The Complete Tarzan Collection

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  This afternoon Rhonda Terry was writing at a little camp table in front of her tent, for it was not yet dark. Gordon Z, Marcus had stopped to chat with her. Atewy from the corners of his eyes noted this and strolled casually closer. "Turning literary, Rhonda?" inquired Marcus. The girl looked up and smiled. "Trying to bring my diary up to date."

  "I fear that it will prove a most lugubrious document."

  "Whatever that is. Oh, by the way!" She picked up a folded paper. "I just found this map in my portfolio. In the last scene we shot they were taking close-ups of me examining it. I wonder if they want it again—I'd like to swipe it for a souvenir."

  As she unfolded the paper Atewy moved closer, a new light burning in his eyes.

  "Keep it," suggested Marcus, "until they ask you for It. Perhaps they're through with it. It's a most authentic looking thing, isn't it? I wonder if they made it in the studio."

  "No. Bill says that Joe found it between the leaves of a book he bought in a secondhand book store. When he was commissioned to write this story it occurred to him to write it around this old map. It is intriguing, isn't it? Almost makes one believe that it would be easy to find a valley of diamonds." She folded the map and replaced it in her portfolio. Hawklike, the swarthy Atewy watched her.

  Marcus regarded her with his kindly eyes. "You were speaking of Bill," he said. "What's wrong with you two children? He used to be with you so much."

  With a gesture Rhonda signified her inability to explain. "I haven't the remotest idea," she said. "He just avoids me as though I were some particular variety of pollen to which he reacted. Do I give you hives or hay fever?"

  Marcus laughed. "I can imagine, Rhonda, that you might induce high temperatures in the male of the species; but to suggest hives or hay fever —that would be sacrilege."

  Naomi Madison came from the tent. Her face was white and drawn. "My God!" she exclaimed. "How can you people joke at such a time? Why, any minute any of us may be killed!"

  "We must keep up our courage," said Marcus. "We cannot do it by brooding over our troubles and giving way to our sorrows."

  "Pulling a long face isn't going to bring back Major White or those other poor fellows," said Rhonda. "Every one knows how sorry every one feels about it; we don't have to wear crepe to prove that."

  "Well, we might be respectful until after the funeral anyway," snapped Naomi.

  "Don't be stupid," said Rhonda, a little tartly.

  "When are they going to bury them, Mr. Marcus?" asked Naomi.

  "Not until after dark. They don't want the Bansutos to see where they're buried."

  The girl shuddered. "What a horrible country! I feel that I shall never leave it—alive."

  "You certainly won't leave it dead." Rhonda, who seldom revealed her emotions, evinced a trace of exasperation.

  The Madison sniffed. "They would never bury me here. My public would never stand for that. I shall lie in state in Hollywood."

  "Come, come!" exclaimed Marcus. "You girls must not dwell on such morbid, depressing subjects. We must all keep our minds from such thoughts. How about a rubber of contract before supper? We'll just about have time."

  "I'm for it," agreed Rhonda.

  "You would be," sneered the Madison; "you have no nerves. But no bridge for me at such a time. I am too highly organized, too temperamental. I think that is the way with all true artistes, don't you, Mr. Marcus? We are like high-strung thoroughbreds."

  "Well," laughed Rhonda, running her arm through Marcus's, "I guess we'll have to go and dig up a couple more skates if we want a rubber before supper. Perhaps we could get Bill and Jerrold. Neither of them would ever take any prizes in a horse show."

  They found Bill West pottering around his cameras. He declined their invitation glumly. "You might get Obroski," he suggested, "if you can wake him up."

  Rhonda shot a quick glance at him through narrowed lids. "Another thoroughbred," she said, as she walked away. And to herself she thought, "That's the second crack he's made about Obroski. All right, I'll show him!"

  "Where to now, Rhonda?" inquired Marcus.

  "You dig up Jerrold; I'm going to find Obroski. We'll have a game yet."

  They did, and it so happened that their table was set where Bill West could not but see them. It seemed to Marcus that Rhonda laughed a little more than was usual and a little more than was necessary.

