If all the natives should adopt this simple ruse—dodge the lumbering monster and cast their spears at its rider—Jongor knew that he would shortly resemble a large pin-cushion stuck full of heavy pins. He had to get that Blackfellow big-shot. Arrow on bowstring, he waited. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw the fires, the stakes, and the victims tied to the stakes.
One victim was yelling at the top of his voice.
“Give ’em hell, Jongor! Tear ’em to pieces! Mow ’em down!”
That was Alan Hunter yelling.
The two men tied to stakes next to Alan, Jongor did not know, but he knew the person tied to the last stake in the line. Ann! He also knew what would happen to her if he failed to smash these blacks.
“Run quickly, little one,” he said softly.
The dinosaur snorted, lunged forward.
At the last possible moment, the native chief darted to one side. His spear arm went back, ready to cast the weapon. Up to thirty or forty yards, the natives could throw their spears with deadly accuracy. At this range the chief simply could not miss.
A GASP went up from the hundreds of watching Blackfellows. Their chief knew how to fight this monster out of the night. Their chief was not afraid. At that moment they were very proud of their chief, and once he demonstrated that the lumbering beast could be speared, they would be very eager to fight at his side. They watched his arm go back to cast the spear!
Thrrum!
The native chieftan’s naked black chest suddenly sprouted another barbaric ornament. A bit of straight stick with a feathered end. It stuck out very stiffly from his chest.
Jongor’s arrow! He, also, had waited until the last possible moment, until the native drew back his arm to cast the spear. In the split second when he was in the act of throwing, he would not be able to dodge.
Jongor had waited. The arrow had gone home.
The spear fell from a suddenly nerveless hand. A scream bubbled from the chieftain’s lips, sank abruptly into silence as he fell. For an instant, he flopped on the ground, then was still.
A gasp of horror rose, from the watching Blackfellows. Their chief, their mighty man of war, the strongest among them, had fallen. Fear suddenly struck them. If the chief could not win, how could they, who were less mighty than he, hope to overcome this monster of the night? As they shrank back in fear, their ears were suddenly assailed by hideous yells.
“Give ‘em hell, Yale!”
The yells were coming from the giant who rode the mighty beast. They were being echoed by one of their victims, tied to the stake. Like the shriek of some doughty battle-cry, the yells echoed in the night.
The death of their chief the natives might have withstood. They might not have faltered under the charge of the dinosaur. But the death of their chieftain was just when he was about to be victorious, the snorts of the terrible looking beast, the earth-shaking thunder of its feet, and this mad battle-cry, were too much for their nerves.
They broke and ran.
Jongor was among them! Now, when they were breaking, was the time to punish them, the time to scatter them, the time to drive them into panic-stricken flight. If they had time to think, they night realize that all they had to do was to spear the rider of the beast. Jongor had no intention of giving them time to think. Bow-string humming its song of death, he drove the dinosaur among them. Some of the less fortunate ones were crushed beneath its feet. Their screams, added to the yells, made the night hideous with noise.
The Blackfellows ran to the protection of the jungle. Jongor followed them even there. He drove them before him, forced them to run as they had never run before. Only when he was certain they were so scared they would never think of returning to this spot did he go back to the fires, release the victims from the stakes.
“Thank you,” Ann Hunter said. “The She had intended to be cool and calm. Instead she fainted in Jongor’s arms.
“Is she all right?” the perturbed giant questioned. “Has she been harmed?”
“She’s only fainted,” her brother answered. “Heck, girls are like that. Think nothing of it. She’ll be all right in a few minutes. For that matter, I felt like fainting myself when you came out of that jungle yelling, ‘Give ’em hell, Yale.’ ”
“It was the only thing I could think of at the moment,” Jongor admitted. “I remember you telling me that it was a battle-cry used in America.”
“We never used it like that!” Alan Hunter grinned. “I never had a hope you would find us, or be able to save us if you did discover what had happened.”
