might have fared as well at the hands of the
blacks.
"You say you are a Russian," said the man. "Red or white?"
Stabutch wished that he might know how to answer this question. He
was aware that Red Russians were not well beloved by all peoples;
and that the majority of Italians were trained to hate them, and yet
there was something in the personality of this stranger that suggested
that he might be more favorably inclined to a Red than to a White
Russian. Furthermore, to admit that he was a Red might assure the
other that a ransom could be obtained more surely than from a White,
whose organization was admittedly weak and poverty stricken. For these
reasons Stabutch decided to tell the truth.
"I am a Red," he said.
The other considered him intently and in silence for a moment; then
he made a gesture that would have passed unnoticed by any but a Red
Communist. Leon Stabutch breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, but his
facial expression gave no indication of recognition of this secret sign
as he answered it in accordance with the ritual of his organization,
while the other watched him closely.
"Your name, comrade?" inquired the bearded one in an altered tone.
"Leon Stabutch," replied the Russian; "and yours, comrade?"
"Dominic Capietro. Come, we will talk inside. I have a bottle there
wherewith we may toast the cause and become better acquainted."
"Lead on, comrade," said Stabutch; "I feel the need of something to
quiet my nerves. I have had a bad few hours."
"I apologize for the inconvenience to which my men have put you,"
replied Capietro, leading the way into the hut; "but all shall be made
right again. Be seated. As you see, I lead the simple life; but what
imperial throne may compare in grandeur with the bosom of Mother Earth!"
"None, comrade," agreed Stabutch, noting the entire absence of chairs,
or even stools, that the other speech had already suggested and
condoned. "Especially," he added, "when enjoyed beneath a friendly
roof."
Capietro rummaged in an old duffle bag and at last withdrew a bottle
which he uncorked and handed to Stabutch. "Golden goblets are for royal
tyrants, Comrade Stabutch," he declaimed, "but not for such as we, eh?"
Stabutch raised the bottle to his lips and took a draught of the fiery
liquid, and as it burned its way to his stomach and the fumes rose to
his head the last of his fears and doubts vanished. "Tell me now," he
said, as he passed the bottle back to his host, "why I was seized, who
you are, and what is to become of me?"
"My headman told me that he found you alone, deserted by your safari,
and not knowing whether you were friend or enemy he brought you here to
me. You are lucky, comrade, that Dongo chanced to be in charge of the
scouting party today. Another might have killed you first and inquired
later. They are a pack of murderers and thieves, these good men of
mine. They have been oppressed by cruel masters, they have felt the
heel of the tyrant upon their necks, and their hands are against all
men. You cannot blame them.
"But they are good men. They serve me well. They are the man power,
I am the brains; and we divide the profits of our operations
equally--half to the man power, half to the brains," said Capietro and
grinned.
"And your operations?" asked Stabutch.
Capietro scowled; then his face cleared. "You are a comrade, but let me
tell you that it is not always safe to be inquisitive."
Stabutch shrugged. "Tell me nothing," he said. "I do not care. It is
none of my business."
"Good," exclaimed the Italian, "and why you are here in Africa is none
of my business, unless you care to tell me. Let us drink again."
While the conversation that ensued, punctuated by numerous drinks,
carefully eschewed personalities, the question of the other's
occupation was uppermost in the mind of each; and as the natural
effects of the liquor tended to disarm their suspicions and urge
confidences it also stimulated the curiosity of the two, each of whom
was now mellow and genial in his cups.
It was Capietro who broke first beneath the strain of an over-powering
curiosity. They were sitting side by side upon a disreputably filthy
rug, two empty bottles and a newly opened one before them. "Comrade,"
he cried, throwing an arm about the shoulders of the Russian
affectionately, "I like you. Dominic Capietro does not like many men.
This is his motto: Like few men and love all women," whereat he laughed
loudly.
"Let us drink to that," suggested Stabutch, joining in the laughter.
"'Like few men and love all women.' That is the idea!"
"I knew the minute I saw you that you were a man after my own heart,
comrade," continued Capietro, "and why should there be secrets between
comrades?"
"Certainly, why?" agreed Stabutch.
"So I shall tell you why I am here with this filthy band of thieving
cut-throats. I was a soldier in the Italian army. My regiment was
stationed in Eritrea. I was fomenting discord and mutiny, as a good
Communist should, when some dog of a Fascist reported me to the
commanding officer. I was arrested. Doubtless, I should have been
shot, but I escaped and made my way into Abyssinia, where Italians are
none too well liked; but when it was known that I was a deserter I was
treated well.
"After a while I obtained employment with a powerful ras to train his
soldiers along European lines. There I became proficient in Amharic,
the official language of the country, and also learned to speak that
of the Gallas, who constituted the bulk of the population of the
principality of the ras for whom I worked. Naturally, being averse to
any form of monarchistic government, I commenced at once to instill the
glorious ideals of Communism into the breasts of the retainers of the
old ras; but once again I was frustrated by an informer, and only by
chance did I escape with my life.
