Burroughs, Edgar Rice 


TARZAN AND THE JUNGLE MURDERS 



















I 
The Hyena's Voice 

A bronzed giant of a man, naked save for a breech-clout, stalked silently along a forest trail. It was Tarzan, moving through his vast jungle domain in the crisp freshness of the early morning. The forest was more or less open in this section, with occasional natural clearings in which only a few scattered trees grew. Consequently Tarzan's progress was rapid—rapid, that is, for ground movement. If the jungle had been thick he would have taken to the trees, and gone hurtling through them with the strength of an ape and the speed of a monkey. For he was Tarzan of the Apes, who, despite his many contacts with civilization since the early days of his young manhood, had retained the fullness of all his jungle ways and powers. He seemed indifferent to his surroundings, yet this indifference was deceptive, the result of his familiarity with the sights and sounds of the jungle. In reality, every sense in him was on the alert. Tarzan knew, for example, that a lion was lying in a patch of brush a hundred feet to his left and that the king of beasts lay beside the partially eaten carcass of a slain zebra. He saw neither the lion nor the zebra, but he knew they were there. Usha, the Wind, carried that information to his sensitive nostrils. Long experience had taught this man of the jungle the characteristic odors of both lion and zebra. The spoor of a lion with a full belly is different from that of a hungry, stalking lion. So Tarzan passed on, unconcerned, knowing that the lion would not attack. Tarzan preferred the evidence of his nostrils to any other way of finding things out. The eyes of a man could deceive him in the twilight and the night, the ears could be wrongly influenced by imagination. But the sense of smell never failed. It was always right; it always told a man what was what. It was unfortunate, therefore, that a man could not always be traveling up-wind—either the man himself changed his direction, or the wind itself shifted. The former case applied to Tarzan now, as he moved across wind to avoid a stream which he was not in the mood to swim. Consequently his preternatural sense of smell, temporarily less useful, yielded place to his other information-bringing senses. 

And so, something was borne in upon his hearing that would have escaped all ears but his—the far off cry of Dango, the Hyena. Tarzan's scalp tingled, as it always did when he heard that unpleasant sound. Toward all other animals, the crocodile alone excepted, Tarzan could have respect—but for Dango, the Hyena, he could have only contempt. He despised the creature's filthy habits and loathed its odor. Chiefly because of this last, he usually avoided the vicinity of Dango whenever he could, lest he be moved to kill a living creature out of pure hate, which he did not consider good cause. So long as Dango did not commit evil, Tarzan spared him—after all he couldn't kill a beast just because he didn't like that animal's smell, could he? Besides, it was Dango's nature to smell the way he did. Tarzan was about to change his direction once more, this time to avoid getting close to Dango, when suddenly a new note in Dango's voice caused him to change his mind completely. It was a strange note, it told of something unusual. Tarzan's curiosity was aroused, so he decided to investigate. He increased his speed. When the forest closed in on him he took to the trees, hurtling through them in great leaps that ate up the distance. The monkeys chattered to him as he went past, and he replied to them with the same rapid sounds, telling them that he had not time to stop. At any other time he might have paused to cavort with the baby monkeys, while the mothers looked on in approval or the fathers tried to inveigle him into playing coconut-catch with them; but now he was in a hurry to find out what had put that strange note into Dango's voice. Nevertheless, one particularly mischievous simian let fly with a coconut without giving warning. He did not do it viciously, because he knew the quickness of Tarzan's eye. And he was totally unprepared for Tarzan's swift return shot. Tarzan caught the missle and flung it back in almost one and the same motion, and the jungle baseball went through the monkey's grasp to bounce with a hollow thump against the hairy chest. A chorus of monkey-laughter rose, and the mischievous monkey rubbed his chest ruefully with one hand while he scratched his head sheepishly with the other. "Play with your brothers," Tarzan sang out. "Tarzan has no time for games today." And he increased his speed still more. The voices of Dango and his fellows came louder and louder to his ears, their smell grew still more offensive. In mid-air he spat his distaste, but he did not swerve from his course. And at last, at the edge of a clearing, he looked down on a sight that was strange indeed in this African wilderness. There on the ground lay an aeroplane, partially wrecked. And there, prowling round and round the wreckage, was the source of the smell Tarzan hated—a half dozen slaver-dripping, tongue-lolling hyenas. On soft feet they padded, round and round in restless motion, occasionally jumping high against the plane's side in an obvious effort to get at something within. 

Conquering his revulsion, Tarzan dropped lightly to the ground. Soft as the impact was, though, the hyenas heard and turned sharply. They snarled, then retreated a little. It is always the hyena's first impulse to retreat except from things already dead. Then seeing that Tarzan was alone, some of the bolder among them inched forward with bared fangs. There was an old and mutual enmity between this man and the seed of Dango. Tarzan seemed to pay the hyenas no heed. The bow and quiver of arrows at his back remained unslung. His hunting knife remained in its sheath. He did not even raise his spear in menace. He showed his contempt. But he was watchful. He knew the hyena of old. Cowardly, yes—but when goaded by hunger, capable of sudden daring attack with claw and fang. He smelled their hunger now, and while outwardly he remained contemptuous, inwardly he was vigilant. Emboldened by Tarzan's outward indifference, the hyenas, moved closer to him. Then, with a sudden rush, the biggest of them leaped for his throat! Before the wicked fangs could clamp together around his throat, Tarzan shot out a bronzed hand, grabbed the beast's neck. He swung the body once above his head, sent it hurtling with terrific force against the other hyenas, knocking three to the ground. The three were up almost at once but the one remained, and all the hyenas straightway fell upon the broken body of their leader and commenced devouring it. Aye, Tarzan of the Apes knew the best way of handling hyenas. While they were busy at their loathsome feeding, Tarzan examined the plane and found it was not totally damaged. One wing was crumpled and the landing gear was shattered. But what was true of this thing of wire and metal was not true of the flesh and blood that had guided it—the flesh and blood which the hyenas had been unable to reach. The pilot, encased in his part of the cockpit, still sat at his controls; but his body was bent forward in death, his head resting against the instrument board. The plane was an Italian army ship. Tarzan made a mental note of the number and insignia. Then clambering onto the wing to reach the cockpit, he drew away the wreckage from the pilot's accidental tomb and examined the man more closely. "Dead—one, two days," he muttered. "Bullet hole in throat, a little to the left of larynx. Now, that's strange. I'd say this man was wounded while in the air. He lived long enough to land his ship. He had company with him, too. But they didn't shoot him." 

