Five minutes?
Two?
Or was it when the wind quit blowing it was everyone for
themselves?
Small decided it was best not to follow this line of inquiry. He stretched out on the wet ground beneath the thick limbs and tried to sleep. The night howled like a demon.
When the storm struck, Wilson and Cannon had struggled to find the trail and managed just that. But the storm was furious. They fought their way through the wind and rain for some distance, then it became too intense and trees began to leap up and away, twist into splinters. One of the splinters caught Cannon in the arm, and the impact was like a .45 slug. The only advantage was that it shot completely through the flesh of his trice and the sleeve of his shirt and kept traveling.
Wilson and Cannon found a low spot behind an uprooted tree, pushed their backs against the dirt and roots, and listened to the storm twist and throb above and about them. They were hit by the rain; hit so hard welts were raised on their skin. Water ran in the low spot where they crouched and soaked their feet. They crossed their arms and held themselves and shivered.
"It's gonna be one long night," Wilson said.
"Yeah, and me without whiskey," Cannon said.
Cannon opened his shirt and looked at the wound. He clutched a handful of mud and leaf mold from the earth and pushed the cold compact against his wound and closed up his shirt. He grinned at Wilson. "Hey," he said. 'Think maybe I got a few splinters in my arm here. Want to pick them out?"
"Go to hell," Wilson said.
Back at Hunt and Small's camp, Gromvitch panicked when the storm struck. Before he realized it, half the bearers had melted into the jungle. Gromvitch went after a couple of them with a stick, but the bearers were too scared of the storm to fear a beating.
A couple of them broke for the jungle in panic, and Gromvitch tossed aside the stick and picked up his rifle. He shot one of the deserters in the back and killed him instantly. Before he could put the bead on the other, the campfire was guttered out by the wind and drowned by the rain.
As Gromvitch stood there in total darkness, the remaining bearers burst in all directions, exploded like seeds from an overripe pomegranate. Gromvitch fired a random shot at the sound of their movements, then the storm came down like a demon and sat on the camp. Gromvitch, scared and foolish, immediately took shelter in Hunt and Small's tent. The storm grabbed the tent and wadded it up and carried it above the trees, high into the sky, leaving Gromvitch squatting on the ground. The storm fed Gromvitch a camp table, knocking out half of his teeth. Then it took him up in a swirl of wind and water and debris and a couple of slow bearers. It whipped them through the foliage so hard and fast they were shredded like cheese through a grater.
The time the storm hit, to the time Gromvitch and the two bearers became nothing more than wet, leathery decorations for the trees, took less than thirty seconds.
Back at Hanson's camp, right before the arrival of the storm, Jean had voiced concern for Tarzan. He had gone out to hunt meat and had not come back. They had resorted to camp fare, hardtack and dried meat, and now the sky was black and the stars and the moon were tucked away like dead game in a croaker sack.
Hanson, Jean, and their head askari, Billy, were standing outside of Hanson's tent, looking at the sky. The kerosene lantern that hung from the front tent pole flickered in the wind, threatening total darkness.
"I don't like the looks of this," Hanson said. "We better peg and
tie these tents better."
"Begging Bwana's pardon and excuse, please," Billy said. "But you better do more than tie better knots. What comes is the wind whip."
"The wind whip?" Jean said.
"Whip you up and out of here, put you over in the Congo. Put you over in the Sahara. Drop you out in the big water. Take you faster than a lion takes a mouse."
"You mean a tornado?" Hanson said.
"Have it your way, Bwana," Billy said. "But I tell you this. Lots of wind. Lots of rain. Whip you to pieces. Twist you like rope, tie you in a knot. Throws stuff, the wind whip does. Throws straw through trees. Makes elephant and hippo cower in fear. Not make Billy feel all so good neither."
"Poor Tarzan," Jean said.
"He's no worse off than we," Billy said. "Maybe better. He knows it's coming. He'll find shelter. He's the man of the woods, is what he is. He lives in the jungle. He's part of the jungle."
"The tents won't protect us?" Jean said.
'Tents?' Billy said. "You got to be joking, missy. Wind wrap you up in tents like sausage in pancakes, feed you to the storm."
"That's not good," Jean said.
"Not good," Billy said. "Seriously bad on everybody, is what it be."
The wind picked up, moaned. The lantern went out. The air was damp.
"Suggestions?" Hanson said, relighting the lantern.
"Hook 'em up," Billy said.
"That an old African term?" Hanson asked.
"No," Billy said. "American. Have man say that to me on safari once. He wanted to hunt lion. Lion came after him. He fired shot. Lion didn't fall. Hunter threw down gun, yelled to me, 'Hook 'em up!' and ran. Billy was fast. Hooked up real good. Hunter wasn't. Lion ate him. Or most of him. I say we hook 'em up quick before ole wind-lion get here and feed on us. What we do, is we take tents down speedy, peg them over supplies, close to ground. Then we run like hyenas with brush fire on tails."
