The disappearance of a noted archaeologist hunting the secret of the
Lost Tribe of the Wiramwazi Mountains was a signal to the one man who
could penetrate Africa's deepest interior--Tarzan of the Apes. For only
Tarzan, the white man who had been raised by the anthropoid apes, could
understand the ways of the jungle and its beasts perfectly enough to
speed to the scientist's rescue.
But this time, in addition to savage tribes and vicious beasts, Tarzan
uncovered a strange lost land--twin cities of Roman soldiery, outposts
of a ruthless empire that had fallen fifteen hundred years before.
Tarzan's desperate struggle between ancient intrigues and modern
schemers, against deadly gladiators and enraged lions, is Edgar Rice
Burroughs at his very best.
_Foreword_: THE REAL TARZAN
Who is the real Tarzan of the Apes?
Everyone generally agrees that he's the strong man that lives in the
jungle and can talk with his animal friends. But from there on, the
definitions will vary. Some will swear that he lives in a tree house
and is usually saying, "Me Tarzan, you Jane," while others will tell
you that he has a son named Boy and a monkey called Cheetah.
In spite of what you may suppose, this is not a valid answer to the
question. Tarzan does not live in a tree house, he speaks English
fluently, his son's name is Korak the Killer and he calls his monkey
Nkima.
The misconceptions were brought about by the Tarzan motion pictures
of a few years back, and, though they have certainly spread Tarzan's
fame, they have altered his character from that created by Burroughs in
his books. The Tarzan novels are vividly conceived, mature, gripping
stories told by a talented author.
You hold one of these novels in your hand. You will find the real
Tarzan far more thrilling than his pale movie counterpart.
--CAMILLE CAZADESSUS, JR.
_Editor_, ERB-dom,
_a magazine devoted to the Burroughs books_.
_Chapter One_
Nkima danced excitedly upon the naked, brown shoulder of his master. He
chattered and scolded, now looking up inquiringly into Tarzan's face
and then off into the jungle.
"Something is coming, Bwana," said Muviro, sub-chief of the Waziri.
"Nkima has heard it."
"And Tarzan," said the ape-man.
"The big Bwana's ears are as keen as the ears of Bara the antelope,"
said Muviro.
"Had they not been, Tarzan would not be here today," replied the
ape-man, with a smile. "He would not have grown to manhood had not
Kala, his mother, taught him to use all of the senses that Mulungu gave
him."
"What comes?" asked Muviro.
"A party of men," replied Tarzan.
"Perhaps they are not friendly," suggested the black. "Shall I warn the
warriors?"
Tarzan glanced about the little camp where a score of his black
fighting men were busy preparing their evening meal and saw that, as
was the custom of the Waziri, their weapons were in order and at hand.
"No," he said. "It will, I believe, be unnecessary, as these people who
are approaching do not come stealthily as enemies would, nor are their
numbers so great as to cause us any apprehension."
But Nkima, a born pessimist, expected only the worst, and as the
approaching party came nearer his excitement increased. He leaped from
Tarzan's shoulder to the ground, jumped up and down several times and
then springing back to Tarzan's side, seized his arm and attempted to
drag him to his feet.
"Run, run!" he cried, in the language of the apes. "Strange Gomangani
are coming. They will kill little Nkima."
"Do not be afraid, Nkima," said the ape-man. "Tarzan and Muviro will
not let the strangers hurt you."
"I smell a strange Tarmangani," chattered Nkima. "There is a Tarmangani
with them. The Tarmangani are worse than the Gomangani. They come with
thundersticks and kill little Nkima and all his brothers and sisters.
They kill the Mangani. They kill the Gomangani. They kill everything
with their thundersticks. Nkima does not like the Tarmangani. Nkima is
afraid."
To Nkima, as to the other denizens of the jungle, Tarzan was no
Tarmangani, no white man. He was of the jungle. He was one of them, and
if they thought of him as being anything other than just Tarzan it was
as a Mangani, a great ape, that they classified him.
The advance of the strangers was now plainly audible to everyone in the
camp. The Waziri warriors glanced into the jungle in the direction from
which the sounds were coming and then back to Tarzan and Muviro, but
when they saw that their leaders were not concerned they went quietly
on with their cooking.
A tall, black warrior was the first of the party to come within sight
of the camp. When he saw the Waziri he halted and an instant later a
bearded white man stopped beside him.
For an instant the white man surveyed the camp and then he came
forward, making the sign of peace. Out of the jungle a dozen or more
blacks followed him. Most of them were porters, there being but three
or four rifles in evidence.
Tarzan and the Waziri realized at once that it was a small and harmless
party, and even Nkima, who had retreated to the safety of a near-by
tree, showed his contempt by scampering fearlessly back to climb to the
shoulder of his master.
"Doctor von Harben!" exclaimed Tarzan, as the bearded stranger
approached. "I scarcely recognized you at first."
"God has been kind to me, Tarzan of the Apes," said von Harben,
extending his hand. "I was on my way to see you and I have found you a
full two days' march sooner than I expected."
"We are after a cattle-killer," explained Tarzan. "He has come into our
kraal several nights of late and killed some of our best cattle, but he
is very cunning. I think he must be an old lion to outwit Tarzan for so
long.
"But what brings you into Tarzan's country, Doctor? I hope it is only a
neighborly visit and that no trouble has come to my good friend, though
your appearance belies my hope."
"I, too, wish that it were nothing more than a friendly call," said von
Harben, "but as a matter of fact I am here to seek your help because I
am in trouble--very serious trouble, I fear."
"Do not tell me that the Arabs have come down again to take slaves or
to steal ivory, or is it that the leopard men are waylaying your people
upon the jungle trails at night?"
"No, it is neither the one nor the other. I have come to see you upon
a more personal matter. It is about my son, Erich. You have never met
him."
"No," said Tarzan; "but you are tired and hungry. Let your men make
camp here. My evening meal is ready; while you and I eat you shall tell
me how Tarzan may serve you."
As the Waziri, at Tarzan's command, assisted von Harben's blacks in
making their camp, the doctor and the ape-man sat cross-legged upon the
ground and ate the rough fare that Tarzan's Waziri cook had prepared.
Tarzan saw that his guest's mind was filled with the trouble that had
brought him in search of the ape-man, and so he did not wait until they
had finished the meal to reopen the subject, but urged von Harben to
continue his story at once.