"This time, however, I succeeded in enticing a number of men to
accompany me. We stole horses and weapons from the ras and rode south
where we joined a band of _shiftas_, or rather, I should say, absorbed
them.
"This organized body of raiders and thieves made an excellent force
with which to levy tribute upon chance travellers and caravans, but the
returns were small and so we drifted down into this remote country of
the Ghenzi where we can ply a lucrative trade in black ivory."
"Black ivory? I never knew there was such a thing."
Capietro laughed. "Two legged ivory," he explained.
Stabutch whistled. "Oh," he said, "I think I understand. You are a
slave raider; but where is there any market for slaves, other than the
wage slaves of capitalistic countries?"
"You would be surprised, comrade. There are still many markets,
including the mandates and protectorates of several highly civilized
signatories to world court conventions aimed at the abolition of human
slavery. Yes, I am a slave raider--rather a remarkable vocation for a
university graduate and a former editor of a successful newspaper."
"And you prefer this?"
"I have no alternative, and I must live. At least I think I must
live--a most common form of rationalization. You see, my newspaper
was anti-Fascist. And now, comrade, about yourself--what 'scientific'
research is the Soviet government undertaking in Africa?"
"Let us call it anthropology," replied Stabutch. "I am looking for a
man."
"There are many men in Africa and much nearer the coast than the Ghenzi
country. You have travelled far inland looking for a man."
"The man I look for I expected to find somewhere south of the
Ghenzies," replied Stabutch.
"Perhaps I can aid you. I know many men, at least by name and
reputation, in this part of the world," suggested the Italian.
Stabutch, had he been entirely sober, would have hesitated to give
this information to a total stranger, but alcohol induces thoughtless
confidences. "I search for an Englishman known as Tarzan of the Apes,"
he explained.
Capietro's eyes narrowed. "A friend of yours?" he asked.
"I know of no one I would rather see," replied Stabutch.
"You say he is here in the Ghenzi country?"
"I do not know. None of the natives I have questioned knew his
whereabouts."
"His country is far south of the Ghenzies," said Capietro.
"Ah, you know of him, then?"
"Yes. Who does not? But what business have you with Tarzan of the Apes?"
"I have come from Moscow to kill him," blurted Stabutch, and in the
same instant regretted his rash admission.
Capietro relaxed. "I am relieved," he said.
"Why?" demanded the Russian.
"I feared he was a friend of yours," explained the Italian. "In which
case we could not be friends; but if you have come to kill him you
shall have nothing but my best wishes and heartiest support."
Stabutch's relief was almost a thing of substance, so considerable and
genuine was it. "You, too, have a grievance against him?" he asked.
"He is a constant threat against my little operations in black ivory,"
replied Capietro. "I should feel much safer if he were out of the way."
"Then perhaps you will help me, comrade?" inquired Stabutch eagerly.
"I have lost no ape-man," replied Capietro, "and if he leaves me alone
I shall never look for him. That adventure, comrade, you will not have
to share with me."
"But you have taken away my means of carrying out my plans. I cannot
seek Tarzan without a safari," complained Stabutch.
"That is right," admitted the raider; "but perhaps the mistake of my
men may be rectified. Your equipment and goods are safe. They will be
returned to you, and as for men, who better could find them for you
than Dominic Capietro, who deals in men?"
The safari of Lord Passmore moved northward, skirting the western
foothills of the Ghenzi Mountains. His stalwart porters marched almost
with the precision of trained soldiers, at least in that proper
distances were maintained and there were no stragglers. A hundred yards
in advance were three askaris and behind these came Lord Passmore, his
gun bearer, and his headman. At the head and rear of the column of
porters was a detachment of askaris--well armed, efficient appearing
men. The whole entourage suggested intelligent organization and
experienced supervision. Evidence of willingly observed discipline was
apparent, a discipline that seemed to be respected by all with the
possible exception of Isaza, Lord Passmore's "boy," who was also his
cook.
Isaza marched where his fancy dictated, laughing and joking with first
one and then another of the members of the safari--the personification
of the good nature that pervaded the whole party and that was
constantly manifested by the laughter and singing of the men. It was
evident that Lord Passmore was an experienced African traveller and
that he knew what treatment to accord his followers.
How different, indeed, this well ordered safari, from another that
struggled up the steep slopes of the Ghenzies a few miles to the east.
Here the column was strung out for fully a mile, the askaris straggling
along among the porters, while the two white men whom they accompanied
forged far ahead with a single boy and a gun bearer.
"Geeze," remarked the "Gunner," "you sure picked a lousy racket! I
could of stayed home and climbed up the front of the Sherman Hotel, if
I had of wanted to climb, and always been within a spit of eats and
drinks."