  That night white men and black carried each their own dead into the outer darkness beyond the range of the camp fires and buried them. The graves were smoothed over and sprinkled with leaves and branches, and the excess dirt was carried to the opposite side of camp where it was formed in little mounds that looked like graves.

  The true graves lay directly in the line of march of the morrow. The twenty-three trucks and the five passenger cars would obliterate the last trace of the new-made graves.

  The silent men working in the dark hoped that they were unseen by prying eyes; but long into the night a figure lay above the edge of the camp, hidden by the concealing foliage of a great tree, and observed all that took place below. Then, when the last of the white men had gone to bed, it melted silently into the somber depths of the forest.

  Toward morning Orman lay sleepless on his army cot. He had tried to read to divert his mind from the ghastly procession of thoughts that persisted despite his every effort to sleep or to think of other things. In the light of the lantern that he had placed near his head harsh shadows limned his face as a drawn and haggard mask.

  From his cot on the opposite side of the tent Pat O'Grady opened Ms eyes and surveyed his chief. "Hell, Tom," he said, "you better get some sleep or you'll go nuts."

  "I can't sleep," replied Orman wearily. "I keep seein' White. I killed him. I killed all those blacks."

  "Hooey!" scoffed O'Grady. "It wasn't any more your fault than it was the studio's. They sent you out here to make a picture, and you did what you thought was the thing to do. There can't nobody blame you."

  "It was my fault all right. White warned me not to come this way. He was right; and I knew he was right, but I was too damn pig- headed to admit it."

  "What you need is a drink. It'll brace you up and put you to sleep."

  "I've quit."

  "It's all right to quit; but don't quit so sudden—taper off."

  Orman shook his head. "I ain't blamin' it on the booze," he said; "there's no one nor nothing to blame but me—but if I hadn't been drinkin' this would never have happened, and White and those other poor devils would have been alive now."

  "One won't hurt, Tom; you need it."

  Orman lay silent in thought for a moment; then he threw aside the mosquito bar and stood up. "Perhaps you're right, Pat," he said.

  He stepped to a heavy, well-worn pigskin bag that stood at the foot of his cot and, stooping, took out a fat bottle and a tumbler. He shook a little as he filled the latter to the brim.

  O'Grady grinned. "I said one drink, not four."

  Slowly Orman raised the tumbler toward his lips. He held it there for a moment looking at it; then his vision seemed to pass beyond it, pass through the canvas wall of the tent out into the night toward the new-made graves.

  With an oath, he hurled the full tumbler to the ground; the bottle followed it, breaking into a thousand pieces.

  "That's goin' to be hell on bare feet," remarked O'Grady.

  "I'm sorry, Pat," said Orman; then he sat down wearily on the edge of his cot and buried his face in his hands.

  O'Grady sat up, slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and crossed the tent. He sat down beside his friend and threw an arm about his shoulders. "Buck up, Tom!" That was all he said, but the pressure of the friendly arm was more strengthening than many words or many drinks.

  From somewhere out in the night came the roar of a lion and a moment later a blood-curdling cry that seemed neither that of beast nor man.

  "Sufferin' cats!" ejaculated O'Grady. "What was that?"

  Orman had raised his head and was listening. "Probably some mo
re grief for us," he replied forebodingly.

  They sat silent for a moment then, listening.

  "I wonder what could make such a noise." O'Grady spoke in hushed tones,

  "Pat," Orman's tone was serious, "do you believe in ghosts?"

  O'Grady hesitated before he replied. "I don't know—but I've seen some funny things in my time."

  "So have I," said Orman.

  But perhaps of all that they could conjure to their minds nothing so strange as the reality; for how could they know that they had heard the victory cry of an English lord and a great lion who had just made their kill together?

  7. DISASTER

  The cold and gloomy dawn but reflected the spirits of the company as the white men dragged themselves lethargically from their blankets. But the first to view the camp in the swiftly coming daylight were galvanized into instant wakefulness by what it revealed.

  Bill West was the first to suspect what had happened. He looked wonderingly about for a moment and then started, almost at a run, for the crude shelters thrown up by the blacks the previous evening.