"I wish to preface the real object of my visit with a few words of
explanation," commenced von Harben. "Erich is my only son. Four years
ago, at the age of nineteen, he completed his university course with
honors and received his first degree. Since then he has spent the
greater part of his time in pursuing his studies in various European
universities, where he has specialized in archaeology and the study of
dead languages. His one hobby, outside of his chosen field, has been
mountain-climbing and during succeeding summer vacations he scaled
every important Alpine peak.
"A few months ago he came here to visit me at the mission and
immediately became interested in the study of the various Bantu
dialects that are in use by the several tribes in our district and
those adjacent thereto.
"While pursuing his investigation among the natives he ran across that
old legend of The Lost Tribe of the Wiramwazi Mountains, with which we
are all so familiar. Immediately his mind became imbued, as have the
minds of so many others, with the belief that this fable might have
originated in fact and that if he could trace it down he might possibly
find descendants of one of the lost tribes of Biblical history."
"I know the legend well," said Tarzan, "and because it is so persistent
and the details of its narration by the natives so circumstantial,
I have thought that I should like to investigate it myself, but in
the past no necessity has arisen to take me close to the Wiramwazi
Mountains."
"I must confess," continued the doctor, "that I also have had the same
urge many times. I have upon two occasions talked with men of the
Bagego tribe that live upon the slopes of the Wiramwazi Mountains and
in both instances I have been assured that a tribe of white men dwells
somewhere in the depths of that great mountain range. Both of these men
told me that their tribe has carried on trade with these people from
time immemorial and each assured me that he had often seen members of
The Lost Tribe both upon occasions of peaceful trading and during the
warlike raids that the mountaineers occasionally launched upon the
Bagego.
"The result was that when Erich suggested an expedition to the
Wiramwazi I rather encouraged him, since he was well fitted to
undertake the adventure. His knowledge of Bantu and his intensive, even
though brief, experience among the natives gave him an advantage that
few scholars otherwise equipped by education to profit by such an
expedition would have, while his considerable experience as a mountain
climber would, I felt, stand him in good stead during such an adventure.
"On the whole I felt that he was an ideal man to lead such an
expedition, and my only regret was that I could not accompany him, but
this was impossible at the time. I assisted him in every way possible
in the organization of his safari and in equipping and provisioning it.
"He has not been gone a sufficient length of time to accomplish any
considerable investigation and return to the mission, but recently a
few of the members of his safari were reported to me as having returned
to their villages. When I sought to interview them they avoided me, but
rumors reached me that convinced me that all was not well with my son.
I therefore determined to organize a relief expedition, but in all my
district I could find only these few men who dared accompany me to the
Wiramwazi Mountains, which, their legends assure them, are inhabited
by malign spirits--for, as you know, they consider The Lost Tribe of
the Wiramwazi to be a band of bloodthirsty ghosts. It became evident to
me that the deserters of Erich's safari had spread terror through the
district.
"Under the circumstances I was compelled to look elsewhere for help and
naturally I turned, in my perplexity, to Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle....
Now you know why I am here."
"I will help you, Doctor," said Tarzan, after the other had concluded.
"Good!" exclaimed von Harben; "but I knew that you would. You have
about twenty men here, I should judge, and I have about fourteen. My
men can act as carriers, while yours, who are acknowledged to be the
finest fighting men in Africa, can serve as askaris. With you to guide
us we can soon pick up the trail and with such a force, small though it
be, there is no country that we cannot penetrate."
Tarzan shook his head. "No, Doctor," he said, "I shall go alone.
That is always my way. Alone I may travel much more rapidly and when
I am alone the jungle holds no secrets from me--I shall be able to
obtain more information along the way than would be possible were I
accompanied by others. You know the jungle people consider me as one
of themselves. They do not run away from me as they would from you and
these blacks."
"You know best," said von Harben. "I should like to accompany you. I
should like to feel that I am doing my share, but if you say no I can
only abide by your decision."
"Return to your mission, Doctor, and wait there until you hear from me."
"And in the morning you leave for the Wiramwazi Mountains?" asked von
Harben.
"I leave at once," said the ape-man.
"But it is already dark," objected von Harben.
"There is a full moon and I wish to take advantage of it," explained
the other. "I can lie up in the heat of the day for what rest I need."
He turned and called Muviro to him. "Return home with my warriors,
Muviro," he instructed, "and hold every fighting man of the Waziri in
readiness in the event that I find it necessary to send for you."
"Yes, Bwana," replied Muviro; "and how long shall we wait for a message
before we set out for the Wiramwazi Mountains in search of you?"
"I shall take Nkima with me and if I need you I shall send him back to
fetch and to guide you."
"Yes, Bwana," replied Muviro. "They will be in readiness--all the
fighting men of the Waziri. Their weapons will be at hand by day and by
night and fresh war-paint will be ready in every pot."
Tarzan swung his bow and his quiver of arrows across his back. Over
his left shoulder and under his right arm lay the coils of his grass
rope and at his hip dangled the hunting-knife of his long-dead sire.
He picked up his short spear and stood for the moment with head up,
sniffing the breeze. The firelight played upon his bronzed skin.
For a moment he stood thus, every sense alert. Then he called to Nkima
in the tongue of the ape folk and as the little monkey scampered
toward him, Tarzan of the Apes turned without a word of farewell and
moved silently off into the jungle, his lithe carriage, his noiseless
tread, his majestic mien suggesting to the mind of von Harben a
personification of another mighty jungle animal, Numa the lion, king of
beasts.
_Chapter Two_
Erich von Harben stepped from his tent upon the slopes of the Wiramwazi
Mountains to look upon a deserted camp.
When he had first awakened, the unusual quiet of his surroundings had
aroused within him a presentiment of ill, which was augmented when
repeated calls for his body-servant, Gambula, elicited no response.
For weeks, as the safari had been approaching the precincts of the
feared Wiramwazi, his men had been deserting by twos and threes until
the preceding evening when they had made this camp well upon the
mountain slopes only a terrified remnant of the original safari had
remained with him. Now even these, overcome during the night by the
terrors of ignorance and superstition, had permitted fear to supplant
loyalty and had fled from the impending and invisible terrors of this
frowning range, leaving their master alone with the bloodthirsty
spirits of the dead.
