TARZAN
THE INVINCIBLE
EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
ACE BOOKS, INC.
1120 Avenue of the Americas
New York 36, N.Y.
This Ace edition follows the text of the first hard-cover
book edition, originally published in 1930.
_Cover art and title page illustration by Frank Frazetta._
Printed in U.S.A.
CONTEST OF JUNGLE CUNNING
A small band of white men encamped in the jungle, involved in some kind
of expedition--seemingly innocuous, unimportant. But on the success or
failure of their plan hung the destiny of Africa.
Only Tarzan could stop the mad machinations of Zveri and his fiercely
determined comrades. But Tarzan would have to fight for his own life
elsewhere, in the grim ruins of ancient Opar, whose strange priests
were as fierce in their vengeance as its beautiful women were fierce in
their love.
And Tarzan, lord of the jungle and all its creatures, would have to
prove himself indeed invincible against the overwhelming odds of the
most dangerous enemy--man.
FOREWORD
Master storyteller that he was, Edgar Rice Burroughs developed a
variety of narrative techniques, applying different ones to different
series of stories so that each series has a distinct "feel" of its own,
not only in setting and characters, but in the very construction of the
story and in the writing itself. For his Mars series, for instance,
Burroughs began each story with a rather elaborate "frame" in which the
story's hero was introduced. The hero then would tell the main story
in the first person. The readers became so accustomed to this format
that when one magazine published a Burroughs Mars story told in third
person, there was an immediate uproar among the readers, and to this
day many Burroughs fans challenge the authenticity of that story as
Burroughs' own work!
For the Tarzan tales, Burroughs used a technique of introducing several
sets of characters, starting each upon their own separate adventure,
and then "cutting" from sequence to sequence in a style very much
like that used in motion pictures. Skillfully drawing his characters
together, Burroughs would finally reveal the grand pattern in which
each element played its part.
In _Tarzan the Invincible_ Burroughs applies this technique to
three groups of protagonists. First are a band of communist _agents
provocateurs_ assembled from many lands and determined to stir
rebellion in all of Africa. Second are the beautiful rival priestesses
of fabled Opar, golden remnant of an ancient Atlantean colony. Third
is Tarzan, lord of the jungle, who stands ready to face any challenge
to his savage domain. Weaving these together in masterful fashion,
Burroughs produces a tale of high adventure, spine-tingling action and
suspense amidst colorful and exotic settings.
--RICHARD LUPOFF
Editor, _Xero_, a fantasy
fiction fan magazine.
CONTENTS
I LITTLE NKIMA
II THE HINDU
III OUT OF THE GRAVE
IV INTO THE LION'S DEN
V BEFORE THE WALLS OF OPAR
VI BETRAYED
VII IN FUTILE SEARCH
VIII THE TREACHERY OF ABU BATN
IX IN THE DEATH CELL OF OPAR
X THE LOVE OF A PRIESTESS
XI LOST IN THE JUNGLE
XII DOWN TRAILS OF TERROR
XIII THE LION-MAN
XIV SHOT DOWN
XV "KILL, TANTOR, KILL!"
XVI "TURN BACK!"
XVII A GULF THAT WAS BRIDGED
_TARZAN THE INVINCIBLE_
I
LITTLE NKIMA
I am no historian, no chronicler of facts, and, furthermore, I hold
a very definite conviction that there are certain subjects which
fiction writers should leave alone, foremost among which are politics
and religion. However, it seems to me not unethical to pirate an
idea occasionally from one or the other, provided that the subject
be handled in such a way as to impart a definite impression of
fictionizing.
Had the story that I am about to tell you broken in the newspapers of
two certain European powers, it might have precipitated another and a
more terrible world war. But with that I am not particularly concerned.
What interests me is that it is a good story that is particularly well
adapted to my requirements through the fact that Tarzan of the Apes was
intimately connected with many of its most thrilling episodes.
I am not going to bore you with dry political history, so do not tax
your intellect needlessly by attempting to decode such fictitious names
as I may use in describing certain people and places, which, it seems
to me, to the best interest of peace and disarmament, should remain
incognito.
Take the story simply as another Tarzan story, in which, it is hoped,
you will find entertainment and relaxation. If you find food for
thought in it, so much the better.
Doubtless, very few of you saw, and still fewer will remember having
seen, a news dispatch that appeared inconspicuously in the papers some
time since, reporting a rumor that French Colonial Troops stationed in
Somaliland, on the northeast coast of Africa, had invaded an Italian
African colony. Back of that news item is a story of conspiracy,
intrigue, adventure and love--a story of scoundrels and of fools, of
brave men, of beautiful women, a story of the beasts of the forest and
the jungle.
If there were few who saw the newspaper account of the invasion of
Italian Somaliland upon the northeast coast of Africa, it is equally
a fact that none of you saw a harrowing incident that occurred in the
interior some time previous to this affair. That it could possibly have
any connection whatsoever with European international intrigue, or
with the fate of nations, seems not even remotely possible, for it was
only a very little monkey fleeing through the tree tops and screaming
in terror. It was little Nkima, and pursuing him was a large, rude
monkey--a much larger monkey than little Nkima.