It took no special figuring on Tarzan's part to infer that the dead man had not been alone. The ground around the ship showed human footprints, not native ones, either, for the feet had been shod with civilized footgear. Also there were a number of cigarette butts and a piece of a cellophane wrapping. But the deduction that the pilot had not been shot by his companions required much closer reasoning. On the face of it. it was incredible that it could have happened any other way— if they didn't shoot him, who did? Yet, a shot from his companions would have had to come either from the right side or from the rear. The bullet, however, had penetrated the throat at the left of the larynx. A low, jungle oath escaped Tarzan. "Impossible as it may seem," he muttered, "this man was shot while in the air—and not by his companions either. Who did it then?" Once again he examined the wound. He shook his head, his brow furrowed. "The bullet came down from above… Now how could that be… unless… unless it came from another plane. That's it. That must be it! It couldn't have happened in any other way." A strange mystery, indeed, in the heart of Africa, far from all traveled air-lanes. Tarzan interpreted its sign, as he would have read spoor along jungle trails, and the conclusions he reached were as certain, so certain that he now asked himself: "Where did the other plane go?" The sounds the hyenas were making—the tearing of flesh, the snufflings and champings and slaverings, the grinding of their teeth as they devoured one of their own kind—came to Tarzan and he spat his disgust. Almost he was minded to spring out with spear and knife and make an end of them—make food out of the feeders, food for vultures. But he muttered to himself: "There are things here that are more important. Things that have to do with human beings. They come first." So he went on with hi s investigation. He found a single glove, a right-hand glove. He picked it up, opened it, smelled of the inside. His nostrils quivered. Then he dropped the glove—but he would not soon forget what he had learned from it. He leaped to the ground. Now the sight of the hyenas at their gruesome work was coupled with the sounds they made and augmented by their smell. It was too much for Tarzan. A booming roar broke from his great chest and he hurtled toward the hyenas, spear brandished threateningly. They scattered. He knew they would be back to finish the carcass, but in the meantime, while he finished his survey, he would at least be free of their offensiveness. Minutely he examined the ground. "Two men," he said softly. "They started out"—he pointed downward, although he was talking to no one but himself— "from here. And they went"—again he pointed—"this way. The trail is about two days old, but not too cold to follow. I'll follow it." Several motives animated Tarzan's decision. If still alive, the men who had dropped down from the skies and were now in the jungle, were fellow human beings who might need help. In addition, those men were strangers, and it was Tarzan's business to find out who they were and what they were doing in his domain. Accordingly he started out with no futher deliberation. Tantor, the Elephant, trumpeted across his path and stood waiting with ready trunk to swing Tarzan onto his back, but Tarzan had no time for such luxuries. He could follow the trail better if close to the ground, so he shouted: "Go back to your herd, Tantor!" But lest the elephant should feel hurt, Tarzan vaulted upon his back, gave Tantor a quick rub behind the ears, jumped down and was off and away on the trail again. Tantor, content, lumbered off to rejoin his herd, his trunk lifted high. 

It was Usha, the Wind, which brought Tarzan his next interruption. Usha, shitting slightly, transmitted to Tarzan's nostrils an altogether new scent—a scent completely at variance with what anyone would have expected in the fastnesses of the African jungle. Straightway Tarzan swerved off the trail to follow up this new sign. Swiftly the odor grew more pronounced until at last he recognized beyond further doubt the odor of gasoline. Here again was mystery. Gasoline implied the presence of man, but he detected no man-odor on the breeze. Still, the gasoline scent was a kind of advance-evidence that he had been right in his assumption of the presence of another aeroplane. The assumption was soon verified by actual sight. There it lay, the mass of crumpled wreckage that had once been a man-made bird, a ship winging through the air above Africa. Now it was broken and twisted—grim evidence of tragedy. Here, Tarzan knew, was the second half of the puzzle. This was the other plane, which had held the man, who had fired the bullet, which had entered the throat of that other man and killed him. The tail of his plane showed the ravaging effect of machine-gun fire. Yes, quite evidently there had been a fight in the air, an unequal fight, for apparently the man in this second plane had been armed only with a revolver. Unequal or not however, Man Number Two had managed to escape the fate of Number One. See there, the trampled grass. Number Two had come back to the plane, then gone away. Tarzan followed the spoor a short way, came to a tangled mass of rope and silk. "Parachute," he said. "Number Two bailed out." Tarzan's brain was busy. His eyes held a faraway look as he was reconstructing what must have happened. "Plane Number One attacked Plane Number Two. That's, obvious, since Number One had a machine gun and Number Two did not. Pilot Number Two had a revolver. With it, he shot pilot Number One, who made a forced landing, then died, and was deserted by two companions. The machine-gun bullets forced down Plane Number Two. Its pilot bailed out and landed here, several miles from Number One. All told, then, three men walked away from two planes." Were they still alive? "And why has all this happened?" Tarzan wondered. But for that question he could give no answer. He could figure out what had happened; but he could not figure out why. And this jungle, he knew, would probably lock the answer away in death. The jungle was harsh to those who did not know her ways. The three men who had been cast away in it had little chance, if they were not dead already. Tarzan shook his head. He was not satisfied that this should be the answer. Humanitarian impulses stirred his breast. Plane Number Two was English—its pilot was probably English too, just as the other two men were probably Italian. In Tarzan's veins ran English blood. To Tarzan, the life of a man was no better than the life of an antelope. Tarzan would help an antelope in trouble, and he would help a man in trouble if that man deserved it. The only difference was that an antelope in trouble always deserved help whereas man sometimes did not. But Tarzan could not say one way or another what these men, and in particular the Englishman, deserved. "Englishman," he said to himself, "you first. Let's hope I can get to you before the lions or the Buiroos do." So Tarzan set out on the trail of a man whom he did not know. Tarzan set out on the trail of Lieutenant Cecil Giles-Burton. 