A hasty survey of the camp site revealed that the blacks had stripped
von Harben of everything. All of his supplies were gone and his gun
carriers had decamped with his rifles and all of his ammunition, with
the exception of a single Luger pistol and its belt of ammunition that
had been in the tent with him.
Erich von Harben had had sufficient experience with these natives
to understand fairly well the mental processes based upon their
deep-rooted superstition that had led them to this seemingly inhuman
and disloyal act and so he did not place so much blame upon them as
might another less familiar with them.
While they had known their destination when they embarked upon the
undertaking, their courage had been high in direct proportion to the
great distance that they had been from the Wiramwazi, but in proportion
as the distance lessened with each day's march their courage had
lessened until now upon the very threshold of horrors beyond the ken of
human minds the last vestige of self-control had deserted them and they
had fled precipitately.
That they had taken his provisions, his rifles and his ammunition might
have seemed the depth of baseness had von Harben not realized the
sincerity of their belief that there could be no possible hope for him
and that his immediate death was a foregone conclusion.
He knew that they had reasoned that under the circumstances it would
be a waste of food to leave it behind for a man who was already as
good as dead when they would need it for their return journey to
their villages, and likewise, as the weapons of mortal man could
avail nothing against the ghosts of Wiramwazi, it would have been a
needless extravagance to have surrendered fine rifles and quantities
of ammunition that von Harben could not use against his enemies of the
spirit world.
Von Harben stood for some time looking down the mountain slope
toward the forest, somewhere in the depths of which his men were
hastening toward their own country. That he might overtake them was a
possibility, but by no means a certainty, and if he did not he would be
no better off alone in the jungle than he would be on the slopes of the
Wiramwazi.
He faced about and looked up toward the rugged heights above him. He
had come a long way to reach his goal, which now lay somewhere just
beyond that serrated skyline, and he was of no mind to turn back now
in defeat. A day or a week in these rugged mountains might reveal
the secret of The Lost Tribe of legend, and surely a month would be
sufficient to determine beyond a reasonable doubt that the story had
no basis in fact, for von Harben believed that in a month he could
fairly well explore such portions of the range as might naturally
lend themselves to human habitation, where he hoped at best to find
relics of the fabled tribe in the form of ruins or burial mounds. For
to a man of von Harben's training and intelligence there could be no
thought that The Lost Tribe of legend, if it had ever existed, could be
anything more than a vague memory surrounding a few moldy artifacts and
some crumbling bones.
It did not take the young man long to reach a decision and presently he
turned back to his tent and, entering it, packed a few necessities that
had been left to him in a light haversack, strapped his ammunition belt
about him, and stepped forth once more to turn his face upward toward
the mystery of the Wiramwazi.
In addition to his Luger, von Harben carried a hunting-knife and with
this he presently cut a stout staff from one of the small trees that
grew sparsely upon the mountainside against the time when he might find
an alpenstock indispensable.
A mountain rill furnished him pure, cold water to quench his thirst,
and he carried his pistol cocked, hoping that he might bag some small
game to satisfy his hunger. Nor had he gone far before a hare broke
cover, and as it rolled over to the crack of the Luger, von Harben gave
thanks that he had devoted much time to perfecting himself in the use
of small arms.
On the spot he built a fire and grilled the hare, after which he lit
his pipe and lay at ease while he smoked and planned. His was not a
temperament to be depressed or discouraged by seeming reverses, and he
was determined not to be hurried by excitement, but to conserve his
strength at all times during the strenuous days that he felt must lie
ahead of him.
All day he climbed, choosing the long way when it seemed safer,
exercising all the lore of mountain-climbing that he had accumulated,
and resting often. Night overtook him well up toward the summit of the
highest ridge that had been visible from the base of the range. What
lay behind, he could not even guess, but experience suggested that he
would find other ridges and frowning peaks before him.
He had brought a blanket with him from the last camp and in this he
rolled up on the ground. From below there came the noises of the jungle
subdued by distance--the yapping of jackals and faintly from afar the
roaring of a lion.
Toward morning he was awakened by the scream of a leopard, not from the
jungle far below, but somewhere upon the mountain slopes near by. He
knew that this savage night prowler constituted a real menace, perhaps
the greatest he would have to face, and he regretted the loss of his
heavy rifle.
He was not afraid, for he knew that after all there was little
likelihood that the leopard was hunting him or that it would attack
him, but there was always that chance and so to guard against it he
started a fire of dry wood that he had gathered for the purpose the
night before. He found the warmth of the blaze welcome, for the night
had grown cold, and he sat for some time warming himself.
Once he thought he heard an animal moving in the darkness beyond the
range of the firelight, but he saw no shining eyes and the sound was
not repeated. And then he must have slept, for the next thing that he
knew it was daylight and only embers remained to mark where the beast
fire had blazed.
Cold and without breakfast, von Harben continued the ascent from his
cheerless camp, his eyes, under the constant urging of his stomach,
always alert for food. The terrain offered few obstacles to an
experienced mountain climber, and he even forgot his hunger in the
thrill of expectancy in which he anticipated the possibilities hidden
by the ridge whose summit now lay but a short distance ahead of him.
It is the summit of the next ridge that ever lures the explorer onward.
What new sights lie just beyond? What mysteries will its achievement
unveil to the eager eyes of the adventurer? Judgment and experience
joined forces to assure him that when his eyes surmounted the ridge
ahead they would be rewarded with nothing more startling than another
similar ridge to be negotiated; yet there was always that other hope
hanging like a shining beacon just below the next horizon, above which
the rays of its hidden light served to illuminate the figments of his
desire, and his imagination transformed the figments into realities.
Von Harben, sane and phlegmatic as he was, was now keyed to the highest
pitch of excitement as he at last scaled the final barrier and stood
upon the crest of the ridge. Before him stretched a rolling plateau,
dotted with stunted wind-swept trees, and in the distance lay the next
ridge that he had anticipated, but indistinct and impurpled by the
haze of distance. What lay between him and those far hills? His pulse
quickened at the thought of the possibilities for exploration and
discovery that lay before him, for the terrain that he looked upon was
entirely different from what he had anticipated. No lofty peaks were
visible except in the far distance, and between him and them there must
lie intriguing ravines and valleys--virgin fields at the feet of the
explorer.