Fortunately for the peace of Europe and the world, the speed of the
pursuer was in no sense proportionate to his unpleasant disposition,
and so Nkima escaped him; but for long after the larger monkey had
given up the chase, the smaller one continued to flee through the tree
tops, screeching at the top of his shrill little voice, for terror and
flight were the two major activities of little Nkima.
Perhaps it was fatigue, but more likely it was a caterpillar or a
bird's nest that eventually terminated Nkima's flight and left him
scolding and chattering upon a swaying bough, far above the floor of
the jungle.
The world into which little Nkima had been born seemed a very terrible
world, indeed, and he spent most of his waking hours scolding about it,
in which respect he was quite as human as he was simian. It seemed to
little Nkima that the world was populated with large, fierce creatures
that liked monkey meat. There were Numa, the lion, and Sheeta, the
panther, and Histah, the snake--a triumvirate that rendered unsafe
his entire world from the loftiest tree top to the ground. And then
there were the great apes, and the lesser apes, and the baboons, and
countless species of monkeys, all of which God had made larger than
He had made little Nkima, and all of which seemed to harbor a grudge
against him.
Take, for example, the rude creature which had just been pursuing him.
Little Nkima had done nothing more than throw a stick at him while he
was asleep in the crotch of a tree, and just for that he had pursued
little Nkima with unquestionable homicidal intent--I use the word
without purposing any reflection upon Nkima. It had never occurred to
Nkima, as it never seems to occur to some people, that, like beauty, a
sense of humor may sometimes be fatal.
Brooding upon the injustices of life, little Nkima was very sad. But
there was another and more poignant cause of sadness that depressed
his little heart. Many, many moons ago his master had gone away and
left him. True, he had left him in a nice, comfortable home with kind
people, who fed him, but little Nkima missed the great Tarmangani,
whose naked shoulder was the one harbor of refuge from which he could
with perfect impunity hurl insults at the world. For a long time now
little Nkima had braved the dangers of the forest and the jungle in
search of his beloved Tarzan.
Because hearts are measured by content of love and loyalty, rather than
by diameters in inches, the heart of little Nkima was very large--so
large that the average human being could hide his own heart and
himself, as well, behind it--and for a long time it had been just one
great ache in his diminutive breast. But fortunately for the little
Manu his mind was so ordered that it might easily be distracted even
from a great sorrow. A butterfly or a luscious grub might suddenly
claim his attention from the depths of brooding, which was well, since
otherwise he might have grieved himself to death.
And now, therefore, as his melancholy thoughts returned to
contemplation of his loss, their trend was suddenly altered by the
shifting of a jungle breeze that brought to his keen ears a sound
that was not primarily of the jungle sounds that were a part of his
hereditary instincts. It was a discord. And what is it that brings
discord into the jungle as well as into every elsewhere that it enters?
Man. It was the voices of men that Nkima heard.
Silently the little monkey glided through the trees into the direction
from which the sounds had come; and presently, as the sounds grew
louder, there came also that which was the definite, final proof of the
identity of the noise makers, as far as Nkima, or, for that matter, any
other of the jungle folk, might be concerned--the scent spoor.
You have seen a dog, perhaps your own dog, half recognize you by sight;
but was he ever entirely satisfied until the evidence of his eyes had
been tested and approved by his sensitive nostrils?
And so it was with Nkima. His ears had suggested the presence of men,
and now his nostrils definitely assured him that men were near. He did
not think of them as men, but as great apes. There were Gomangani,
Great Black Apes, negroes, among them. This his nose told him. And
there were Tarmangani, also. These, which to Nkima would be Great White
Apes, were white men.
Eagerly his nostrils sought for the familiar scent spoor of his beloved
Tarzan, but it was not there--that he knew even before he came within
sight of the strangers.
The camp upon which Nkima presently looked down from a nearby tree was
well established. It had evidently been there for a matter of days and
might be expected to remain still longer. It was no overnight affair.
There were the tents of the white men and the byût of Arabs neatly
arranged with almost military precision and behind these the shelters
of the negroes, lightly constructed of such materials as Nature had
provided upon the spot.
Within the open front of an Arab beyt sat several white bournoosed
Beduins drinking their inevitable coffee; in the shade of a great tree
before another tent four white men were engrossed in a game of cards;
among the native shelters a group of stalwart Galla warriors were
playing at minkala. There were blacks of other tribes too--men of East
Africa and of Central Africa, with a sprinkling of West Coast negroes.
It might have puzzled an experienced African traveller or hunter to
catalog this motley aggregation of races and colors. There were far too
many blacks to justify a belief that all were porters, for with all the
impedimenta of the camp ready for transportation there would have been
but a small fraction of a load for each of them, even after more than
enough had been included among the askari, who do not carry any loads
beside their rifles and ammunition.
Then, too, there were more rifles than would have been needed to
protect even a larger party. There seemed, indeed, to be a rifle for
every man. But these were minor details which made no impression upon
Nkima. All that impressed him was the fact that here were many strange
Tarmangani and Gomangani in the country of his master; and as all
strangers were, to Nkima, enemies, he was perturbed. Now, more than
ever he wished that he might find Tarzan.
A swarthy, turbaned East Indian sat cross-legged upon the ground before
a tent, apparently sunk in meditation; but could one have seen his
dark, sensuous eyes, he would have discovered that their gaze was far
from introspective--they were bent constantly upon another tent that
stood a little apart from its fellows--and when a girl emerged from
this tent, Raghunath Jafar arose and approached her. He smiled an oily
smile as he spoke to her, but the girl did not smile as she replied.