“You need not thank me,” Jongor answered. “Thank my little friend here.” He nodded toward the dinosaur. The great beast was sniffing warily at the beds of hot coals. Fire was something new in its experience. “He thinks the fires will eat him up,” Jongor said.
He slapped the mighty monster familiarly on the foreleg. “Have no fear, little one. I will protect you from the bright hot stuff. Great fool! You must not stick your nose in it.”
The dinosaur had sniffed too closely at the hot coals. In consequence it had gotten its nose singed. It hastily thrust its long head toward Jongor.
Jongor patted the burned place. “Great fool!” he said gently. “There, there,” Jongor soothed it.
SCHILLER and Morton were silent, awed spectators to this little scene: Jongor had cut the thongs that bound them to the stakes. Then, in his concern with Ann, he had forgotten them. They watched him pet the dinosaur.
“He’s talkin’ to that thing!” Morton gasped. “He treats it like it was a big cat of some kind. He acts like it was a pet!”
Jongor looked over his shoulder at the two men. “It is a pet,” he said.
“You talk as if that beast understands you,” Schiller said.
“It does understand me,” Jongor answered.
Morton backed hastily away. A man who said he talked to a dinosaur and the monster understood him must obviously be mad. Schiller blinked.
“Do you really mean that?” he said.
Jongor hesitated before he answered. Thoughtfully he looked these two men over. He had never seen either of them before. “Before I answer, would you mind telling me what you are doing in this country?”
“Not at all—” Morton began.
“We were hunting ‘roos[4] in the desert,” Schiller interrupted. “We got lost, ran out of water. We were almost dead when we saw mountains in the distance. How we got to the mountains I don’t know, but we managed it, somehow. Then the Blackfellows got us.” He shrugged. “The rest you know.”
“We want to thank you for saving our lives,” Morton added hastily.
“No need to thank.me,” Jongor said. Under the ministrations of her brother, Ann Hunter had come out of her faint. Jongor knelt beside her, satisfied himself that she had not been harmed.
“We were talking about how you controlled that dinosaur,” Schiller said, behind him. “You said you talked to it and it understood you. Did you really mean that?”
Jongor hesitated. Somehow he did not trust these two men. He was not very eager to tell them anything.
“Go on and tell them,” Alan Hunter urged. “They’re probably going nuts wondering how you did it. I know I almost went nuts the first time I saw you riding one of your little friends. Tell them about it.”
“All right,” Jongor said. He pointed toward a crystal[5] imbedded in a band of metal which he wore on his left wrist. “This enables me to control the dino.”
“That thing!” Schiller gasped.
“Yes,” Jongor answered. “When I told you I talked to the dino and it understood me, I did not mean exactly what I said. It does not understand my words. But when I talk—or even if I do not say anything aloud—thought impulses from my mind flow to the mind of the dinosaur. Somehow the crystal brings my mind and the mind of the dino together. That is how I control my little friend, by means of a crystal.”
Schiller stared at him in silence. The man’s face showed no trace of any emotion. Morton drew still farther
away.
“Did you make that crystal yourself?” Schiller said quietly.
Jongor laughed. “Oh, no,” he said. “I did not make it. I am afraid the secret of its construction has been lost for many thousands of years. I found it.”
“You found it!” Schiller whispered.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Lost Land,” Jongor answered. “It was made by some Murto, thousands of years ago, and was lost. I found it, learned to use it; but if you want to know how it was made, or how to make another one, you will have to ask someone else.”[6]
“Lost Land!” Morton gasped. “That must be where——”
Schiller turned and looked quickly at his companion. Morton hastily shut up.
“Ah, yes, Lost Land,” Schiller said.
“It. sounds like a very interesting place. Perhaps you could tell me more about it?”
“Tomorrow,” Jongor answered. “We need to rest now.”
“Very well,” Schiller said. “Tomorrow.”
CHAPTER IV
Return to Lost Land
“I AM sorry,” Jongor said reluctantly, “but you will have to go on without me.”
It was the hour of dawn. The huge red ball of the sun was just peeping over the edge of the horizon. Its bright rays illumined the little group of humans standing beside the jungle pool.