Eagerly, entirely forgetful of his hunger or his solitude, von Harben
moved northward across the plateau. The land was gently rolling,
rock-strewn, sterile, and uninteresting, and when he had covered a mile
of it he commenced to have misgivings, for if it continued on without
change to the dim hills in the distance, as it now seemed was quite
likely the case, it could offer him neither interest nor sustenance.
As these thoughts were commencing to oppress him, he became suddenly
conscious of a vague change in the appearance of the terrain ahead.
It was only an impression of unreality. The hills far away before him
seemed to rise out of a great void, and it was as though between him
and them there existed nothing. He might have been looking across an
inland sea to distant, hazy shores--a waterless sea, for nowhere was
there any suggestion of water--and then suddenly he came to a halt,
startled, amazed. The rolling plateau ceased abruptly at his feet, and
below him, stretching far to the distant hills, lay a great abyss--a
mighty canyon similar to that which has made the gorge of the Colorado
world-famous.
But here there was a marked difference. There were indications of
erosion. The grim walls were scarred and water-worn. Towers and turrets
and minarets, carved from the native granite, pointed upward from
below, but they clung close to the canyon's wall, and just beyond them
he could see the broad expanse of the floor of the canyon, which from
his great height above it appeared as level as a billiard table. The
scene held him in a hypnosis of wonderment and admiration as, at first
swiftly and then slowly, his eyes encompassed the whole astounding
scene.
Perhaps a mile below him lay the floor of the sunken canyon, the
further wall of which he could but vaguely estimate to be somewhere
between fifteen and twenty miles to the north, and this he realized
was the lesser dimension of the canyon. Upon his right, to the east,
and upon his left, to the west, he could see that the canyon extended
to considerable distances--just how far he could not guess. He thought
that to the east he could trace the wall that hemmed it upon that
side, but from where he stood the entire extent of the canyon to the
west was not visible, yet he knew that the floor that was visible to
him must stretch fully twenty-five or thirty miles from east to west.
Almost below him was a large lake or marsh that seemed to occupy the
greater part of the east end of the canyon. He could see lanes of water
winding through what appeared to be great growths of reeds and, nearer
the northern shore, a large island. Three streams, winding ribbons
far below, emptied into the lake, and in the far distance was another
ribbon that might be a road. To the west the canyon was heavily wooded,
and between the forest and the lake he saw moving figures of what he
thought to be grazing game.
The sight below him aroused the enthusiasm of the explorer to its
highest pitch. Here, doubtless, lay the secret of The Lost Tribe of the
Wiramwazi and how well Nature had guarded this secret with stupendous
barrier cliffs, aided by the superstitions of the ignorant black
inhabitants of the outer slopes, was now easily understandable.
As far as he could see, the cliffs seemed sheer and impossible of
descent, and yet he knew that he must find a way--that he would find a
way down into that valley of enchantment.
Moving slowly along the rim he sought some foothold, however slight,
where Nature had lowered her guard, but it was almost night and he had
covered but a short distance before he found even a suggestion of hope
that the canyon was hemmed at any point by other than unbroken cliffs,
whose perpendicular faces rose at their lowest point fully a thousand
feet above any possible foothold for a human being.
The sun had already set when he discovered a narrow fissure in the
granite wall. Crumbled fragments of the mother rock had fallen into and
partially filled it so that near the surface, at least, it offered a
means of descent below the level of the cliff top, but in the gathering
darkness he could not determine how far downward this rough and
precarious pathway led.
He could see that below him the cliffs rose in terraced battlements to
within a thousand feet of where he stood, and if the narrow fissure
extended to the next terrace below him, he felt that the obstacles
thereafter would present fewer difficulties than those that baffled
him up to the present time--for while he would still have some four
thousand feet to descend, the formation of the cliffs was much more
broken at the foot of the first sheer drop and consequently might be
expected to offer some avenues of descent of which an experienced
mountain climber could take advantage.
Hungry and cold, he sat beneath the descending night, gazing down into
the blackening void below. Presently, as the darkness deepened, he saw
a light twinkling far below and then another and another and with each
his excitement rose, for he knew that they marked the presence of man.
In many places upon the marsh-like lake he saw the fires twinkling, and
at a point which he took to mark the site of the island there were many
lights.
What sort of men were they who tended these fires? Would he find them
friendly or hostile? Were they but another tribe of African blacks, or
could it be that the old legend was based upon truth and that far below
him white men of The Lost Tribe cooked their evening meals above those
tantalizing fires of mystery?
What was that? Von Harben strained his ears to catch the faint
suggestion of a sound that arose out of the shadowy abyss below--a
faint, thin sound that barely reached his ears, but he was sure that he
could not be mistaken--the sound was the voices of men.
And now from out of the valley came the scream of a beast and again a
roar that rumbled upward like distant thunder. To the music of these
sounds, von Harben finally succumbed to exhaustion; sleep for the
moment offering him relief from cold and hunger.
When morning came he gathered wood from the stunted trees near by and
built a fire to warm himself. He had no food, nor all the previous
day since he had reached the summit had he seen any sign of a living
creature other than the game a mile beneath him on the verdant meadows
of the canyon bottom.
He knew that he must have food and have it soon and food lay but a mile
away in one direction. If he sought to circle the canyon in search of
an easier avenue of descent, he knew that he might not find one in the
hundred miles or more that he must travel. Of course he might turn
back. He was sure that he could reach the base of the outer slopes of
the Wiramwazi, where he knew that game might be found before exhaustion
overcame him, but he had no mind to turn back and the thought of
failure was only a vague suggestion that scarcely ever rose above the
threshold of his conscious mind.
Having warmed himself before the fire, he turned to examine the
fissure by the full light of day. As he stood upon its brink he could
see that it extended downward for several hundred feet, but there it
disappeared. However, he was by no means sure that it ended, since it
was not a vertical cleft, but tilted slightly from the perpendicular.
From where he stood he could see that there were places in the fissure
where descent would be just possible, though it might be very difficult
to reascend. He knew, therefore, that should he reach the bottom of the
fissure and find that further descent was impossible he would be caught
in a trap from which there might be no escape.
Although he felt as fit and strong as ever, he realized perfectly that
the contrary was the fact and that his strength must be ebbing and that
it would continue to ebb still more rapidly the longer that he was
forced to expend it in arduous efforts to descend the cliff and without
any possibility of rebuilding it with food.