She spoke civilly, but she did not pause, continuing her way toward the
four men at cards.
As she approached their table they looked up; and upon the face of each
was reflected some pleasurable emotion, but whether it was the same in
each, the masks that we call faces, and which are trained to conceal
our true thoughts, did not divulge. Evident it was, however, that the
girl was popular.
"Hello, Zora!" cried a large, smooth-faced fellow. "Have a good nap?"
"Yes, Comrade," replied the girl; "but I am tired of napping. This
inactivity is getting on my nerves."
"Mine, too," agreed the man.
"How much longer will you wait for the American, Comrade Zveri?" asked
Raghunath Jafar.
The big man shrugged. "I need him," he replied. "We might easily carry
on without him, but for the moral effect upon the world of having a
rich and high-born American identified actively with the affair it is
worth waiting."
"Are you quite sure of this gringo, Zveri?" asked a swarthy young
Mexican sitting next to the big, smooth-faced man, who was evidently
the leader of the expedition.
"I met him in New York and again in San Francisco," replied Zveri. "He
has been very carefully checked and favorably recommended."
"I am always suspicious of these fellows who owe everything they have
to capitalism," declared Romero. "It is in their blood--at heart they
hate the proletariat, just as we hate them."
"This fellow is different, Miguel," insisted Zveri. "He has been won
over so completely that he would betray his own father for the good of
the cause--and already he is betraying his country."
A slight, involuntary sneer, that passed unnoticed by the others,
curled the lip of Zora Drinov as she heard this description of the
remaining member of the party, who had not yet reached the rendezvous.
Miguel Romero, the Mexican, was still unconvinced. "I have no use for
gringos of any sort," he said.
Zveri shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Our personal animosities are of no
importance," he said, "as against the interests of the workers of the
world. When Colt arrives we must accept him as one of us; nor must we
forget that however much we may detest America and Americans nothing of
any moment may be accomplished in the world of today without them and
their filthy wealth."
"Wealth ground out of the blood and sweat of the working class,"
growled Romero.
"Exactly," agreed Raghunath Jafar, "but how appropriate that this same
wealth should be used to undermine and overthrow capitalistic America
and bring the workers eventually into their own."
"That is precisely the way I feel about it," said Zveri. "I would
rather use American gold in furthering the cause than any other--and
after that British."
"But what do the puny resources of this single American mean to us?"
demanded Zora. "A mere nothing compared to what America is already
pouring into Soviet Russia. What is his treason compared with the
treason of those others who are already doing more to hasten the day of
world communism than the Third Internationale itself--it is nothing,
not a drop in the bucket."
"What do you mean, Zora?" asked Miguel.
"I mean the bankers, and manufacturers, and engineers of America, who
are selling their own country and the world to us in the hope of adding
more gold to their already bursting coffers. One of their most pious
and lauded citizens is building great factories for us in Russia, where
we may turn out tractors and tanks; their manufacturers are vying with
one another to furnish us with engines for countless thousands of
airplanes; their engineers are selling us their brains and their skill
to build a great modern manufacturing city, in which ammunitions and
engines of war may be produced. These are the traitors, these are the
men who are hastening the day when Moscow shall dictate the policies of
a world."
"You speak as though you regretted it," said a dry voice at her
shoulder.
The girl turned quickly. "Oh, it is you, Sheik Abu Batn?" she said, as
she recognized the swart Arab who had strolled over from his coffee.
"Our own good fortune does not blind me to the perfidiousness of the
enemy, nor cause me to admire treason in anyone, even though I profit
by it."
"Does that include me?" demanded Romero, suspiciously.
Zora laughed. "You know better than that, Miguel," she said. "You
are of the working class--you are loyal to the workers of your
own country--but these others are of the capitalistic class; their
government is a capitalistic government that is so opposed to our
beliefs that it has never recognized our government; yet, in their
greed, these swine are selling out their own kind and their own country
for a few more rotten dollars. I loathe them."
Zveri laughed. "You are a good Red, Zora," he cried; "you hate the
enemy as much when he helps us as when he hinders."
"But hating and talking accomplish so little," said the girl. "I wish
we might do something. Sitting here in idleness seems so futile."
"And what would you have us do?" demanded Zveri, good naturedly.
"We might at least make a try for the gold of Opar," she said. "If
Kitembo is right, there should be enough there to finance a dozen
expeditions such as you are planning, and we do not need this
American--what do they call them, cake eaters?--to assist us in that
venture."
"I have been thinking along similar lines," said Raghunath Jafar.
Zveri scowled. "Perhaps some of the rest of you would like to run this
expedition," he said, crustily. "I know what I am doing and I don't
have to discuss all my plans with anyone. When I have orders to give,
I'll give them. Kitembo has already received his, and preparations have
been under way for several days for the expedition to Opar."
"The rest of us are as much interested and are risking as much as you,
Zveri," snapped Romero. "We were to work together--not as master and
slaves."
"You'll soon learn that I am master," snarled Zveri in an ugly tone.
"Yes," sneered Romero, "the czar was master, too, and Obregon. You know
what happened to them?"