II The Thread of Fate 

Fate is a thread that connects one event with another and one human being with another. The thread that was to lead to Tarzan in the African jungle began in the laboratory of Horace Brown in Chicago. From Tarzan it led back to Lieutenant Burton, from Burton it led back to a man named Zubanev in London, from Zubanev to Joseph Campbell, otherwise known as "Joe the Pooch," from Campbell to Mary Graham who talked too much, and finally from Mary Graham to Horace Brown, whose secretary she was. It is a long thread, all the way from Chicago to Africa, and there is blood on it and the promise of more blood to come. Horace Brown was an American inventor. He had a secretary, Mary Graham, who was in his confidence and who talked too much. Horace Brown invented something—something of extreme military importance. Mary knew about it, and Mary went to a party. It was at this party that Mary did her excessive talking. She meant well, but alas, Mary was not pretty, and usually attempted to make up for this lack of beauty by sparkling conversation. This time, very unfortunately, she sparkled to the wrong man—Joseph Campbell, alias Joe the Pooch. To Mary a man was a man, and although Campbell was not particularly attractive, his interest flattered her. And she mistook his interest in her conversation for interest in herself. Horace Brown's invention was an electrical device designed to disrupt the ignition system of any internal combustion engine at any distance up to three thousand feet. "You can readily see what that would mean in wartime," Mary said brightly, gesturing with her left hand not so much for emphasis as to show that her efficient typist's fingers were naked of either wedding or engagement ring. "No tanks or other motorized equipment of the enemy could approach within a thousand yards. Strafing planes could be brought down before they could inflict any serious damage on airdromes. Bombers, equipped with these machines, would be invulnerable to attack by pursuit planes—" Mary rambled on, unaware of Lieutenant Cecil Giles-Burton, unaware of Zubanev, unaware of Tarzan of the Apes, unaware of all those people in far off places whose lives she was unconsciously influencing. She was aware only that here was a man who was showing interest in her. Joseph Campbell, eyes reflecting admiration—-.admiration for the information he was getting which she mistook for admiration for herself—listened with both ears, a hard head and a flinty heart. He saw possibilities for profit—tremendous possibilities, but he was not yet quite sure how he could go about getting those profits. "I'd like to see that gadget," he said casually. "You can't," Mary said. "No one can, at present. It's been dismantled as a precautionary measure against theft. Mr. Brown has retained only the drawings, one set of them." "Well, I'd like to talk to him anyway," said Campbell, and added with a meaning glance: "It would give us a chance'to see more of each other. Perhaps I might even finance Mr. Brown." Mary shook her head regretfully. "I'm afraid that's impossible, too. Mr. Brown is on his way to London to negotiate with the British Government. You see, he means for only the two countries to have the invention…" Thus did Mary Graham innocently weave the first length of fate's bloody thread. When Joseph Campbell took leave of Mary Graham that night, he promised to call her the following evening. That was the last she heard of him. Joseph Campbell faded out of her life, just as Mary Graham, at this point, fades out of this narrative… On the other side of the Atlantic a week later, Horace Brown, having arrived at a satisfactory arrangement with the British Government, was assembling his machine in a small machine shop in London. Since it was assumed that no one but himself and the authorities knew what he was doing, no unusual precautions were taken to safeguard him. Two reliable mechanics assisted him during the day. At night he took the plans home with him to the small boarding-house where he had found a room because it was close to his work. Nikolai Zubanev, a Russian exile, was also a boarder there. He was a mysterious little man, but apparently harmless. Quite evidently the government did not consider him to be harmless, for it was having him watched as a matter of routine, only Zubanev did not know that. Neither did another boarder, a recent arrival from America who had become friendly with Zubanev. Yet, despite the government's watchfulness, Horace Brown one morning was found murdered and his plans missing. Missing, too, were Mr, Zubanev and his new-found acquaintance, Campbell. The government tapped its many and varied sources of information. A week later Messrs. Campbell and Zubanev were located in Rome, Italy. The meaning of this was plain —they had gone there to sell the stolen plans to the Italian Government. British agents in Rome got busy. Simultaneously, Lieut. Cecil Giles-Burton took off from Croydon in a fast plane for the Italian capital. The newspapers said that he was making a flight to Capetown, Africa. There was only one man in Italy before whom Campbell and Zubanev wished to lay their proposition, and it wasn't easy to obtain an interview with him. Zubanev, trusting no one, conceived a plan to safeguard the drawings should the Italian authorities decide to take them from him by force. He hid them in the false bottom of a handbag, and left them in his hotel room. At the interview, the Great Man became intensely interested. A price was agreed upon—such a price as would make both men independent for life, provided, of course, that the experimental machine to be built from the drawings could do what it was designed to accomplish. Campbell and Zubanev exuded elation as they returned to their apartment. Their elation, however, died on the threshold as they opened the door to Zubanev's room. Someone had been there during their absence and taken the place apart, forgetting to put it together again. Zubanev rushed to the bag with the false bottom. The bag was there, and so was the false bottom— but the plans were gone! Frantic, they telephoned the Great Man, and things immediately commenced to happen. Orders were issued to search everyone leaving Rome and to repeat the search at every border. But a certain airport reported than an Englishman, Lieut. Cecil Giles-Burton, had taken off twenty-five minutes before the search order had been received, presumably for Capetown. A hasty investigation revealed the further fact that the said aviator had been stopping at the same hotel as Campbell and Zubanev, and that he had checked out only about a half hour before their return and discovery of their loss. Within the hour, Campbell and Zubanev took off in a fast military pursuit plane piloted by a Lieut Torlini. 





III Broken Wings 

The blue waters of the Mediterranean rolled below Lieut. Cecil Giles-Burton as he winged south toward the African shore. So far, the undertaking had progressed with extraordinary success and it would have been quite simple to circle to the west now, and swing back to London. But there were reasons for his not doing so. His orders were to continue south to Bangali, where his father was Resident Commissioner. He was to leave the purloined plans with his father and continue on to Capetown, just as if this was really a sporting flight, as the newspapers had announced. For the British Government thought it unwise to permit a friendly power to suspect that its agents had stolen the plans from under the nose of the Great Man, even though they had originally been stolen from them. And because Lieutenant Burton's father was Resident Commissioner at Bangali, the lieutenant had been selected for the mission. What could be more natural than that the son should stop to visit his father on his flight to Capetown? In fact, the government records would show that he had asked permission to do so. Although Bangali had an emergency airport, it was off the main traveled air route, and there was a question as to whether or not a plane could be refueled there, so Burton decided to land at Tunis and fill his tanks. While he was refueling at the Tunis airport, a little crowd of the curious surrounded his ship. The formalities of the French airport were quickly and pleasantly attended to, and while he was chatting with a couple of the officials, a native approached him. "The Italians," he said in excellent English, "may beat you to Capetown, if you remain here too long." "Oh," said one of the Frenchmen, "a race. I did not know that." Burton thought swiftly. He was being pursued! And the Italian Government was seeking to give the impression that it was just a sportsman's race. "It really isn't an official contest," said Burton, laughing. "Just a private wager with some Italian friends. If I don't want to lose, I'd better be hopping off." Five minutes later he was in the air again and winging south with wide-open throttle, grateful for the ingenuity and thoughtfulness of his confederates in Rome and the cleverness of their agent, the "native" in Tunis. Burton had lost half an hour at Tunis, but it would soon be dark, and if his pursuers did not come within sight of him soon, he hoped to lose them during the night. He was flying a straight course for Bangali, which would take him east of an airline course for Capetown and west of the regular airlane from Cairo to the Cape, the route that they might reasonably expect him to fly because of its far greater safety. Occasionally he glanced back, and finally, in the last rays of the setting sun, he saw the shimmering silver reflected from the lower surface of the wings of an airplane far behind. All night that plane folowed him, guided by the flames from his exhaust. It was a faster ship and hung doggedly on his trail. 