Even to Erich von Harben, young, self-confident and enthusiastic, his
next step seemed little better than suicidal. To another the mere idea
of attempting the descent of these towering cliffs would have seemed
madness, but in other mountains von Harben had always found a way, and
with this thin thread upon which to hang his hopes he faced the descent
into the unknown. Now he was just about to lower himself over the
edge of the fissure when he heard the sounds of footsteps behind him.
Wheeling quickly, he drew his Luger.
_Chapter Three_
Little Nkima came racing through the tree tops, jabbering excitedly,
and dropped to the knee of Tarzan of the Apes where the latter lay
stretched upon the great branch of a jungle giant, his back against the
rough bole, where he was lying up after making a kill and feeding.
"Gomangani! Gomangani!" shrilled Nkima. "They come! They come!"
"Peace," said Tarzan. "You are a greater nuisance than all the
Gomangani in the jungle."
"They will kill little Nkima," cried the monkey. "They are strange
Gomangani, and there are no Tarmangani among them."
"Nkima thinks everything wants to kill him," said Tarzan, "and yet he
has lived many years and is not dead yet."
"Sabor and Sheeta and Numa, the Gomangani, and Histah the snake like
to eat poor little Nkima," wailed the monkey. "That is why he is
afraid."
"Do not fear, Nkima," said the ape-man. "Tarzan will let no one hurt
you."
"Go and see the Gomangani," urged Nkima. "Go and kill them. Nkima does
not like the Gomangani."
Tarzan arose leisurely. "I go," he said. "Nkima may come or he may hide
in the upper terraces."
"Nkima is not afraid," blustered the little monkey. "He will go and
fight the Gomangani with Tarzan of the Apes," and he leaped to the back
of the ape-man and clung there with his arms about the bronzed throat,
from which point of vantage he peered fearfully ahead, first over the
top of one broad shoulder and then over the top of the other.
Tarzan swung swiftly and quietly through the trees toward a point where
Nkima had discovered the blacks, and presently he saw below him some
score of natives straggling along the jungle trail. A few of them were
armed with rifles and all carried packs of various sizes--such packs as
Tarzan knew must belong to the equipment of a white man.
The Lord of the Jungle hailed them and, startled, the blacks halted,
looking up fearfully.
"I am Tarzan of the Apes. Do not be afraid," Tarzan reassured them,
and simultaneously he dropped lightly to the trail among them, but as
he did so Nkima leaped frantically from his shoulders and scampered
swiftly to a high branch far above, where he sat chattering and
scolding, entirely forgetful of his vain boasting of a few moments
before.
"Where is your master?" demanded Tarzan.
The blacks looked sullenly at the ground, but did not reply.
"Where is the Bwana, von Harben?" Tarzan insisted.
A tall black standing near fidgeted uneasily. "He is dead," he mumbled.
"How did he die?" asked Tarzan.
Again the black hesitated before replying. "A bull elephant that he had
wounded killed him," he said at last.
"Where is his body?"
"We could not find it."
"Then how do you know that he was killed by a bull elephant?" demanded
the ape-man.
"We do not know," spoke up another black. "He went away from camp and
did not return."
"There was an elephant about and we thought that it had killed him,"
said the first black.
"You are not speaking true words," said Tarzan.
"I shall tell you the truth," said a third black. "Our Bwana ascended
the slopes of the Wiramwazi and the spirits of the dead being angry
seized him and carried him away."
"I shall tell you the truth," said Tarzan. "You have deserted your
master and run away, leaving him alone in the forest."
"We were afraid," said the third black. "We warned him not to ascend
the slopes of the Wiramwazi. We begged him to turn back. He would not
listen to us, and the spirits of the dead carried him away."
"How long ago was that?" asked the ape-man.
"Six, seven, perhaps ten marchings. I do not remember."
"Where was he when you last saw him?"
As accurately as they could the blacks described the location of their
last camp upon the slopes of the Wiramwazi.
"Go your way back to your own villages in the Urambi country. I
shall know where to find you if I want you. If your Bwana is dead,
you shall be punished," and swinging into the branches of the lower
terrace, Tarzan disappeared from the sight of the unhappy blacks in
the direction of the Wiramwazi, while Nkima, screaming shrilly, raced
through the trees to overtake him.
From his conversation with the deserting members of von Harben's
safari, Tarzan was convinced that the young man had been traitorously
abandoned and that in all likelihood he was making his way alone back
upon the trail of the deserters.
Not knowing Erich von Harben, Tarzan could not have guessed that the
young man would push on alone into the unknown and forbidding depths
of the Wiramwazi, but assumed on the contrary that he would adopt the
more prudent alternative and seek to overtake his men as rapidly as
possible. Believing this, the ape-man followed back along the trail of
the blacks, expecting momentarily to meet von Harben.
This plan greatly reduced his speed, but even so he traveled with so
much greater rapidity than the blacks that he came to the slopes of the
Wiramwazi upon the third day after he had interviewed the remnants of
von Harben's safari.
It was with great difficulty that he finally located the point at
which von Harben had been abandoned by his men, as a heavy rain and
wind-storm had obliterated the trail, but at last he stumbled upon the
tent, which had blown down, but nowhere could he see any signs of von
Harben's trail.
Not having come upon any signs of the white man in the jungle or any
indication that he had followed his fleeing safari, Tarzan was forced
to the conclusion that if von Harben was not indeed dead he must have
faced the dangers of the unknown alone and now be either dead or alive
somewhere within the mysterious fastnesses of the Wiramwazi.
"Nkima," said the ape-man, "the Tarmangani have a saying that when it
is futile to search for a thing, it is like hunting for a needle in a
haystack. Do you believe, Nkima, that in this great mountain range we
shall find our needle?"
"Let us go home," said Nkima, "where it is warm. Here the wind blows
and up there it is colder. It is no place for little Manu, the monkey."
"Nevertheless, Nkima, there is where we are going."
The monkey looked up toward the frowning heights above. "Little Nkima
is afraid," he said. "It is in such places that Sheeta, the panther,
lairs."
Ascending diagonally and in a westerly direction in the hope of
crossing von Harben's trail, Tarzan moved constantly in the opposite
direction from that taken by the man he sought. It was his intention,
however, when he reached the summit, if he had in the meantime found no
trace of von Harben, to turn directly eastward and search at a higher
altitude in the opposite direction. As he proceeded, the slope became
steeper and more rugged until at one point near the western end of the
mountain mass he encountered an almost perpendicular barrier high up on
the mountainside along the base of which he picked his precarious way
among loose bowlders that had fallen from above. Underbrush and stunted
trees extended at different points from the forest below quite up to
the base of the vertical escarpment.