Zveri leaped to his feet and whipped out a revolver, but as he levelled
it at Romero the girl struck his arm up and stepped between them. "Are
you mad, Zveri?" she cried.
"Do not interfere, Zora; this is my affair and it might as well be
settled now as later. I am chief here and I am not going to have any
traitors in my camp. Stand aside."
"No!" said the girl with finality. "Miguel was wrong and so were you,
but to shed blood--our own blood--now would utterly ruin any chance
we have of success. It would sow the seed of fear and suspicion and
cost us the respect of the blacks, for they would know that there was
dissension among us. Furthermore, Miguel is not armed; to shoot him
would be cowardly murder that would lose you the respect of every
decent man in the expedition." She had spoken rapidly in Russian, a
language that was understood by only Zveri and herself, of those who
were present; then she turned again to Miguel and addressed him in
English. "You were wrong, Miguel," she said gently. "There must be one
responsible head, and Comrade Zveri was chosen for the responsibility.
He regrets that he acted hastily. Tell him that you are sorry for what
you said, and then the two of you shake hands and let us all forget the
matter."
For an instant Romero hesitated; then he extended his hand toward
Zveri. "I am sorry," he said.
The Russian took the proffered hand in his and bowed stiffly. "Let us
forget it, Comrade," he said; but the scowl was still upon his face,
though no darker than that which clouded the Mexican's.
Little Nkima yawned and swung by his tail from a branch far overhead.
His curiosity concerning these enemies was sated. They no longer
afforded him entertainment, but he knew that his master should know
about their presence; and that thought, entering his little head,
recalled his sorrow and his great yearning for Tarzan, to the end that
he was again imbued with a grim determination to continue his search
for the ape-man. Perhaps in half an hour some trivial occurrence might
again distract his attention, but for the moment it was his life work.
Swinging through the forest, little Nkima held the fate of Europe in
his pink palm, but he did not know it.
The afternoon was waning. In the distance a lion roared. An
instinctive shiver ran up Nkima's spine. In reality, however, he was
not much afraid, knowing, as he did, that no lion could reach him in
the tree tops.
A young man marching near the head of a safari cocked his head and
listened. "Not so very far away, Tony," he said.
"No, sir; much too close," replied the Filipino.
"You'll have to learn to cut out that 'sir' stuff, Tony, before we join
the others," admonished the young man.
The Filipino grinned. "All right, Comrade," he assented. "I got so used
to calling everybody 'sir' it hard for me to change."
"I'm afraid you're not a very good Red then, Tony."
"Oh, yes I am," insisted the Filipino emphatically. "Why else am I
here? You think I like come this God forsaken country full of lion,
ant, snake, fly, mosquito just for the walk? No, I come lay down my
life for Philippine independence."
"That's noble of you all right, Tony," said the other gravely; "but
just how is it going to make the Philippines free?"
Antonio Mori scratched his head. "I don't know," he admitted; "but it
make trouble for America."
A half hour later the lion roared again, and so disconcertingly close
and unexpected rose the voice of thunder from the jungle beneath him
that little Nkima nearly fell out of the tree through which he was
passing. With a scream of terror he scampered as high aloft as he could
go and there he sat, scolding angrily.
The lion, a magnificent full-maned male, stepped into the open beneath
the tree in which the trembling Nkima clung. Once again he raised his
mighty voice until the ground itself trembled to the great, rolling
volume of his challenge. Nkima looked down upon him and suddenly ceased
to scold. Instead he leaped about excitedly, chattering and grimacing.
Numa, the lion, looked up; and then a strange thing occurred. The
monkey ceased its chattering and voiced a low, peculiar sound. The eyes
of the lion, that had been glaring balefully upward, took on a new
and almost gentle expression. He arched his back and rubbed his side
luxuriously against the bole of the tree, and from those savage jaws
came a soft, purring sound. Then little Nkima dropped quickly downward
through the foliage of the tree, gave a final nimble leap, and alighted
upon the thick mane of the king of beasts.
II
THE HINDU
With the coming of a new day came a new activity to the camp of the
conspirators. Now were the Bedaùwy drinking no coffee in the múk'aad;
the cards of the whites were put away and the Galla warriors played no
longer at minkala.
Zveri sat behind his folding camp table directing his aides and with
the assistance of Zora and Raghunath Jafar issued ammunition to the
file of armed men marching past them. Miguel Romero and the two
remaining whites were supervising the distribution of loads among
the porters. Savage black Kitembo moved constantly among his men,
hastening laggards from belated breakfast fires and forming those who
had received their ammunition into companies. Abu Batn, the sheykh,
squatted aloof with his sun-bitten warriors. They, always ready,
watched with contempt the disorderly preparations of their companions.
"How many are you leaving to guard the camp?" asked Zora.
"You and Comrade Jafar will remain in charge here," replied Zveri.
"Your boys and ten askaris also will remain as camp guard."
"That will be plenty," replied the girl. "There is no danger."
"No," agreed Zveri, "not now, but if that Tarzan were here it would be
different. I took pains to assure myself as to that before I chose this
region for our base camp, and I have learned that he has been absent
for a great while--went on some fool dirigible expedition that has
never been heard from. It is almost certain that he is dead."