He wondered what the enemy's plans were. He knew they didn't want him; it was the papers he carried that they wanted. If he could reach Bangali, the plans would be safe, for he would find ample protection there. But it was not to be. When dawn broke, the pursuing plane had drawn up beside him. Its wing tip almost touched his. He saw that it was an Italian military pursuit plane, piloted by an Italian officer. The two passengers he did not recognize, although he assumed that they were Campbell and Zubanev, whom he had never seen. Open country lay beneath them, and the Italian officer was motioning him down. He believed that Bangali was not more than fifty miles away. When he shook his head at them, they turned the machine gun on him. He banked and dove, and banked again, coming up under their tail. His only weapon, was a service pistol. He drew it and fired up at the belly of the ship, hoping that he might be lucky enough to sever one of the controls. As the other ship banked and turned, he zoomed up. They were coming from behind now, and coming fast. He turned and fired four more shots into them, and then a burst of machine-gun fire tore away his rudder and stabilizer. Out of control, his ship went into a spin. He had done his best, but he had failed. Cutting the engine, he bailed out with his parachute and floated gently down to earth. As he was floating downward, he watched the other ship. It was behaving erratically, and he wondered if he had hit the pilot or damaged the controls. The last he saw of it, it disappeared low over a forest a few miles to the south. Thus the two ships went down to land at the separate spots where Tarzan of the Apes was afterward to find and wonder over them. Burton quickly came to his feet and unbuckled the harness of his parachute. He looked about him. No living creature was in sight. He was in the midst of an African wilderness, with only a hazy notion of the distance to Bangali, which lay, he believed, a little east of south. His plane lay, a crumpled mass of wreckage, a few hundred yards away. He was glad he had cut the engine and that his ship had not burned, for it contained a little food and some extra cartridges. He figured that he was in a hell of a fix, and he was—much worse than he realized. But the plans for which he had risked his life were buttoned securely inside his shirt. He felt of them to make sure that they were still there. Satisfied, he walked over to the wrecked plane and got ammunition and food. He set off immediately in the direction in which he thought Bangali lay, for he knew that if his pursuers had made a safe landing they would be looking for him. If Bangali were only fifty miles away, as he hoped, and lay in the direction he believed it did, he felt that he might reasonably expect to reach it on the third day. He prayed that he was not in lion country, and, if there were natives, that they were friendly. But he was in lion country, and what natives there were were not friendly—and Bangali was three hundred miles away. 