So engrossed was the ape-man in the dangerous business of picking his
way along the mountainside that he gave little heed to anything beyond
the necessities of the trail and his constant search for the spoor of
von Harben, and so he did not see the little group of black warriors
that were gazing up at him from the shelter of a clump of trees far
down the slope, nor did Nkima, usually as alert as his master, have
eyes or ears for anything beyond the immediate exigencies of the
trail. Nkima was unhappy. The wind blew and Nkima did not like the
wind. All about him he smelled the spoor of Sheeta, the panther, while
he considered the paucity and stunted nature of the few trees along
the way that his master had chosen. From time to time he noted, with
sinking heart, ledges just above them from which Sheeta might spring
down upon them; and the way was a way of terror for little Nkima.
Now they had come to a particularly precarious point upon the
mountainside. A sheer cliff rose above them on their right and at their
left the mountainside fell away so steeply that as Tarzan advanced his
body was pressed closely against the granite face of the cliff as he
sought a foothold upon the ledge of loose rubble. Just ahead of them
the cliff shouldered out boldly against the distant skies. Perhaps
beyond that clear-cut corner the going might be better. If it should
develop that it was worse, Tarzan realized that he must turn back.
At the turn where the footing was narrowest a stone gave beneath
Tarzan's foot, throwing him off his balance for an instant and at that
same instant Nkima, thinking that Tarzan was falling, shrieked and
leaped from his shoulder, giving the ape-man's body just the impetus
that was required to overbalance it entirely.
The mountainside below was steep, though not perpendicular, and if
Nkima had not pushed the ape-man outward he doubtless would have slid
but a short distance before being able to stay his fall, but as it was
he lunged headforemost down the embankment, rolling and tumbling for
a short distance over the loose rock until his body was brought to a
stop by one of the many stunted trees that clung tenaciously to the
wind-swept slope.
Terrified, Nkima scampered to his master's side. He screamed and
chattered in his ear and pulled and tugged upon him in an effort to
raise him, but the ape-man lay motionless, a tiny stream of blood
trickling from a cut on his temple into his shock of black hair.
As Nkima mourned, the black warriors, who had been watching them
from below, clambered quickly up the mountainside toward him and his
helpless master.
_Chapter Four_
As Erich von Harben turned to face the thing that he had heard
approaching behind him, he saw a negro armed with a rifle coming toward
him.
"Gabula!" exclaimed the white man, lowering his weapon. "What are you
doing here?"
"Bwana," said the black, "I could not desert you. I could not leave
you to die alone at the hands of the spirits that dwell upon these
mountains."
Von Harben eyed the negro incredulously. "But if you believe that,
Gabula, are you not afraid that they will kill you, too?"
"I expect to die, Bwana," replied Gabula. "I cannot understand why you
were not killed the first night or the second night. We shall both
surely be killed tonight."
"And yet you followed me! Why?"
"You have been kind to me, Bwana," replied the black. "Your father has
been kind to me. When the others talked they filled me with fear and
when they ran away I went with them, but I have come back. There was
nothing else that I could do, was there?"
"No, Gabula. For you or for me there would have been nothing else
to do, as we see such things, but as the others saw them they found
another thing to do and they did it."
"Gabula is not as the others," said the black, proudly. "Gabula is a
Batoro."
"Gabula is a brave warrior," said von Harben. "I do not believe in
spirits and so there was no reason why I should be afraid, but you and
all your people do believe in them and so it was a very brave thing for
you to come back, but I shall not hold you. You may return, Gabula,
with the others."
"Yes?" Gabula exclaimed eagerly. "The Bwana is going back? That will be
good. Gabula will go back with him."
"No, I am going down into that canyon," said von Harben, pointing over
the rim.
Gabula looked down, surprise and wonder reflected by his wide eyes and
parted lips.
"But, Bwana, even if a human being could find a way down these steep
cliffs, where there is no place for either hand or foot, he would
surely be killed the moment he reached the bottom, for this indeed must
be the Land of the Lost Tribe where the spirits of the dead live in the
heart of the Wiramwazi."
"You do not need to come with me, Gabula," said von Harben. "Go back to
your people."
"How are you going to get down there?" demanded the black.
"I do not know just how, or where, or when. Now I am going to descend
as far along this fissure as I can go. Perhaps I shall find my way down
here, perhaps not."
"But suppose there is no foothold beyond the fissure?" asked Gabula.
"I shall have to find footing."
Gabula shook his head. "And if you reach the bottom, Bwana, you are
right about the spirits and there are none or they do not kill you, how
will you get out again?"
Von Harben shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Then he extended his
hand. "Good-by, Gabula," he said. "You are a brave man."
Gabula did not take the offered hand of his master. "I am going with
you," he said, simply.
"Even though you realize that should we reach the bottom alive we may
never be able to return?"
"Yes."
"I cannot understand you, Gabula. You are afraid and I know that you
wish to return to the village of your people. Then why do you insist on
coming with me when I give you leave to return home?"
"I have sworn to serve you, Bwana, and I am a Batoro," replied Gabula.
"And I can only thank the Lord that you are a Batoro," said von Harben,
"for the Lord knows that I shall need help before I reach the bottom of
this canyon, and we must reach it, Gabula, unless we are content to die
by starvation."
"I have brought food," said Gabula. "I knew that you might be hungry
and I brought some of the food that you like," and, unrolling the small
pack that he carried, he displayed several bars of chocolate and a few
packages of concentrated food that von Harben had included among his
supplies in the event of an emergency.
To the famished von Harben, the food was like manna to the Israelites,
and he lost no time in taking advantage of Gabula's thoughtfulness.
The sharp edge of his hunger removed, von Harben experienced a feeling
of renewed strength and hopefulness, and it was with a light heart
and a buoyant optimism that he commenced the descent into the canyon.
Gabula's ancestry, stretching back through countless generations of
jungle-dwelling people, left him appalled as he contemplated the
frightful abyss into which his master was leading him, but so deeply
had he involved himself by his protestations of loyalty and tribal
pride that he followed von Harben with no outward show of the real
terror that was consuming him.