When the last of the blacks had received his issue of ammunition,
Kitembo assembled his tribesmen at a little distance from the rest of
the expedition and harangued them in a low voice. They were Basembos,
and Kitembo, their chief, spoke to them in the dialect of their people.
Kitembo hated all whites. The British had occupied the land that had
been the home of his people since before the memory of man; and because
Kitembo, hereditary chief, had been irreconcilable to the domination
of the invaders they had deposed him, elevating a puppet to the
chieftaincy.
To Kitembo, the chief--savage, cruel and treacherous--all whites were
anathema, but he saw in his connection with Zveri an opportunity to be
avenged upon the British; and so he had gathered about him many of his
tribesmen and enlisted in the expedition that Zveri promised him would
rid the land forever of the British and restore Kitembo to even greater
power and glory than had formerly been the lot of Basembo chiefs.
It was not, however, always easy for Kitembo to hold the interest of
his people in this undertaking. The British had greatly undermined his
power and influence, so that warriors, who formerly might have been as
subservient to his will as slaves, now dared openly to question his
authority. There had been no demur so long as the expedition entailed
no greater hardships than short marches, pleasant camps, and plenty
of food, with West Coast blacks, and members of other tribes less
warlike than the Basembos, to act as porters, carry the loads, and do
all of the heavy work; but now, with fighting looming ahead, some of
his people had desired to know just what they were going to get out of
it, having, apparently, little stomach for risking their hides for the
gratification of the ambitions or hatreds of either the white Zveri or
the black Kitembo.
It was for the purpose of mollifying these malcontents that Kitembo
was now haranguing his warriors, promising them loot on the one hand
and ruthless punishment on the other as a choice between obedience
and mutiny. Some of the rewards he dangled before their imaginations
might have caused Zveri and the other white members of the expedition
considerable perturbation could they have understood the Basembo
dialect; but perhaps a greater argument for obedience to his commands
was the genuine fear that most of his followers still entertained for
their pitiless chieftain.
Among the other blacks of the expedition were outlaw members of several
tribes and a considerable number of porters hired in the ordinary
manner to accompany what was officially described as a scientific
expedition.
Abu Batn and his warriors were animated to temporary loyalty to
Zveri by two motives--a lust for loot and hatred for all Nasrâny as
represented by the British influence in Egypt and out in to the desert,
which they considered their hereditary domain.
The members of other races accompanying Zveri were assumed to be
motivated by noble, humanitarian aspirations; but it was, nevertheless,
true that their leader spoke to them more often of the acquisition of
personal riches and power than of the advancement of the brotherhood of
man or the rights of the proletariat.
It was, then, such a loosely knit, but none the less formidable
expedition, that set forth this lovely morning upon the sack of the
treasure vaults of mysterious Opar.
As Zora Drinov watched them depart, her beautiful, inscrutable eyes
remained fixed steadfastly upon the person of Peter Zveri until he had
disappeared from view along the river trail that led into the dark
forest.
Was it a maid watching in trepidation the departure of her lover upon a
mission fraught with danger, or--
"Perhaps he will not return," said an oily voice at her shoulder.
The girl turned her head to look into the half-closed eyes of Raghunath
Jafar. "He will return, Comrade," she said. "Peter Zveri always returns
to me."
"You are very sure of him," said the man, with a leer.
"It is written," replied the girl as she started to move toward her
tent.
"Wait," said Jafar.
She stopped and turned toward him. "What do you want?" she asked.
"You," he replied. "What do you see in that uncouth swine, Zora? What
does he know of love or beauty? I can appreciate you, beautiful flower
of the morning. With me you may attain the transcendent bliss of
perfect love, for I am an adept in the cult of love. A beast like Zveri
would only degrade you."
The sickening disgust that the girl felt she hid from the eyes of
the man, for she realized that the expedition might be gone for days
and that during that time she and Jafar would be practically alone
together, except for a handful of savage black warriors whose attitude
toward a matter of this nature between an alien woman and an alien man
she could not anticipate; but she was none the less determined to put a
definite end to his advances.
"You are playing with death, Jafar," she said quietly. "I am here upon
no mission of love, and if Zveri should learn of what you have said to
me he would kill you. Do not speak to me again on this subject."
"It will not be necessary," replied the Hindu, enigmatically. His
half-closed eyes were fixed steadily upon those of the girl. For
perhaps less than half a minute the two stood thus, while there crept
through Zora Drinov a sense of growing weakness, a realization of
approaching capitulation. She fought against it, pitting her will
against that of the man. Suddenly she tore her eyes from his. She
had won, but victory left her weak and trembling as might be one who
had but just experienced a stubbornly contested physical encounter.
Turning quickly away, she moved swiftly toward her tent, not daring
to look back for fear that she might again encounter those twin
pools of vicious and malignant power that were the eyes of Raghunath
Jafar; and so she did not see the oily smile of satisfaction that
twisted the sensuous lips of the Hindu, nor did she hear his whispered
repetition--"It will not be necessary."