"Just run?" Jean said.
The lantern blew out.
"We run that way," Billy said, carefully relighting the lantern. "Land goes down over there. We got to be lower than storm. Only chance."
The lantern blew out again. Billy unclipped his flashlight from his pants and turned it on. "We got just enough time," Billy said. 'Talk another couple minutes, better leave tents and all the business. Talk another minute, can kiss ourselves good-bye. Too late to hook 'em up."
"All right, Billy," Hanson said. "Give the orders for it to happen. Let's move!"
Hanson and Jean set about taking down their tent, but as they worked, the sky grew darker and they could hardly see to complete the task. They had just finished pegging it, when Billy came running up, flashlight bobbing in the dark. "Get flashlights and let's hop. None of this stuff make difference if we too dead to use it."
"All right," Hanson said, unclipping his flashlight from his belt. "Let's, as the unfortunate hunter said, 'hook'em up!'"
HANSON'S SAFARI BEGAN to run. They ran after Billy with his flashlight bouncing ahead, but there was little to see but the light. Hanson hoped Billy knew where he was going. Behind them came the bearers, carrying only a few basic supplies.
Billy's light dipped down and the safari dipped with it. The land sloped dramatically. Hanson's feet went out from under him, and Jean tugged his arm and helped hi]}] up. And away they went again, charging downhill.
The storm was at their back and it came over them and howled, and Billy yelled, "Hit dirt!" then gave the same command in his own language to the bearers.
Hanson and his group dove facedown and the wind screamed above them, beat their backs with rain. Hanson could actually feel the wind sucking at him, lifting him off the ground, trying to pull him up. He locked a leg over Jean's leg to hold her down and pushed a hand behind her head, forcing her face close to the earth. He pushed his own face into the damp soil, and prayed.
The storm pummeled them and pulled at them and seemed to last forever, but it finally moved on-or at least the worst of it. Behind it came a fury of rain.
Eventually, Hanson and his party stood up and spat out the dirt and checked the results by flashlights. Two of the bearers were missing. They had been the last in the group, perhaps being at the summit of the rise when the storm struck. It was concluded that the twister had snatched them.
The rain battered them and exhausted them as they made their way back to camp. In the glow of the flashlights, they could see the twister had ripped a swath through the jungle thirty feet wide and no telling how deep. The trees had been c
lipped so close to the ground, it looked as if loggers had been working there.
When they arrived at camp, the wind was still high, so it was decided to leave the tents pegged, except for making enough room to crawl under them, out of the rain. Hanson and Jean squirmed beneath his tent, arranged themselves as best they could on the ground, and tried to sleep.
The night seemed interminable, an eternity of suffering and terror. Hanson and Jean cowered beneath the tent in dumb misery. Hanson thought about the lost bearers, torn away by the storm and taken who knows where. Hanson realized he did not even know their names. He realized too, had it not been for his persistence in finding the lost city, those men would still be alive. He wondered about Tarzan, but worried about him least of all. If there was someone who could take care of himself, it was Tarzan.
An hour before dawn, the storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. The clouds rolled away and the moon shone. Hanson pulled himself out from under the tent and Jean crawled out after him .
When Jean rose to her feet, she said, "My legs have gone stiff as wire."
"Shake them out," Hanson said. "Get the circulation going. Then let's put up the tent, get to our dry clothes."
Jean flexed her knees a few times and stamped her feet. "Wow, that hurts. It helps, but it hurts."
" "My God," Hanson said. "Will you look at the moon?"
The moon stood full and gold and bright. Easy to see because the twister had torn down the trees that might have blocked it from easy view.
"After that horrible storm," Jean said, "there's something that beautiful."
"We'll take it as a good omen," Hanson said. "There's been enough bad, we need some good."
Hanson shook out his legs, then shouted for Billy. Billy scuttled out from under his tent and trotted over to Hanson.
"One hell of a wind whip, Bwana," Billy said to Hanson.
"I'll say," Hanson said. "The men who were lost. I'll provide something for their families, of course."
"That's good, Bwana. But they knew their job. They knew it was risky. It's not your fault."
"Get the men to put up the tents. We'll dry out a bit."
"That good, Bwana, but I say we move on."
"Shouldn't we wait for Tarzan?" Jean said.
"I think he find us easy," Billy said. "I think we move on. I don't like staying here. Makes me itchy."
"Itchy?" Jean said.
"Think them bad ones might come back," Billy said.
"I believe Tarzan took care of them," Hanson said. "If those scoundrels headed for the coast as Tarzan ordered, we haven't anything to worry about."
"If," Billy said. "I give you an if. If Tarzan had cut their guts out and fed them to lions, then they be taken care of. I think Tarzan been away from jungle little much. Lion attacks you, you don't slap him. You kill ^him, or you get way away. I say we get way away."
"Certainly, without weapons, those men are of little consequence," Jean said.