  He called aloud to Kwamudi and several others whose names he knew, but there was no response. He looked into shelter after shelter, and always the results were the same. Then he hurried over to Orman's tent. The director was just coming out as West ran up. O'Grady was directly behind him.

  "What's the matter with breakfast?" demanded the latter. "I don't see a sign of the cooks."

  "And you won't," said West; "they've gone, ducked, vamoosed. If you want breakfast, you'll cook it yourself."

  "What do you mean gone, Bill?" asked Orman.

  "The whole kit and kaboodle of 'em have run out on us," explained the cameraman. "There's not a smoke in camp. Even the askaris have beat it. The camp's unguarded, and God only knows how long it has been."

  "Gone!" Orman's inflection registered incredulity. "But they couldn't! Where have they gone?"

  "Search me," replied West, "They've taken a lot of our supplies with 'em too. From what little I saw I guess they outfitted themselves to the queen's taste. I noticed a couple of trucks that looked like they'd been rifled."

  Orman swore softly beneath his breath; but he squared his shoulders, and the haggard, hang-dog expression he had worn vanished from his face. O'Grady had been looking at him with a worried furrow in his brow; now he gave a sigh of relief and grinned—the Chief was himself again.

  "Rout every one out," Orman directed. "Have the drivers check their loads. You attend to that, Bill, while Pat posts a guard around the camp. I see old el-Gran'ma'am and his bunch are still with us. You better put them on guard duty, Pat. Then round up every one else at the mess tables for a palaver."

  While his orders were being carried out Orman walked about the camp making a hurried survey. His brain was clear. Even the effects of a sleepless night seemed to have been erased by this sudden emergency call upon his resources. He no longer wasted Ms nervous energy upon vain regrets, though he was still fully conscious of the fact that this serious predicament was of his own making.

  When he approached the mess table five minutes later the entire company was assembled there talking excitedly about the defection of the blacks and offering various prophecies as to the future, none of which were particularly roseate.

  Orman overheard one remark. "It took a case of Scotch to get us into this mess, but Scotch won't ever get us out of it."

  "You all know what has happened," Orman commenced; "and I guess you all know why it happened, but recriminations won't help matters. Our situation really isn't so hopeless. We have men, provisions, arms, and transportation. Because the porters deserted us doesn't mean that we've got to sit down here and kiss ourselves good-bye.

  "Nor is there any use in turning around now and going back—the shortest way out of the Bansuto country is straight ahead. When we get out of it we can recruit more blacks from friendly tribes and go ahead with the picture.

  "In the meantime every one has got to work and work hard. We have got to do the work the blacks did before—make camp, strike camp, unload and load, cook, cut trail, drag trucks through mud holes, stand guard on the march and in camp. That part and trail cutting will be dangerous, but every one will have to take his turn at it—every one except the girls and the cooks; they're the most important members of the safari." A hint of one of Orman's old smiles touched his lips and eyes.

  "Now," he continued, "The first thing to do is eat. Who can cook?"

  "I can like nobody's business," said Rhonda Terry.

  "I'll vouch for that," said Marcus. "I've eaten a chicken dinner with all the trimmings at Rhonda's apartment."

  "I can cook," spoke up a male voice.

  Every one turned to see who had spoken; he was the only man that had volunteered for the only safe assignment.

  "When did you learn to cook, Obroski?" demanded Noice. "I went camping with you once; and you couldn't even build a fire, let alone cook on one after some one else had built it."

  Obroski flushed. "Well, some one's got to help Rhonda," he said lamely, "and no one else offered to."

  "Jimmy, here, can cook," offered an electrician. "He used to be assistant chef in a cafeteria in L.A."

  "I don't want to cook," said Jimmy. "I don't want no cinch job. I served in the Marines in Nicaragua. Gimme a gun, and let me do guard duty."

  "Who else can cook?" demanded Orman. "We need three."

  "Shorty can cook," said a voice from the rear. "He used to run a hot-dog stand on Ventura Boulevard."