As the expedition wound along the trail that leads to the foot of the
barrier cliffs that hem the lower frontier of the arid plateau beyond
which stand the ancient ruins that are Opar, Wayne Colt, far to the
west, pushed on toward the base camp of the conspirators. To the south,
a little monkey rode upon the back of a great lion, shrilling insults
now with perfect impunity at every jungle creature that crossed their
path; while, with equal contempt for all lesser creatures, the mighty
carnivore strode haughtily down wind, secure in the knowledge of his
unquestioned might. A herd of antelope, grazing in his path, caught
the acrid scent of the cat and moved nervously about; but when he came
within sight of them they trotted only a short distance to one side,
making a path for him; and, while he was still in sight, they resumed
their feeding, for Numa, the lion had fed well and the herbivores knew,
as creatures of the wild know many things that are beyond the dull
sensibilities of man, and felt no fear of Numa with a full belly.
To others, yet far off, came the scent of the lion; and they, too,
moved nervously, though their fear was less than had been the first
fear of the antelopes. These others were the great apes of the tribe of
To-yat, whose mighty bulls had little cause to fear even Numa himself,
though their shes and their balus might well tremble.
As the cat approached, the Mangani became more restless and more
irritable. To-yat, the king ape, beat his breast and bared his great
fighting fangs. Ga-yat, his powerful shoulders hunched, moved to the
edge of the herd nearest the approaching danger. Zu-tho thumped a
warning menace with his calloused feet. The shes called their balus to
them, and many took to the lower branches of the larger trees or sought
positions close to an arboreal avenue of escape.
It was at this moment that an almost naked white man dropped from the
dense foliage of a tree and alighted in their midst. Taut nerves and
short tempers snapped. Roaring and snarling, the herd rushed upon the
rash and hated man-thing. The king ape was in the lead.
"To-yat has a short memory," said the man in the tongue of the Mangani.
For an instant the ape paused, surprised perhaps to hear the language
of his kind issuing from the lips of a man-thing. "I am To-yat!" he
growled. "I kill."
"I am Tarzan," replied the man, "mighty hunter, mighty fighter. I come
in peace."
"Kill! Kill!" roared To-yat, and the other great bulls advanced,
bare-fanged, menacingly.
"Zu-tho! Ga-yat!" snapped the man, "it is I, Tarzan of the Apes;" but
the bulls were nervous and frightened now, for the scent of Numa was
strong in their nostrils, and the shock of Tarzan's sudden appearance
had plunged them into a panic.
"Kill! Kill!" they bellowed, though as yet they did not charge, but
advanced slowly, working themselves into the necessary frenzy of
rage that would terminate in a sudden, blood-mad rush that no living
creature might withstand and which would leave naught but torn and
bloody fragments of the object of their wrath.
And then a shrill scream broke from the lips of a great, hairy mother
with a tiny balu on her back. "Numa!" she shrieked, and, turning, fled
into the safety of the foliage of a nearby tree.
Instantly the shes and balus remaining upon the ground took to the
trees. The bulls turned their attention for a moment from the man to
the new menace. What they saw upset what little equanimity remained
to them. Advancing straight toward them, his round, yellow-green eyes
blazing in ferocity, was a mighty, yellow lion; and upon his back
perched a little monkey, screaming insults at them. The sight was too
much for the apes of To-yat, and the king was the first to break before
it. With a roar, the ferocity of which may have salved his self esteem,
he leaped for the nearest tree; and instantly the others broke and
fled, leaving the white giant to face the angry lion alone.
With blazing eyes the king of beasts advanced upon the man, his head
lowered and flattened, his tail extended, the brush flicking. The man
spoke a single word in a low tone that might have carried but a few
yards. Instantly the head of the lion came up, the horrid glare died in
his eyes; and at the same instant the little monkey, voicing a shrill
scream of recognition and delight, leaped over Numa's head and in three
prodigious bounds was upon the shoulder of the man, his little arms
encircling the bronzed neck.
"Little Nkima!" whispered Tarzan, the soft cheek of the monkey pressed
against his own.
The lion strode majestically forward. He sniffed the bare legs of the
man, rubbed his head against his side and lay down at his feet.
"Jad-bal-ja!" greeted the ape-man.
The great apes of the tribe of To-yat watched from the safety of the
trees. Their panic and their anger had subsided. "It is Tarzan," said
Zu-tho.
"Yes, it is Tarzan," echoed Ga-yat.
To-yat grumbled. He did not like Tarzan, but he feared him; and now,
with this new evidence of the power of the great Tarmangani, he feared
him even more.
For a time Tarzan listened to the glib chattering of little Nkima. He
learned of the strange Tarmangani and the many Gomangani warriors who
had invaded the domain of the Lord of the Jungle.
The great apes moved restlessly in the trees, wishing to descend; but
they feared Numa, and the great bulls were too heavy to travel in
safety upon the high-flung leafy trails along which the lesser apes
might pass with safety, and so could not depart until Numa had gone.
"Go away!" cried To-yat, the King. "Go away, and leave the Mangani in
peace."
"We are going," replied the ape-man, "but you need not fear either
Tarzan or the Golden Lion. We are your friends. I have told Jad-bal-ja
that he is never to harm you. You may descend."
"We shall stay in the trees until he has gone," said To-yat; "he might
forget."
"You are afraid," said Tarzan contemptuously. "Zu-tho or Ga-yat would
not be afraid."
"Zu-tho is afraid of nothing," boasted that great bull.