IV Jungle Call 

Two days were to pass before the thread which began with Horace Brown in Chicago, and was already soaked in one spot with Horace Brown's blood, was to reach out and wind itself about the hyena-hating Tarzan in Africa. The third day found Tarzan of the Apes following the cold trail of the Englishman, Cecil Giles-Burton. Then fate played a queer trick. Cecil Giles-Burton, who had never set foot in Africa before, passed unharmed through the country of the savage Buiroos—but Tarzan of the Apes, born and bred in this land and the master of its lore, was ambushed, wounded and captured! It happened in this way: Tarzan was approaching a forest growth down-wind, hence the scent-spoor of any life ahead of him could not come to his sensitive nostrils. Thus he could not know that a score of Buiroo warriors were advancing through the forest in his direction. They were hunting, therefore moved silently, so Tarzan neither heard nor smelled them as they came on. It was at this moment that a lion broke suddenly from the forest a little to his left. Blood was running from a wound in the lion's side, and it was in an ugly mood. The beast bounded past him a few yards, then abruptly turned and charged directly at him. Tarzan, in perfect calm, raised his short, heavy spear above his right should er and waited. And now… his back was toward the forest… It was then that the BuLroos came upon him from behind… Their surprise was great, but it did not deter their action. Chemungo, son of Mpingu the chief, recognized the white man, recognized him as Tarzan—Tarzan who had once robbed the village of a captive who was to be tortured and sacrificed—Tarzan who had made a fool of Chemungo into the bargain. Chemungo wasted no time. He hurled his spear, and the white man went down with the weapon quivering in his back. But the other warriors did not forget the lion. With loud shouts they rushed upon him, holding their enormous shields in front of them. The beast leaped for the foremost warrior, striking the shield and throwing the man to the ground where the shield protected him while his fellows surrounded the lion and drove home their weapons. Once more the lion charged, and once again a warrior went down beneath his shield, but now a spear found the savage heart and the battle was over. There was great rejoicing in the village of Mpingu the Chief when the warriors returned with a white prisoner and the carcass of a lion. Their rejoicing, however, was tempered with some misgivings when they discovered that their prisoner was the redoubtable Tarzan. Some, incited by the village witch doctor, advocated killing the prisoner at once, lest he invoke his powers of magic to do them injury. Others, however, counseled setting him free, arguing that the spirit of the murdered Tarzan might do them infinitely more harm than Tarzan alive. Torn between two opposing ideas, Mpingu compromised. He ordered the prisoner to be securely bound and guarded, and his wounds treated. If, by the time he got well, nothing untoward had happened, they would treat him as they treated other prisoners; and then there would be dancing— and eating! Tarzan had stopped bleeding. The wound would have killed an ordinary man, but Tarzan was no ordinary man. Already he was planning his escape. His bonds were tight, and his captors took great pains to keep them that way. Each night they tightened them anew, wondering at the great strength that enabled the man to loosen them at least enough to cause the blood in his arms and legs to flow less sluggishly. This nightly tightening of his bonds became a serious problem to Tarzan. It was more than that—it was an insult to his natural dignity. "A man without the use of his arms," he thought, "is only half a man. A man without the use of his arms and legs is not a man at all. He is a child, who must be fed like a child, as the Buiroos are feeding me." And Tarzan's heart swelled with the indignity of it, an indignity thrice multiplied at being fed by a degenerate people like the Buiroos. Yet what availed the swelling of Tarzan's heart, if his wrists and ankles could not swell, too —swell and burst his bonds? Tarzan's great heart burned within his breast, but his brain remained cool. "They feed me to fatten me," his brain told him. "A man of muscle would make too tough eating for them. So they seek to put over me a layer of succulent fat. Is this a fit end for Tarzan—to wind up in the bellies of Buiroos? No, it is not a fit end for Tarzan—nor will it be the end! Tarzan will surely think of something." So Tarzan thought of this and that, and dismissed each thought in turn as useless. But his five senses, more highly developed than those of any other men, remained in tune. Three of those senses did not matter much in his present condition. He could see, but of what use was sight when a man had only the walls of a mean hut to look at? What mattered touch when a man's hands and feet were bound? What good was taste when it meant tasting food not acquired by his own strong hands but fed to him by Buiroos, so that his muscles should take on a layer of fat to melt on their tongues and delight their palates? No, two senses alone—hearing and smell—still meant something. And over and above them the mysterious sixth sense that Tarzan possessed to a degree unknown to other men. So the days and nights passed, with Tarzan thinking in his waking hours and thinking even in his dreams. He was more alive than ever to all sounds and all smells; but more important than that, his sixth sense was alive to the jungle and any message it might bring him. Messages there were many, but he waited for the one that would bring him hope. He heard Sheetah, the Leopard. There was no hope there. He heard Dango again, and smelled the beast with his old disgust. Numa, the Lion, voiced his hunger grunt from far away. Tarzan's keen ears heard it, but the sound was meaningless except to introduce the passing thought that it was nobler to be eaten by a lion than by Buiroos. Then Tarzan—or rather Tarzan's sixth sense—received another message. A faint glow of surprise appeared in his eyes, his nostrils quivered. Soon after that, Tarzan began to sway his torso backward and forward, gently, and a low chanting sound began to issue from his lips. The guard at the hut's opening peered in, saw Tarzan's gentle swaying, and asked: "What are you doing?" Tarzan interrupted his morion and chant only long enough to say, "Praying." Then he resumed. The guard reported what he had seen to Mpingu. Mpingu grunted and said that the gods of the Buiroos were more powerful than Tarzan's. "Let him pray," Mpingu said. "It will not save him. Soon our teeth and tongues will know him." The guard returned to the hut, resumed his post. Tarzan was still swaying and chanting, only a little louder now. He waited for the guard to tell him not to, but the guard said nothing, wherefore Tarzan knew that his plan was working. The message still came to him, but now it was more than a message received by his sixth sense. The message was coming to his nostrils now, unmistakable! But Tarzan was careful. He was sending out a call, but he increased its volume only gradually, so that the illusion of prayer could be kept in the minds of the Buiroos. And so gradually did the sounds he made increase in volume, that from one minute to the next the change was scarcely noticeable. It was all at once that the Buiroos realized that Tarzan's voice was very loud, and for still another minute they explained it by the supposition that Tarzan could not make his gods listen to him. Then they heard, bursting upon their ear-drums, like thunder when the skies are black and angry, Tarzan's great bellow. There was sudden quiet… Deep in the jungle, Tantor, the Elephant, lifted his head to the night breeze, and the forepart of his trunk curled up spasmodically. His ears flapped. He turned partway around to face the breeze fully. Once more he sniffed—and then he trumpeted. He trumpeted, calling his herd together. They came, stood up-wind with him, listened, heard what he heard. They had wandered far, out of their usual stamping grounds, following their leader submissively, for their leader had been very restless the last few days, as though seeking something, and they had feared to cross his will. Now they knew what had made him restless and what had drawn him, and now they, too, shook the air with their own trumpetings, trampled the ground with impatience, waiting only the signal from their leader to set out. Tantor gave the awaited signal—and the herd marched! It marched quickly, steadily, remorselessly—straight for its goal. It marched without swerving, except for the great trees. The saplings it juggernauted down as if they were matchwood. Straight and true, the great herd marched on the Buiroo village… Tarzan, in his captive's lair, was the first to hear the thunder of the oncoming herd. His eyes lit up and his lips twisted in a smile. His "prayers" had been heard! His deliverance came on apace—faster, faster—nearer, nearer! Panicky cries rose in the outer air. Tarzan heard the ripping and rending of wood as the elephants pushed against the village stockade. Crash! A whole section of the stockade came shattering down. The elephants were in! "Tantor! Tantor!" Tarzan's great voice called. "Tantor! Tantor!" his voice yelled out. "Come to me!" But Tantor needed no vocal invitation to come to Tarzan. The scent of his man-friend alone was enough, and Tarzan's voice merely confirmed Tantor's knowledge of his presence there. Tarzan heard the swoop of Tantor's trunk above him. The entire thatched roof of (he hut he was in was swept away. Looking up, Tarzan beheld the tremendous bulk of Tantor, and beyond that the stars of heaven. The next instant Tantor's trunk dipped down, encircled Tarzan, lifted him and hung him up on his back. Tantor lifted his trunk, waited. Now Tarzan and not Tantor was in command of the herd. And it was Tarzan, with his great voice, who signaled that it was time to depart. The village was a shambles now, not a hut left standing, and the Buiroos had retreated in terror into the bush. Triumphantly, the herd left the village behind. Dawn was breaking. Tantor and the herd had done its job. It was the monkeys and not the elephants who loosened Tarzan's bonds, and hopped about him, chattering with delight at seeing him again. Tarzan rubbed Tantor behind the ears, and Tantor knew he was being thanked. Then, taking leave of his jungle friends, Tarzan swung off into the trees and disappeared from their sight. There was no use any more, he knew, in following the spoor of the English aviator. Very likely the poor fellow had already died, either of starvation or beneath the fangs and talons of one of the great carnivorous beasts. No, Tarzan's destination now lay elsewhere—specifically in Bangali. Nights before, while lying captive, he had heard native African drums relaying a message from the Resident Commissioner in Bangali to his friend Tarzan of the Apes—a message for Tarzan to come to Bangali. 






V The Safari 

How Lieutenant Cecil Giles-Burton survived his aimless wanderings in the jungle was one of those miracles that sometimes happen in Africa. The Dark Continent, cruel to those who did not know her, spared this man. And the section of Fate's thread which bound him indirectly to a talkative maiden in far-off Chicago was not yet moistened with his own blood. On two occasions Burton met lions. In each case, fortunately, a tree was handy, and he climbed it. One of those lions had been ravenously hungry and was on the hunt. Burton was treed by it for a whole day. He thought he would die of thirst. But at last the lion's patience was snapped by its own hunger, and it went off after less difficult game. The other lion Burton need not have worried about. Its belly was full and it would have paid no attention even to a fat zebra, its favorite food. But Burton, unlike Tarzan, could not tell the difference between a hungry lion and a sated one. Also, like most people ignorant of jungle ways, he held the notion that all lions were man-eaters and went about killing every living creature they could reach. The getting of food was Burton's chief problem. He lost weight rapidly. He ate many strange things, such as locusts, and came to understand that a hungry man will eat anything. The days passed swiftly, and he was still searching for Bangali; but he was searching in the wrong direction. His clothes hung in rags. His hair and beard grew long. But his courage remained. Thin as a rail, he was still full of hope as one morning he sat upon a hillside looking down into a little valley. His hearing had sharpened since his sojourn in the jungle, and now, suddenly, he heard sounds coming from the upper end of the valley. He looked—and saw men. Men! Human beings! The first he had seen in days and days! His heart pounded, swelled in his now bony chest. His first impulse was to jump up and run down to them, crying aloud his joy. Then he restrained himself. Africa had taught him caution. Instead of rushing down, he concealed himself behind a bush and watched. He would look before he leaped. It was a long file of men. As they came closer, he saw that some of them wore sun-helmets. But the majority of them wore not much of anything. He noted that those who wore the least clothing carried the heaviest burdens. He knew what he was seeing now. It was a safari—a safari of white men and blacks. Now he no longer hesitated. He rushed down to meet it. The column was headed by a native guide and a group of whites. There were two women among the whites. Behind them trooped the long file of porters and askaris. "Hello! Hello!" Burton shouted in a cracked voice. Tears came to his eyes and he choked, stumbling toward them with arms outstretched. 