"Oh, no you couldn't," said Lafayette Smith.
"Why not? Who'd a stopped me?"
"Your friends, the cops."
"That's right; but don't call 'em my friends--the lousy bums. But
whereinel do you think you're going?"
"I think I perceive in this mountain range evidences of upthrust by
horizontal compression," replied Lafayette Smith, "and I wish to
examine the surface indications more closely than it is possible to do
from a distance. Therefore, we must go to the mountains, since they
will not come to us."
"And what does it get you?" demanded "Gunner" Patrick. "Not a buck.
It's a bum racket."
Lafayette Smith laughed good naturedly. They were crossing a meadowland
through which a mountain stream wound. Surrounding it was a forest.
"This would make a good camp," he said, "from which to work for a few
days. You can hunt, and I'll have a look at the formations in the
vicinity. Then we'll move on."
"It's jake with me," replied the "Gunner." "I'm fed up on climbing."
"Suppose you remain with the safari and get camp made," suggested
Smith. "I'll go on up a little farther with my boy and see what I can
see. It's early yet."
"Oke," assented the "Gunner." "I'll park the mob up near them trees.
Don't get lost, and, say, you better take my protection guy with you,"
he added, nodding in the direction of his gun bearer.
"I'm not going to hunt," replied Smith. "I won't need him."
"Then take my rod here." The "Gunner" started to unbuckle his pistol
belt. "You might need it."
"Thanks, I have one," replied Smith, tapping his .32.
"Geeze, you don't call that thing a rod, do you?" demanded the
"Gunner," contemptuously.
"It's all I need. I'm looking for rocks, not trouble. Come on Obambi,"
and he motioned his boy to follow him as he started up the slope toward
the higher mountains.
"Geeze," muttered the "Gunner," "I seen pipies what ain't as much of a
nut as that guy; but," he added, "he's a regular guy at that. You can't
help likin' him." Then he turned his attention to the selection of a
campsite.
Lafayette Smith entered the forest beyond the meadowland; and here
the going became more difficult, for the ground rose rapidly; and the
underbrush was thick. He fought his way upward, Obambi at his heels;
and at last he reached a higher elevation, where the forest growth was
much thinner because of the rocky nature of the ground and the absence
of top soil. Here he paused to examine the formation, but only to move
on again, this time at right angles to his original direction.
Thus, stopping occasionally to investigate, he moved erratically
upward until he achieved the summit of a ridge from which he had a
view of miles of rugged mountains in the distance. The canyon that lay
before him, separating him from the next ridge, aroused his interest.
The formation of the opposite wall, he decided, would bear closer
investigation.
Obambi had flung himself to the ground when Smith halted. Obambi
appeared exhausted. He was not. He was merely disgusted. To him the
bwana was mad, quite mad. Upon no other premises could Obambi explain
this senseless climbing, with an occasional pause to examine rocks.
Obambi was positive that they might have discovered plenty of rocks at
the foot of the mountains had they but searched for them. And then,
too, this bwana did not hunt. He supposed all bwanas came to Africa to
hunt. This one, being so different, must be mad.
Smith glanced at his boy. It was too bad, he thought, to make Obambi do
all this climbing unnecessarily. Certainly there was no way in which
the boy might assist him, while seeing him in a constant state of
exhaustion reacted unfavorably on Smith. Better by far to be alone. He
turned to the boy. "Go back to camp, Obambi," he said. "I do not need
you here."
Obambi looked at him in surprise. Now he knew the bwana was very mad.
However, it would be much more pleasant in camp than climbing about in
these mountains. He rose to his feet. "The bwana does not need me?"
he asked. "Perhaps he will need me." Obambi's conscience was already
troubling him. He knew that he should not leave his bwana alone.
"No, I shan't need you, Obambi," Smith assured him. "You run along back
to camp. I'll come in pretty soon."
"Yes bwana," and Obambi turned back down the mountain side.
Lafayette Smith clambered down into the canyon, which was deeper than
he had supposed, and then worked his way up the opposite side that
proved to be even more precipitous than it had appeared from the
summit of the ridge. However, he found so much to interest him that he
considered it well worth the effort, and so deeply absorbed was he that
he gave no heed to the passage of time.
It was not until he reached the top of the far side of the canyon that
he noted the diminishing light that presaged the approach of night.
Even then he was not greatly concerned; but he realized that it would
be quite dark before he could hope to recross the canyon, and it
occurred to him that by following up the ridge on which he stood he
could reach the head of the canyon where it joined the ridge from which
he had descended into it, thus saving him a long, arduous climb and
shortening the time, if not the distance, back to camp.
As he trudged upward along the ridge, night fell; but still he kept on,
though now he could only grope his way slowly, nor did it occur to him
for several hours that he was hopelessly lost.