"Weapons, or no weapons," Billy said. "A bad man is a bad man. We do not want to be around when they decide to be bad. Don't have a gun to shoot you, they put your eye out with a pointed stick. Bad is bad."
"All right," Hanson said. "We'll eat, pack up, start moving when it's light."
"Thanks, Bwana," Billy said.
"Dad," Jean said, "we can't just go off and leave Tarzan."
"Billy said Tarzan could catch up with us," Hanson said.
"Catch up or get ahead," Billy said, "it's all the same to him."
Hanson considered for a long moment, said, "Billy's right. I really must move on. We are running low on supplies, and a bit of hunting for game wouldn't be a bad idea. I'm sick of hardtack and jerky. I came here to find a lost city, and that's what I'm going to do. Tarzan can certainly take care of himself."
"I don't like it, Dad."
"It'll be okay, baby. Really."
"Worry about Tarzan is no good," Billy said. "Worry about us. We need some worry."
"Get the men together," Hanson said. "We're moving out."
By the time breakfast was prepared, Jean and Hanson had changed into dry clothes. Vapor rose from the steaming verdure, birds sang, and monkeys chattered. All was well with the world. When the gear was packed, Hanson gave orders to Billy, and Billy shouted to the carriers, and the column was on the move again. The path they were following was an easy one, as a large swath had been cut through the jungle by the storm.
As they proceeded, Billy walked next to Hanson and Jean. "Feel a lot better moving on. Every time we stop, bad things seem to happen. Tarzan here, would not be so worried. He knock a knot on a hippo's head, it needs it. But without him, we move on."
"It's all right, Billy," Hanson said. "I'm convinced."
"You, missy?" Billy asked Jean.
"I don't like it," Jean said. "But I'm walking ... Dad, I keep thinking about Tarzan and those apes. Could he actually have been raised by them?"
"Unless you think he's a liar," Hanson said.
"No," Jean said. "But it's so fantastic."
"First of all," Hanson said, "they are not truly apes. That's merely a convenient handle. They are considerably more hominoid than gorilla. Closer to Australopithecus. I presume they have rudimentary language. If not, Tarzan would never have learned to speak. If after a certain point in a child's development he or she does not learn to speak, the child never will."
"I know all that," Jean said. "You know I do. It's just so hard to accept."
"What I think," Hanson said, smiling, "is you are very interested in this Tarzan, and not just his background."
"Dad!"
Shortly after dawn, the sun shone bright and the jungle steamed as the heat increased and the rain evaporated. Birds began to chirp in the trees and monkeys fussed and made noise in the branches. Billy suggested shooting one of the monkeys for a meal, but neither Jean nor Hanson would have it. They thought they were too cute.
"They cute, all right," said Billy, "but they cook up nice you put a stick through them. That Tarzan's monkey. He sure look good. Nice and fat. I would like to put him on a stick."
"I don't think Tarzan would like that idea," Jean said.
"You right," Billy said. "We will not say I said that. But I tell you, you get hungry enough, monkey starts to look less cute and more plump."
Soon the carriers, who had been silent all night, commenced to joke and laugh. They told stories of the two dead men. Stories of their lives and exploits. They told all they could tell that would honor them, and in their honor, they tried not to be sad. The dead men had lived their lives as best they could, and now they were gone to the other side, where all men eventually go.
Midday they came upon a wild hog and Billy shot it. They made camp shortly thereafter and roasted the pig on a spit over a large fire. The meat was good and sweet, and soon they began to feel rested and refreshed.
Hanson, a belly full of roasted pork, felt the worse had been done, and that it was smooth sailing from here on out.
Of course, he was wrong.
In the camp of the renegades, all was not so well. In fact, there wasn't a camp anymore, and as Wilson and Cannon approached it, they found Gromvitch.
Part of him anyway. The head actually. It was lodged between low tree branches at about their head-height. The rest of him was nowhere in sight.
Cannon grunted. "Gromvitch seems to have lost his head."
"Your sentimentality overwhelms me," Wilson said.
"Lookee here," Cannon said, removing his knife, from its sheath and poking it into Gromvitch's mouth. "He ain't got but a couple teeth left here, and they got gold in them."
Cannon used the point of his knife to pop the teeth loose. He put them in his pocket.
"Sure you don't want to boil his head down," Wilson said, "save it for a souvenir?" "I knew how and had the time," Cannon said, "I would."
"You're somethin', Cannon. And ain't none of that somethin' any good."
"What I'm worried about is practical stuff," Cannon said. "Like is mer
e still supplies enough for us? Ammunition. Guns. Look at it this way, Wilson. Gromvitch dead has its good side. Now we just got to divide what we get two ways."
Cannon ducked under the limbs that held Gromvitch's head, proceeded toward the campsite.
"Hey," Wilson said. "It was Gromvitch, our heads were hanging up there, he'd bury us. Don't you think?"
Burroughs, Edgar Rice - Tarzan 27 - The Lost Adventure (with Lansdale, Joe R) Page 9