The safari halted and awaited his coming. No answering shouts of greeting came to him. He slowed his pace. Something of his habitual English reserve returned to him. He wondered at their lack of enthusiasm. "How awful," one of the women—no more than a girl— exclaimed at the soiled sight of him. But the exclamation was less in pity than in impolite shock at his scarecrow appearance. Lieutenant Burton stiffened and his cracked lips twisted in a crooked smile that held a little bitterness. Was this the way a castaway was received by his own kind? Lieutenant Burton, looking at the girl, said quietly: "I am sorry, Lady Barbara, that in your shock at my dirty rags, you fail to see that a human being is wearing them." The girl stared at him, aghast. Over her face spread a flush. "You know me?" she said unbelievingly. "Quite well. You are Lady Barbara Ramsgate. That gentleman—or am I wrong in using the word?—is your brother, Lord John. The others I do not know." "He must have heard rumors about our safari," one of the other men interposed. "That's how he knows the names. Well, man, what's your story? I suppose your safari deserted you, and you're lost and hungry, and want to join up with our safari. You're not the first derelict we picked up—" "Stop it, Gault," John Ramsgate snapped in an angry voice. "Let the man tell his story." Lieutenant Burton shook his head. He sent a burning glance at each of them in turn. "As snobbish in Africa as in London," he said softly. "One of your porters, meeting me like this, would not have asked questions, would have given me food and water even if it meant going without it himself." Gault opened his mouth to make a hot retort, but the girl stopped him. She looked ashamed. "I'm sorry," she said. "We've all been under a strain and I'm afraid our veneer has cracked a bit to reveal that we're not as nice as we think we are underneath. I'll order food and water for you immediately." "No hurry now," Burton said. "I'll answer your unspoken questions first. I was flying from London to Capetown, and was forced down. I have been wandering around ever since, trying to find Bangali. You are the first human beings I've seen. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Burton— Lieutenant Cecil Giles-Burton, of the Royal Air Force." "Impossible!" Lady Barbara exclaimed. "You can't be." "We know Burton," said Lord John. "You don't look anything like him." "Blame Africa for that. I think if you look closely enough, you'll recognize your week-end guest at Ramsgate Castle." And Lord John, looking closer, finally murmured, "Gad, yes," and stretched out his hand. "My apologies, old fellow." 

Burton did not take the hand. His shoulders sagged. He was ashamed of these people. "That hand which you now offer to Lieutenant Burton should have been offered to the derelict stranger," he said quietly. "I'm afraid I can't shake it sincerely." "He's right," Lord John said to his sister, and she nodded meekly. "We're terribly sorry, Burton. I'd be honored very much if you took my hand, Lieutenant." So Burton shook his hand, and they all felt better. Lady Barbara introduced him to the man who stood at her side— Duncan Trent. After eating, Burton met the other members of the safari. There was a tall, broad-shouldered man who was called Mr. Romanoff, and it was Romanoff who gave Burton the astounding information that Bangali was fully two hundred miles away. Romanoff imparted this information while being shaved by his valet, Pierre. Evidently this Russian expatriate traveled in style. Burton learned further that this safari was really two safaris. "We ran into the Romanoff safari two weeks ago, and, since we were both headed in the same direction, for Bangali, we joined forces. The difference is that the Romanoff safari hunts with guns while we hunt only with cameras." "Silly idea," said Trent, who was evidently interested in Lady Barbara emotionally. "John could have gone to the zoo and taken his silly pictures without all this walking and insect bites." Burton further learned that Gerald Gault, the man who had spoken so sneeringly to him at first, was Romanoff's guide. There was another Russian in the safari, Sergei Goden-sky, a professional photographer. The interest of Burton was drawn to two other white men. These were the other derelicts that had been mentioned. Their names were Smith and Peterson. They had told a story of their native boys deserting them. "They don't look very gay," Burton said. "They don't like to do their share of the work, either," John Ramsgate snapped. "Burton, you won't blame us so much for our conduct when you learn more about this rather mixed safari. Romanoff's man, Gault, is domineering and sarcastic. Everybody hates him. Pierre and my valet, Tomlin, are both in love with Violet, Barbara's maid. And I think there's no love lost between Godensky and Romanoff. All told, I wouldn't call it a very happy family." Coffee and cigarettes followed the dinner. Burton stretched and inhaled deeply. "To think," he said, "that only this morning I was expecting to starve to death. One never knows what Fate has hi store for one." Unconsciously he patted his shirt over his heart, where the plans for Horace Brown's invention reposed. "Perhaps it's just as well that we can't look into the future," said Lady Barbara. It was just as well, so far as Burton's peace of mind was concerned. Days passed. Burton grew very fond of John Ramsgate and especially fond of Barbara. Duncan Trent began to wear a scowl. In Burton he detected a rival. 

Then trouble broke out in the safari over the maid, Violet, when Godensky made advances to her which she made clear she did not want. Burton, accidentally coming upon them, knocked Godensky down. Godensky, in a raging fury, drew his knife. Then Lady Barbara came suddenly upon the scene. Godensky put back his knife and walked away sullenly. "You've made an enemy," cautioned Barbara. Burton shrugged his shoulders. He had been through so much already that one more enemy didn't matter. But he had made more than one enemy. Trent came to him and told him hi no uncertain terms to keep away from Lady Barbara. "I think we can leave it to Lady Barbara to select what company she wants to keep," Burton said quietly. Tomlin, attracted by the conversation, came out of his tent. He saw Trent strike at Burton, saw Burton smash Trent down. "Get into your tent and cool off," Burton snapped to Trent, and entered his own tent. The next morning, Ramsgate notified Godensky that he would not need his services after they reached Bangali. Everyone else ignored Godensky, even the two derelicts, Smith and Peterson, and he marched alone all day, nursing his anger. Duncan Trent brought up the rear of the column, glum and brooding. Everyone seemed out of sorts, and the long trek under the hot, merciless sun did nothing to soothe jangled nerves. The carriers lagged, and Gault spent most of his time running up and down the line cursing and abusing them. Finally he lost his temper and knocked one of them down. When the man got up, Gault knocked him down again. Burton, who was nearby, interfered. "Cut it out," he ordered. "You mind your own damned business. I'm running this safari," retorted Gault. "I don't care whose safari you're running. You're not going to abuse the men." Gault swung. Burton blocked the blow, and the next instant Gault was sent sprawling with a smashing left to the jaw. It was Burton's third fight since he had joined the safari. Three knockdowns—three enemies. "I'm sorry, Ramsgate," Burton said, later. "I seem to be getting into trouble with everyone." "You did just right," said Ramsgate approvingly. "I'm afraid you've made a real enemy there, Cecil," said Lady Barbara. "I understand Gault has a pretty bad reputation." "One enemy more makes no difference any longer. We'll be in Bangali tomorrow." They talked for a few minutes longer and then bidding each other good night, went to their tents. Burton was happy. He knew that he had never been so happy before in his life. Tomorrow he would see his father. Tomorrow he would fulfill his mission; and he was in love. A serene quiet lay upon the camp, over which a drowsy askari kept watch. From far away came the roar of a hunting lion, and the man threw more wood upon the fire. 