The descent through the fissure was less difficult than it had appeared
from above. The tumbled rocks that had partially filled it gave more
than sufficient footing and in only a few places was assistance
required, and it was at these times that von Harben realized how
fortunate for him had been Gabula's return.
When at last they reached the bottom of the cleft they found
themselves, at its outer opening, flush with the face of the cliff and
several hundred feet below the rim. This was the point beyond which von
Harben had been unable to see and which he had been approaching with
deep anxiety, since there was every likelihood that the conditions here
might put a period to their further descent along this route.
Creeping over the loose rubble in the bottom of the fissure to its
outer edge, von Harben discovered a sheer drop of a hundred feet to the
level of the next terrace and his heart sank. To return the way they
had come was, he feared, a feat beyond their strength and ingenuity,
for there had been places down which one had lowered the other only
with the greatest difficulty, which would be practically unscalable on
the return journey.
It being impossible to ascend and as starvation surely faced them
where they were, there was but one alternative. Von Harben lay upon
his belly, his eyes at the outer edge of the fissure, and, instructing
Gabula to hold tightly to his ankles, he wormed himself forward until
he could scan the entire face of the cliff below him to the level of
the next terrace.
A few feet from the level on which he lay he saw that the fissure lay
open again to the base of the cliff, its stoppage at the point where
they were having been caused by a large fragment of rock that had
wedged securely between the sides of the fissure, entirely choking it
at this point.
The fissure, which had narrowed considerably since they had entered
it at the summit, was not more than two or three feet wide directly
beneath the rock on which he lay and extended with little variation at
this width the remaining hundred feet to the comparatively level ground
below.
If he and Gabula could but get into this crevice he knew that they
could easily brace themselves against its sides in such a way as to
descend safely the remaining distance, but how with the means at hand
were they to climb over the edge of the rock that blocked the fissure
and crawl back into the fissure again several feet farther down?
Von Harben lowered his crude alpenstock over the edge of the rock
fragment. When he extended his arms at full length the tip of the rod
fell considerably below the bottom of the rock on which he lay. A man
hanging at the end of the alpenstock might conceivably swing into the
fissure, but it would necessitate a feat of acrobatics far beyond the
powers of either himself or Gabula.
A rope would have solved their problem, but they had no rope. With
a sigh, von Harben drew back when his examination of the fissure
convinced him that he must find another way, but he was totally at a
loss to imagine in what direction to look for a solution.
Gabula crouched back in the fissure, terrified by the anticipation of
what von Harben's attempted exploration had suggested. The very thought
of even looking out over the edge of that rock beyond the face of the
cliff left Gabula cold and half paralyzed, while the thought that he
might have to follow von Harben bodily over the edge threw the negro
into a fit of trembling; yet had von Harben gone over the edge Gabula
would have followed him.
The white man sat for a long time buried in thought. Time and again his
eyes examined every detail of the formation of the fissure within the
range of his vision. Again and again they returned to the huge fragment
upon which they sat, which was securely wedged between the fissure's
sides. With this out of the way he felt that they could make unimpeded
progress to the next terrace, but he knew that nothing short of a
charge of dynamite could budge the heavy granite slab. Directly behind
it were loose fragments of various sizes, and as his eyes returned to
them once again he was struck with the possibility that they suggested.
"Come, Gabula," he said. "Help me throw out some of these rocks. This
seems to be our only possible hope of escaping from the trap that I
have got us into."
"Yes, Bwana," replied Gabula, and fell to work beside von Harben,
though he could not understand why they should be picking up these
stones, some of which were very heavy, and pushing them out over the
edge of the flat fragment that clogged the fissure.
He heard them crash heavily where they struck the rocks below and
this interested and fascinated him to such an extent that he worked
feverishly to loosen the larger blocks of stone for the added pleasure
he derived from hearing the loud noise that they made when they struck.
"It begins to look," said von Harben, after a few minutes, "as though
we may be going to succeed, unless by removing these rocks here we
cause some of those above to slide down and thus loosen the whole mass
above us--in which event, Gabula, the mystery of The Lost Tribe will
cease to interest us longer."
"Yes, Bwana," said Gabula, and lifting an unusually large rock he
started to roll it toward the edge of the fissure. "Look! Look, Bwana!"
he exclaimed, pointing at the place where the rock had lain.
Von Harben looked and saw an opening about the size of a man's head
extending into the fissure beneath them.
"Thank Nsenene, the grasshopper, Gabula," cried the white man, "if that
is the totem of your clan--for here indeed is a way to salvation."
Hurriedly the two men set to work to enlarge the hole by throwing out
other fragments that had long been wedged in together to close the
fissure at this point, and as the fragments clattered down upon the
rocks below, a tall, straight warrior standing in the bow of a dugout
upon the marshy lake far below looked up and called the attention of
his comrades.
They could plainly hear the reverberations of the falling fragments as
they struck the rocks at the foot of the fissure and, keen-eyed, they
could see many of the larger pieces that von Harben and Gabula tossed
downward.
"The great wall is falling," said the black warrior.
"A few pebbles," said another. "It is nothing."
"Such things do not happen except after rains," said the first speaker.
"It is thus that it is prophesied that the great wall will fall."
"Perhaps it is a demon who lives in the great rift in the wall," said
another. "Let us hasten and tell the masters."
"Let us wait and watch," said the first speaker, "until we have
something to tell them. If we went and told them that a few rocks had
fallen from the great wall they would only laugh at us."
Von Harben and Gabula had increased the size of the opening until it
was large enough to permit the passage of a man's body. Through it the
white man could see the rough sides of the fissure extending to the
level of the next terrace and knew that the next stage of the descent
was already as good as an accomplished fact.
"We shall descend one at a time, Gabula," said von Harben. "I shall go
first, for I am accustomed to this sort of climbing. Watch carefully
so that you may descend exactly as I do. It is easy and there is no
danger. Be sure that you keep your back braced against one wall and
your feet against the other. We shall lose some hide in the descent,
for the walls are rough, but we shall get down safely enough if we take
it slowly."
"Yes, Bwana. You go first," said Gabula. "If I see you do it then,
perhaps, I can do it."
Von Harben lowered himself through the aperture, braced himself
securely against the opposite walls of the fissure, and started slowly
downward. A few minutes later Gabula saw his master standing safely at
the bottom, and though his heart was in his mouth the black followed
without hesitation, but when he stood at last beside von Harben he
breathed such a loud sigh of relief that von Harben was forced to laugh
aloud.