“Go on without you?” Alain Hunter gasped. “What are you talking about? We would never make it, without you. Remember, we are going to reach the desert before many more miles. You know the water holes; we don’t know them. Without you to guide us, we will never make it across the desert.” Jongor shrugged massive shoulders. He fidgeted uncomfortably. It was easier to fight a hundred savages than to say what he had to say. “Sure, you can make it,” he said pleadingly. “Schiller and Morton,” he gestured toward the two men, who, not understanding what was happening, stood a little apart, “know the desert. Probably they know the water holes even better than I do. They will be able to guide you. You will guide Ann and Alan Hunter, won’t you?” He looked hopefully at the two men.
“Sure,” Morton said quickly. “Glad to. Anything to get out of this da——”
Schiller slowly shook his head. “Of course, we would do anything we could to help them,” he said. “The question is—will we be able to find our way? Remember, we were lost before we got here.”
Jongor recognized the truth in what the man had said. Schiller and Morton, having gotten themselves lost, were not exactly trustworthy guides. Jongor knew it was his duty to guide them out of the country. He also knew it was a duty he could not perform. He was aware that Ann Hunter’s; eyes were fixed on him. There was a strained whiteness on her face.
He had seen her meet danger many times but he had never seen that look on her face. Never, in the time that he had known her, had her courage ever faltered. From the look on her face, it was faltering now.
“You said you would guide us back to civilization,” the pale girl said.
“I know,” Jongor answered miserably.
“You said you would go with us to America, that—that——”
“I know I did,” Jongor answered. “Have you changed your mind?”
“No! It isn’t that.”
“Then why——”
“Because I can’t,” Jongor said. “Why can’t you?”
“Because Queen Nesca needs me,” he answered.
“Queen Nesca needs you?” the girl faltered. “That—that message——”
“Yes,” Jongor said. “The message was a call for help. Remember, we drove the Murtos from their city. They are attacking the lands of Queen Nesca. She said it was my fault that the city of the Murtos was destroyed, that if it hadn’t been destroyed the Murtos would not have attacked her, and that it is my duty to help defend her against the menace I created.”
“Do—do—you have to help her?” Ann Hunter whispered.
“She saved my life,” Jongor answered simply. To him, this statement was sufficient. He knew little of civilization, but the law of the jungle in which he had grown to manhood, said that the call of a friend for help was a sacred thing. Under no circumstances could it be ignored. He hoped that Ann would understand that this was true. Somehow it was desperately important to him for her to understand.
“You—you are going back into that?” She gestured toward Lost Land. To her Lost Land meant mountains and swamps, it meant almost impenetrable jungle, heat and rain. It meant a land where death glided on scaled wings from the cliffs, where death lurked behind every tree, where fang and claw and talon were always waiting to pounce on the unwary.
“Yes,” Jongor said.
TO him, Lost Land was home. The death that lurked there, he could evade, or overcome, or outrun. But he knew what Lost Land meant to the girl and he knew he had no right to ask her to go back into that country with him.
“With Schiller and Morton to guide you, you can find your way across the desert,” he said. “Wait for me in the first town. I will come to you as soon as I can.”
“No,” the girl said.
“But——”
“If you have to go back into Lost Land, I’m going with you.”
“Me, too,” her brother said.
Jongor looked at the two. They were his friends, the only real friends he had ever had: “You don’t have to go,” he said.
“The heck we don’t!” Alan Hunter burst out. “If you think Ann is going to let you visit one of these dusky queens without her going too, you are badly mistaken. You should know that.” Ann Hunter blushed. “You keep your big mouth shut,” she snapped at her brother. Then she turned to Jongor. “When do we start?”
Jongor grinned. “Now,” he said. He nodded toward the dinosaur. “We will ride my little friend. We must reach Queen Nesca as soon as possible. Her message indicated she was in great danger.”
Schiller and Morton had quietly listened to the conversation. They had made no effort to take part in it. Now Schiller stepped forward.