VI The Coming of Tarzan 

It was just before dawn, and it was very cold. The askari on guard was even more sleepy than the man he had relieved. Because it was cold, he sat very near the fire with his back against a log, and sitting there, he fell asleep. When he awoke, he was so astounded and startled by the sight that met his eyes that he was for the moment incapable of any action. He just sat there, wide-eyed, looking at an almost-naked white man who squatted near him, warming his hands at the fire. Where had this aparition come from? It had not been there a moment before. The askari thought that perhaps he was dreaming. But, no. The visitor was too real, of such an immense physique. The lips of the stranger parted. "Whose safari is this?" he asked in the Swahili dialect. The askari found his voice. "Who are you? Where did you come from?" Suddenly his eyes went even wider and his jaw dropped. "If you are a demon," he said, "I will bring you food, if you will not harm me." "I am Tarzan," said the stranger. "Whose safari is this?" "There are two," replied the askari, his eyes filled with awe. "One is the safari of Bwana Romanoff, and the other is the safari of Bwana Ramsgate." "They are going to Bangali?" asked Tarzan. "Yes. Tomorrow we shall be in Bangali." "They are hunting?" "Bwana Romanoff hunts. Bwana Ramsgate takes pictures." Tarzan looked at him for a long time before he spoke again, and then he said: "You should be whipped for falling asleep while on guard." "But I was not asleep, Tarzan," said the askari . "I only closed my eyes because the light of the fire hurt them." "The fire was nearly out when I came," said Tarzan. "I put more wood upon it. I have been here a. long time and you were asleep. Simba could have come into carnp and carried someone away. He is out there now, watching you." The askari leaped to his feet and cocked his rifle. "Where? Where is Simba?" he demanded. "Can't you see his eyes blazing out there?" "Yes, Tarzan, I see them now." He raised his rifle to his shoulder. "Do not shoot. You might accidentally hit him only to wound him, and then he would charge. Wait." Tarzan picked up a stick, one end of which was blazing, and hurled it out into the darkness. The eyes disappeared. "If he comes back, shoot over his head. That may frighten him away." The askari became very alert, but he was watching the stranger quite as much as he was watching for the lion. Tarzan warmed himself by the fire. After awhile the wind freshened and swung into a new quarter. Tarzan raised his head and sniffed the air. "Who is the dead man?" he asked. The askari looked around him quickly, but saw no one. His voice trembled a little as he answered. "There is no dead man, Bwana," the askari protested. "There is a dead man over there in that part of camp," said Tarzan, nodding toward the tents of the whites. "There is no dead man, and I wish that you would go away with your talk of death." The other did not answer. He just squatted there, warming his hands. "I must go and awaken the cooks," the askari said, presently. "It is tune." Tarzan said nothing, and the askari went to awaken the cooks. He told them there was a demon in the camp, and when they looked and saw the white man squatting there by the fire, they, too became intensely frightened. They were still more frightened when the askari told them that the demon had said there was a dead man in the camp. They woke up all the other boys, for in numbers there is a greater sense of security. Ramsgate's headman went to his master's tent and awakened him. "There is a demon in camp, Bwana," he said, "and he says there is a dead man here. There is no dead man in camp, is there, Bwana?" "Of course not—and there are no demons either. I'll be out in a moment." Ramsgate dressed hurriedly and came out a few moments later to see the men huddled together fearfully, looking toward the fire, where the almost naked gigantic white man squatted. Ramsgate walked toward him, and as he approached the other arose, courteously. "May I inquire," said Ramsgate, "who you are and to what we owe the pleasure of this visit?" Ramsgate had learned a lesson from Burton on how to treat strangers. The other motioned toward the fire. "That is the reason for my visit," he said. "It is unusually cold in the forest tonight." "Who are you, anyway, man, and what are you doing running around naked in the forest at night?" "I am Tarzan," replied the stranger. "What is your name?" "Ramsgate. What is the story you have been telling our boys about there being a dead man in the camp?" "It is true. There is a dead man in one of those tents. He has not been dead veiy long." "But how do you know that? What gives you that queer idea?" "I can smell him," said Tarzan. Ramsgate shivered, looked around the camp. The boys were still huddled together at a little distance, watching them; but otherwise everything appeared in order. He looked again at the stranger, a little more closely this time, and saw that he was fine-looking and intelligent-appearing. Yet he was certain that the man was crazy, probably one of those human derelicts who are found occasionally even in civilized surroundings, wandering naked in the woods. They are usually called wildmen, but most of them are only harmless halfwits. However, Ramsgate thought, remembering Burton's lesson, the best thing to do would be to humor this man and give him food. 

He turned and called to the boys. "Hurry up with that chuck. We want to get an early start today." Several of the whites had been aroused by the noise in the camp and were straggling from their tents. Gault was among them. He came over toward the fire, followed by the others. "What have we here, m'Lord?" "This poor devil got cold and came in to the fire," said Ramsgate. "It's perfectly all right, he's welcome. Will you see that he gets breakfast, Gault?" "Yes, sir." Gault's meekness surprised Ramsgate. "And say, Gault, will you have the boys awaken the Others? I'd like to get an early start this morning." Gault turned toward the boys and called out some instructions in Swahili. Several of the boys detached themselves and went to the tents of then- masters to awaken them. Tarzan had resumed his place by the fire, and Ramsgate had gone to talk with the askari who had been on guard. He had just started to question the man, when he was interrupted by a shout from the direction of the tents of the whites and saw Burton's boy running excitedly toward him. "Come quick, Bwana," shouted the boy. "Come quick!" "What is it? What's the matter?" demanded Ramsgate. "I go in tent. I find Bwana Burton lie on floor, dead!" Ramsgate dashed for Burton's tent, with Tarzan close at his elbow. Gault was directly behind them. Burton's body, clad only in pajamas, lay face down upon the floor. A chair had been upset and there were other evidences of a fierce struggle. While the three men were busily examining the body, Romanoff and Trent entered the tent. "This is terrible," Romanoff exclaimed, shuddering. "Who could have done it?" Trent said nothing. He just stood there, staring down at the body. Burton had been stabbed in the back, the knife entering under the left shoulder blade from below and piercing the heart. There were black and blue marks on his throat, showing that the murderer had choked him to prevent him from making any outcry. "Whoever did this must have been a very strong man," said Romanoff. "Lieutenant Burton was himself very powerful." Amazed, then, they saw the white stranger take command of the situation. Tarzan lifted the body to the cot and covered it with a blanket. Then he bent low and examined the marks on Burton's throat. He went out and they followed him, mystified and frightened. As they left the tent, before which practically the entire safari had congregated, Ramsgate saw his sister coming toward them from her tent. "What's the matter?" she asked, "What has happened?" 