"It is the demon himself," said the black warrior in the dugout, as von
Harben had stepped from the fissure.
From where the dugout of the watchers floated, half concealed by lofty
papyrus, the terrace at the base of the fissure was just visible. They
saw von Harben emerge and a few moments later the figure of Gabula.
"Now, indeed," said one of the blacks, "we should hasten and tell the
masters."
"No," said the first speaker. "Those two may be demons, but they look
like men and we shall wait until we know what they are and why they are
here before we go away."
For a thousand feet the descent from the base of the fissure was far
from difficult, a rough slope leading in an easterly direction down
toward the canyon bottom. During the descent their view of the lake and
of the canyon was often completely shut off by masses of weather-worn
granite around which they sometimes had difficulty in finding a way. As
a rule the easiest descent lay between these towering fragments of the
main body of the cliff, and at such times as the valley was hidden from
them so were they hidden from the watchers on the lake.
A third of the way down the escarpment von Harben came to the verge of
a narrow gorge, the bottom of which was densely banked with green, the
foliage of trees growing luxuriantly, pointing unquestionably to the
presence of water in abundance. Leading the way, von Harben descended
into the gorge, at the bottom of which he found a spring from which
a little stream trickled downward. Here they quenched their thirst
and rested. Then, following the stream downward, they discovered no
obstacles that might not be easily surmounted.
For a long time, hemmed in by the walls of the narrow gorge and their
view further circumscribed by the forest-like growth along the banks of
the stream, they had no sight of the lake or the canyon bottom, but,
finally, when the gorge debouched upon the lower slopes von Harben
halted in admiration of the landscape spread out before him. Directly
below, another stream entered that along which they had descended,
forming a little river that dropped steeply to what appeared to be
vivid green meadow land through which it wound tortuously to the great
swamp that extended out across the valley for perhaps ten miles.
So choked was the lake with some feathery-tipped aquatic plant that
von Harben could only guess as to its extent, since the green of the
water plant and the green of the surrounding meadows blended into one
another, but here and there he saw signs of open water that appeared
like winding lanes or passages leading in all directions throughout
the marsh.
As von Harben and Gabula stood looking out across this (to them) new
and mysterious world, the black warriors in the dugout watched them
attentively. The strangers were still so far away that the blacks were
unable to identify them, but their leader assured them that these two
were no demons.
"How do you know that they are not demons?" demanded one of these
fellows.
"I can see that they are men," replied the other.
"Demons are very wise and very powerful," insisted the doubter. "They
may take any form they choose. They might come as birds or animals or
men."
"They are not fools," snapped the leader. "If a demon wished to descend
the great wall he would not choose the hardest way. He would take the
form of a bird and fly down."
The other scratched his head in perplexity, for he realized that here
was an argument that would be difficult to controvert. For want of
anything better to say, he suggested that they go at once and report
the matter to their masters.
The first few steps that von Harben took onto the grassy meadow land
revealed the fact that it was a dangerous swamp from which only with
the greatest difficulty were they able to extricate themselves.
Floundering back to solid ground, von Harben reconnoitered in search
of some other avenue to more solid ground on the floor of the canyon,
but he found that upon both sides of the river the swamp extended to
the foot of the lowest terrace of the cliff, and low as these were in
comparison to their lofty fellows towering far above them, they were
still impassable barriers.
Possibly by reascending the gorge he might find an avenue to more solid
ground toward the west, but as he had no actual assurance of this and
as both he and Gabula were well-nigh exhausted from the physical strain
of the descent, he preferred to find an easier way to the lake shore if
it were possible.
He saw that while the river at this point was not swift, the current
was rapid enough to suggest that the bottom might be sufficiently free
from mud to make it possible for them to utilize it as an avenue to the
lake, if it were not too deep.
To test the feasibility of the idea, he lowered himself into the water,
holding to one end of his alpenstock, while Gabula seized the other.
He found that the water came to his waist-line and that the bottom was
firm and solid.
"Come on, Gabula. This is our way to the lake, I guess," he said to the
black.
As Gabula slipped into the water behind his master, the dugout
containing the black warriors pushed silently along the watery lane
among the papyrus and with silent paddles was urged swiftly toward the
mouth of the stream where it emptied into the lake.
As von Harben and Gabula descended the stream they found that the depth
of the water did not greatly increase. Once or twice they stumbled into
deeper holes and were forced to swim, but in other places the water
shallowed until it was only to their knees, and thus they made their
way down to the lake at the verge of which their view was shut off by
clumps of papyrus rising twelve or fifteen feet above the surface of
the water.
"It begins to look," said von Harben, "as though there is no solid
ground along the shore line, but the roots of the papyrus will hold us
and if we can make our way to the west end of the lake I am sure that
we shall find solid ground, for I am positive that I saw higher land
there as we were descending the cliff."
Feeling their way cautiously along, they came at last to the first
clump of papyrus and just as von Harben was about to clamber to the
solid footing of the roots, a canoe shot from behind the mass of
floating plants and the two men found themselves covered by the weapons
of a boatload of ebon warriors.
_Chapter Five_
Lukedi, the Bagego, carried a gourd of milk to a hut in the village of
his people on the lower slopes at the west end of the Wiramwazi range.
Two stalwart spearmen stood guard at the doorway of the hut. "Nyuto
has sent me with milk for the prisoner," said Lukedi. "Has his spirit
returned to him?"
"Go in and see," directed one of the sentries.
Lukedi entered the hut and in the dim light saw the figure of a giant
white man sitting upon the dirt floor gazing at him. The man's wrists
were bound together behind his back and his ankles were secured with
tough fiber strands.
"Here is food," said Lukedi, setting the gourd upon the ground near the
prisoner.
"How can I eat with my hands tied behind my back?" demanded Tarzan.
Lukedi scratched his head. "I do not know," he said. "Nyuto sent me
with the food. He did not tell me to free your hands."
"Cut the bond," said Tarzan, "otherwise I cannot eat."
One of the spearmen entered the hut. "What is he saying," he demanded.
"He says that he cannot eat unless his hands are freed," said Lukedi.
"Did Nyuto tell you to free his hands?" asked the spearman.
"No," said the Lukedi.
The spearman shrugged his shoulders. "Leave the food then; that is all
you were asked to do."