Without a word Ga-yat climbed ponderously from the tree in which he
had taken refuge and, if not with marked enthusiasm, at least with
slight hesitation, advanced toward Tarzan and Jad-bal-ja, the Golden
Lion. His fellows eyed him intently, momentarily expecting to see him
charged and mauled by the yellow-eyed destroyer that lay at Tarzan's
feet watching every move of the shaggy bull. The Lord of the Jungle
also watched great Numa, for none knew better than he, that a lion,
however accustomed to obey his master, is still a lion. The years of
their companionship, since Jad-bal-ja had been a little, spotted,
fluffy ball, had never given him reason to doubt the loyalty of the
carnivore, though there had been times when he had found it both
difficult and dangerous to thwart some of the beast's more ferocious
hereditary instincts.
Ga-yat approached, while little Nkima scolded and chattered from the
safety of his master's shoulder; and the lion, blinking lazily, finally
looked away. The danger, if there had been any, was over--it is the
fixed, intent gaze of the lion that bodes ill.
Tarzan advanced and laid a friendly hand upon the shoulder of the ape.
"This is Ga-yat," he said addressing Jad-bal-ja, "friend of Tarzan; do
not harm him." He did not speak in any language of man. Perhaps the
medium of communication that he used might not properly be called a
language at all, but the lion and the great ape and the little Manu
understood him.
"Tell the Mangani that Tarzan is the friend of little Nkima," shrilled
the monkey. "He must not harm little Nkima."
"It is as Nkima has said," the ape-man assured Ga-yat.
"The friends of Tarzan are the friends of Ga-yat," replied the great
ape.
"It is well," said Tarzan, "and now I go. Tell To-yat and the others
what we have said and tell them also that there are strange men in this
country which is Tarzan's. Let them watch them, but do not let the men
see them, for these are bad men, perhaps, who carry the thunder sticks
that hurl death with smoke and fire and a great noise. Tarzan goes now
to see why these men are in his country."
* * * * *
Zora Drinov had avoided Jafar since the departure of the expedition to
Opar. Scarcely had she left her tent, feigning a headache as an excuse,
nor had the Hindu made any attempt to invade her privacy. Thus passed
the first day. Upon the morning of the second Jafar summoned the head
man of the askaris that had been left to guard them and to procure meat.
"Today," said Raghunath Jafar, "would be a good day to hunt. The signs
are propitious. Go, therefore, into the forest, taking all your men,
and do not return until the sun is low in the west. If you do this
there will be presents for you, besides all the meat you can eat from
the carcasses of your kills. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Bwana," replied the black.
"Take with you the boy of the woman. He will not be needed here. My boy
will remain to cook for us."
"Perhaps he will not come," suggested the negro.
"You are many, he is only one; but do not let the woman know that you
are taking him."
"What are the presents?" demanded the head man.
"A piece of cloth and cartridges," replied Jafar.
"And the curved sword that you carry when we are on the march."
"No," said Jafar.
"This is not a good day to hunt," replied the black, turning away.
"Two pieces of cloth and fifty cartridges," suggested Jafar.
"And the curved sword," and thus, after much haggling, the bargain was
made.
The head man gathered his askaris and bade them prepare for the hunt,
saying that the brown bwana had so ordered, but he said nothing about
any presents. When they were ready, he dispatched one to summon the
white woman's servant.
"You are to accompany us on the hunt," he said to the boy.
"Who said so?" demanded Wamala.
"The brown bwana," replied Kahiya, the head man.
Wamala laughed. "I take my orders from my mistress--not from the brown
bwana."
Kahiya leaped upon him and clapped a rough palm across his mouth as
two of his men seized Wamala upon either side. "You take your orders
from Kahiya," he said. Hunting spears were pressed against the boy's
trembling body. "Will you go upon the hunt with us?" demanded Kahiya.
"I go," replied Wamala. "I did but joke."
As Zveri led his expedition toward Opar, Wayne Colt, impatient to
join the main body of the conspirators, urged his men to greater
speed in their search for the camp. The principal conspirators had
entered Africa at different points that they might not arouse too much
attention by their numbers. Pursuant to this plan Colt had landed on
the west coast and had travelled inland a short distance by train
to railhead, from which point he had had a long and arduous journey
on foot; so that now, with his destination almost in sight, he was
anxious to put a period to this part of his adventure. Then, too, he
was curious to meet the other principals in this hazardous undertaking,
Peter Zveri being the only one with whom he was acquainted.
The young American was not unmindful of the great risks he was inviting
in affiliating himself with an expedition which aimed at the peace of
Europe and at the ultimate control of a large section of Northeastern
Africa through the disaffection by propaganda of large and warlike
native tribes, especially in view of the fact that much of their
operation must be carried on within British territory, where British
power was considerably more than a mere gesture. But, being young and
enthusiastic, however misguided, these contingencies did not weigh
heavily upon his spirits, which, far from being depressed, were upon
the contrary eager and restless for action.
The tedium of the journey from the coast had been unrelieved by
pleasurable or adequate companionship, since the childish mentality of
Tony could not rise above a muddy conception of Philippine independence
and a consideration of the fine clothes he was going to buy when, by
some vaguely visualized economic process, he was to obtain his share of
the Ford and Rockefeller fortunes.
However, notwithstanding Tony's mental shortcomings, Colt was genuinely
fond of the youth and as between the companionship of the Filipino or
Zveri, he would have chosen the former, his brief acquaintance with the
Russian in New York and San Francisco having convinced him that as a
play-fellow he left everything to be desired; nor had he any reason to
anticipate that he would find any more congenial associates among the
conspirators.