  "O.K.!" said Orman. "Miss Terry is chief cook; Jimmy and Shorty will help her; Pat will detail three more for K.P. every day. Now get busy. While the cooks are rustling some grub the rest of you strike the tents and load the trucks."

  "Oh, Tom," said Naomi Madison at his elbow, "my personal boy has run away with the others. I wish you would detail one of the men to take his place."

  Orman wheeled and looked at her in astonishment. "I'd forgotten all about you, Naomi. I'm glad you reminded me. If you can't cook, and I don't suppose you can, you'll peel spuds, wait on the tables, and help wash dishes."

  For a moment the Madison looked aghast; then she smiled icily, "I suppose you think you are funny," she said, "but really this is no time for joking."

  "I'm not joking, Naomi." His tone was serious, his face unsmiling.

  "Do you mean to say that you expect me, Naomi Madison, to peel potatoes, wait on tables, and wash dishes! Don't be ridiculous—I shall do nothing of the kind."

  "Be yourself, Naomi! Before Milt Smith discovered you you were slinging hash in a joint on Main Street; and you'll do it again here, or you won't eat." He turned and walked away.

  During breakfast Naomi Madison sat in haughty aloofness in the back seat of an automobile. She did not wait on table, nor did she eat.

  Americans and Arabs formed the advance and rear guards when the safari finally got under way; but the crew that cut trail was wholly American —the Arabs would fight, but they would not work; that was beneath their dignity.

  Not until the last kitchen utensil was washed, packed, and loaded did Rhonda Terry go to the car in which she and Naomi Madison rode. She was flushed and a little tired as she entered the car.

  Naomi eyed her with compressed lips. "You're a fool, Rhonda," she snapped. "You shouldn't have lowered yourself by doing that menial work. We were not employed to be scullery maids."

  Rhonda nodded toward the head of the column. "There probably isn't anything in those boys' contracts about chopping down trees or fighting cannibals." She took a paper-wrapped parcel from her bag. "I brought you some sandwiches. I thought you might be hungry."

  The Madison ate in silence, and for a long time thereafter she seemed to be immersed in thought.

  The column moved slowly. The axe men were not accustomed to the sort of work they were doing, and in the heat of the equatorial forest they tired quickly. The trail opened with exasperating slowness as though the forest begrudged every foot of progress that they made.
r />   Orman worked with his men, wielding an axe when trees were to be felled, marching with the advance guard when the trail was opened.

  "Tough goin'," remarked Bill West, leaning his axe handle against his hip and wiping the perspiration from his eyes.

  "This isn't the toughest part of it," replied Orman.

  "How come?"

  "Since the guides scrammed we don't know where we're goin'."

  West whistled. "I hadn't thought of that."

  As they trudged on an opening in the forest appeared ahead of them shortly after noon. It was almost treeless and covered with a thick growth of tall grass higher than a man's head.

  "That certainly looks good," remarked Orman. "We ought to make a little time for a few minutes."

  The leading truck forged into the open, flattening the grass beneath its great tires.

  "Hop aboard the trucks!" Orman shouted to the advance guard and the axe men. "Those beggars won't bother us here; there are no trees to hide them."

  Out into the open moved the long column of cars. A sense of relief from the oppressive closeness of the forest animated the entire company.

  And then, as the rearmost truck bumped into the clearing, a shower of arrows whirred from the tall grasses all along the line. Savage war cries filled the air; and for the first time the Bansutos showed themselves, as their spearmen rushed forward with screams of hate and blood lust.

  A driver near the head of the column toppled from his seat with an arrow through his heart. His truck veered to the left and went careening off into the midst of the savages.

  Rifles cracked, men shouted and cursed, the wounded screamed. The column stopped, that every man might use his rifle. Naomi Madison slipped to the floor of the car. Rhonda drew her revolver and fired into the faces of the onrushing blacks. A dozen men hurried to the defense of the car that carried the two girls.

  Some one shouted, "Look out! They're on the other side too." Rifles were turned in the direction of the new threat. The fire was continuous and deadly. The Bansutos, almost upon them, wavered and fell back. A fusillade of shots followed them as they disappeared into the dense grass, followed and found many of them.