“With your permission,” he said to Jongor, we would like to go with you.”
“Hey! Wait a minute. I don’t——”
Morton sudden stopped speaking as his comrade glanced at him.
Schiller patted his rifle. He had recovered both gun and cartridge belt when the Blackfellows fled in panic. “We will add two extra rifles,” he said. “In this country, a couple of guns are handy things to have.”
Jongor hesitated. He had thought that Schiller and Morton would welcome the chance to return to their own world. Now Schiller was volunteering to go into Lost Land. He studied the man. What was back of this offer of assistance?
“Why do you want to go?” he asked. “I figure we owe you something,” Schiller answered. “You saved our lives. The least we can do is try to pay you back.”
“Do you think you can help?” Jongor was still studying Schiller. He saw the rugged strength in the man, and back of the pale blue eyes he sensed a hard, driving purpose. Schiller was the type who would stop at nothing to gain his ends, the kind of man who makes a good friend or a dangerous enemy.
“Of course we can help,” Schiller promptly answered.
“It’s a bad country,” Jongor said. Schiller shrugged. “I’ve seen bad country before now.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to return to your own country?” Jongor persisted.
“The question is, could we?” Schiller answered. He smiled persuasively. “We would have to cross the desert. Our best chance of ever, getting out of here alive, is, frankly, to go with you. If you leave us here, the odds are we’ll never survive. If the Blackfellows don’t get us, the desert will. You’re almost got to take us with you into Lost Land.”
There was a pleading note in his voice. Somehow he sounded like a man too proud to beg reduced to the necessity of pleading for a chance to continue living.
Jongor recognized the truth in what Schiller had said. The Blackfellows were still somewhere near. They were certain to res
ume the hunt for their escaped victims. Sad would be the fate of any man who fell a second time into their clutches. Leaving the two men here would be almost the equivalent of sentencing them to death.
“You may go with us,” Jongor said. “Thank you,” Schiller said. “You will never regret your decision.” As he spoke, a wolfish gleam lighted his eyes. He looked like a man who has won a great victory.
Morton was glumly silent.
They mounted the back of the dino. “Move quickly, little one,” Jongor said.
The great beast snorted an answer. It turned up the narrow, winding ravine that led eventually into Lost Land.
THE next day they passed out of the last narrow defile. The great valley of Lost Land lay below them. It stretched away to the mountains on the far horizon, a broad, gently undulating expense of green jungle. Here and there dark cloud banks marked the passage of showers of rain. The valley was plentifully watered. Moisture-laden winds coming in from the far-away sea were forced by the mountains to release the water they carried. Lost Land, like certain sections of New Guinea and Borneo, which it much resembled, had an abundant rainfall. Water and a tropical climate combined to produce jungle.
Seen from the narrow mountain pass high above the valley, the jungle looked like a beautiful landscape painting from the talented brush of one of the old masters. The little group stopped to stare at the scene.
“There is something about this country that gets you,” Alan Hunter said. “Imagine the first human being who ever stood here looking down on that scene.”
He swept his hand in an arc that included the whole immense valley. “It must have looked like the Garden of Eden.” He broke off, looked quickly at Jongor. “Maybe it is the Garden of Eden. Maybe the Garden of Eden was here, instead of Asia Minor. What do you think, Jongor?”
“I do not know,” Jongor said. He saw the scene below them through different eyes than did the others. He did. not miss the beauty of it but he was not looking for beauty. Jongor was looking for something else—a protected spot to spend the night, a place to rest for a few hours, and a waterhole where he might wait at dusk for a deer. They had to have food. Ann Hunter and her brother needed to rest. So did Schiller and Morton. So, also, did the dinosaur. The great beast was capable of tremendous efforts, for a short time, but long-continued exertion tired it to uselessness. Through the crystal on his wrist Jongor could feel waves of fatigue flowing like gray tides through the mighty beast. Yes, the dino must rest. It must have a night to seek food for itself, a swamp to wallow in.
Jongor- the Complete Tales Page 11