Plodding doggedly onward, Colt was only vaguely aware of the now
familiar sights and sounds of the jungle, both of which by this time,
it must be admitted, had considerably palled upon him. Even had he
taken particular note of the latter, it is to be doubted that his
untrained ear would have caught the persistent chatter of a little
monkey that followed in the trees behind him; nor would this have
particularly impressed him, unless he had been able to know that this
particular little monkey rode upon the shoulder of a bronzed Apollo of
the forest, who moved silently in his wake along a leafy highway of the
lower terraces.
Tarzan had guessed that perhaps this white man, upon whose trail he had
come unexpectedly, was making his way toward the main camp of the party
of strangers for which the Lord of the Jungle was searching; and so,
with the persistence and patience of the savage stalker of the jungle,
he followed Wayne Colt; while little Nkima, riding upon his shoulder,
berated his master for not immediately destroying the Tarmangani and
all his party, for little Nkima was a bloodthirsty soul when the
spilling of blood was to be accomplished by someone else.
And while Colt impatiently urged his men to greater speed and Tarzan
followed and Nkima scolded, Raghunath Jafar approached the tent of Zora
Drinov. As his figure darkened the entrance, casting a shadow across
the book she was reading, the girl looked up from the cot upon which
she was lying.
The Hindu smiled his oily, ingratiating smile. "I came to see if your
headache was better," he said.
"Thank you, no," said the girl coldly; "but perhaps with undisturbed
rest I may be better soon."
Ignoring the suggestion, Jafar entered the tent and seated himself in a
camp chair. "I find it lonely," he said, "since the others have gone.
Do you not also?"
"No," replied Zora. "I am quite content to be alone and resting."
"Your headache developed very suddenly," said Jafar. "A short time ago
you seemed quite well and animated."
The girl made no reply. She was wondering what had become of her boy,
Wamala, and why he had disregarded her explicit instructions to permit
no one to disturb her. Perhaps Raghunath Jafar read her thoughts, for
to East Indians are often attributed uncanny powers, however little
warranted such a belief may be. However that may be, his next words
suggested the possibility.
"Wamala has gone hunting with the askaris," he said.
"I gave him no such permission," said Zora.
"I took the liberty of doing so," said Jafar.
"You had no right," said the girl angrily, sitting up upon the edge of
her cot. "You have presumed altogether too far, Comrade Jafar."
"Wait a moment, my dear," said the Hindu soothingly. "Let us not
quarrel. As you know, I love you and love does not find confirmation
in crowds. Perhaps I have presumed, but it was only for the purpose of
giving me an opportunity to plead my cause without interruption; and
then, too, as you know, all is fair in love and war."
"Then we may consider this as war," said the girl, "for it certainly
is not love, either upon your side or upon mine. There is another word
to describe what animates you, Comrade Jafar, and that which animates
me now is loathing. I could not abide you if you were the last man on
earth, and when Zveri returns, I promise you that there shall be an
accounting."
"Long before Zveri returns I shall have taught you to love me," said
the Hindu, passionately. He arose and came toward her. The girl leaped
to her feet, looking about quickly for a weapon of defense. Her
cartridge belt and revolver hung over the chair in which Jafar had been
sitting, and her rifle was upon the opposite side of the tent.
"You are quite unarmed," said the Hindu; "I took particular note of
that when I entered the tent. Nor will it do you any good to call for
help; for there is no one in camp but you, and me, and my boy and he
knows that, if he values his life, he is not to come here unless I call
him."
"You are a beast," said the girl.
"Why not be reasonable, Zora?" demanded Jafar. "It would not harm you
any to be kind to me, and it will make it very much easier for you.
Zveri need know nothing of it, and once we are back in civilization
again, if you still feel that you do not wish to remain with me I shall
not try to hold you; but I am sure that I can teach you to love me and
that we shall be very happy together."
"Get out!" ordered the girl. There was neither fear nor hysteria in her
voice. It was very calm and level and controlled. To a man not entirely
blinded by passion, that might have meant something--it might have
meant a grim determination to carry self-defense to the very length
of death--but Raghunath Jafar saw only the woman of his desire, and
stepping quickly forward he seized her.
Zora Drinov was young and lithe and strong, yet she was no match for
the burly Hindu, whose layers of greasy fat belied the great physical
strength beneath them. She tried to wrench herself free and escape
from the tent, but he held her and dragged her back. Then she turned
upon him in a fury and struck him repeatedly in the face, but he only
enveloped her more closely in his embrace and bore her backward upon
the cot.
III
OUT OF THE GRAVE
Wayne Colt's guide, who had been slightly in advance of the American,
stopped suddenly and looked back with a broad smile. Then he pointed
ahead. "The camp, Bwana!" he exclaimed triumphantly.
"Thank the Lord!" exclaimed Colt with a sigh of relief.
"It is deserted," said the guide.
"It does look that way, doesn't it?" agreed Colt. "Let's have a look
around," and, followed by his men, he moved in among the tents. His
tired porters threw down their loads and, with the askaris, sprawled
at full length beneath the shade of the trees, while Colt, followed by
Tony, commenced an investigation of the camp.