Ramsgate stepped to her side. "Something pretty terrible has happened, Babs," he said, avoiding her questioning glance. Then he led her back to her tent and told her. Gault gruffly ordered the men back to their duties, summoned all the askaris who had been on guard during the night and questioned them. The other whites were gathered around them, but only Tarzan understood the questions and the answers, which were in Swahili. There had be en four askaris on duty during the night," and all insisted that they had seen or heard nothing unusual, with the exception of the last one, who reported that the strange white man had entered the camp just before dawn to warm himself at the fire. "Did you see him all the time he was in camp?" demanded Gault. The man hesitated. "The fire hurt my eyes, Bwana, and I closed them. But only for a moment. All the rest of the time I saw him squatting by the fire, warming himself." "You are lying," said Gault. "You were asleep." "Perhaps I slept a little, Bwana." "Then this man might have had time to go to the tent and murder Bwana Burton?" Gault spoke plainly because he did not know that Tarzan understood Swahili. "Yes, Bwana," replied the black. "He might have. I do not know. But he knew there was a dead man there before anyone else knew it." "How do you know that?" "He told me so, Bwana." "The man was dead before I came into camp," said Tarzan calmly. Gault was startled. "You understand Swahili?" he asked. "Yes." "Nobody knows how long you were in camp. You—" "What's all this about?" interrupted Romanoff. "I can't understand a word. Wait, here comes Lord John. He should carry on this investigation. Lieutenant Burton was his countryman." Ramsgate and Romanoff listened intently while Gault repeated what the askari had told him. Tarzan stood leaning upon his spear, his face impassive. When Gault had finished, Ramsgate shook his head. "I see no reason to suspect this man," he said. "What motive could he have had? It certainly wasn't robbery, for Burton had nothing of value. And it couldn't have been revenge, for they didn't even know each other." "Perhaps he's batty," suggested Smith. "Nobody but a nut would run around naked in the woods. And you can't never tell what nuts will do." Trent nodded. "Dementia praecox," he said, "with homicidal mania." Lady Barbara, dry-eyed and composed, came and stood beside her brother. Violet was with her, red-eyed and sniffling. "Have you learned anything new?" Lady Barbara asked her brother. Ramsgate shook his head. "Gault thinks this man might have done it." 

Lady Barbara looked up. "Who is he?" she asked. "He says his name is Tarzan. He came into camp some' time during the night. Nobody seems to know when. But I don't see any reason to suspect him. He could not possibly have had any motive." "There are several here who might have had a motive," said Lady Barbara bitterly. She looked straight at Trent. "Barbara!" Trent exclaimed. "You don't think for a moment that I did this?" "He was ready to kill him once, m'Lord," said Tomlin to Ramsgate. "I was there, sir. I saw Burton knock him down. They were quarreling about her Ladyship." Trent looked uncomfortable. "It's preposterous," he protested. "I'll admit I lost my temper, but after I cooled off I was sorry." Violet pointed an accusing finger at Godensky. "He tried to kill him, too! He said he'd kill him. I heard him." "As far as that goes, Gault, here, threatened to get him, too," said Romanoff. "They didn't all kill him. I think the thing for us to do is present ourselves to the authorities at Bangali, and let them thrash the matter out." "That's all right with me," said Gault. "I didn't kill him, and I don't know that this fellow did. But it's certainly mighty funny that he was the only one in camp to know that Lieutenant Burton was dead." "There was another who knew," said Tarzan, "Who was that?" demanded Gault. 'The man who killed him." "I'd still like to know how you knew he was dead," said Gault. "So shoult I," said Ramsgate. "I must say that that looks a little suspicious." "It's quite simple," said Tarzan, "but I'm afraid none of you would understand. I am Tarzan of the Apes. I have lived here nearly all my life under precisely the same conditions as the other animals. Animals are dependent upon certain senses much more than are civilized man. The hearing of some of them is exceptionally keen. The eyesight of others is remarkable. But the best developed of all is the sense of smell. "Without at least one of these senses highly developed, one couldn't survive for long. Man, being naturally among the most helpless of animals, I was compelled to develop them all. Death has its own peculiar odor. It is noticeable almost immediately after life has ceased. While I was warming myself at the fire and talking to the askari, the wind freshened and changed. It brought to my nostrils the evidence that a dead man lay a short distance away, probably in one of the tents." "Nuts," said Smith disgustedly. Godensky laughed nervously. "He must think we're crazy, too, to believe a story like that." "I think we've got our man all right," said Trent. "A maniac doesn't have to have a motive for killing." "Mr. Trent's right," agreed Gault. "We'd better tie him up and take him along to Bangali with us." 

None of these men knew Tarzan. None of them could interpret the strange look that came suddenly into his gray eyes. As Gault moved toward him, Tarzan backed away. Then Trent drew his pistol and covered him. "Make a false move and I'll kill you," Trent said. Trent's intentions may have been of the best, but his technique was faulty. He was guilty, among others, of two cardinal errors. He was too close to Tarzan, and he did not shoot the instant that he drew his gun. Tarzan's hand shot out and seized his wrist. Trent pulled the trigger, but the bullet plowed harmlessly into the ground. Then he cried out in anguish and dropped the weapon when the ape-man applied more pressure. It was all done very quickly, and then Tarzan was backing away from them holding Trent as a shield in front of him. They dared not shoot for fear of hitting Trent. Gault and Ramsgate started forward. Tarzan, holding the man with one hand, drew his hunting knife. "Stay where you are," he said, "or I kill." His tone was quiet and level, but it had the cutting edge of a keen knife. The two men stopped, and then Tarzan backed away toward the forest that came down to the edge of the camp. "Aren't you going to do something?" shouted Trent. "Are you going to let this maniac carry me off into the woods and butcher me?" "What shall we do?" cried Romanoff to no one in particular. "We can't do anything," said Ramsgate. "If we go after him, he'll surely kill Trent. If we don't, he may let him go." "I think we ought to go after them," said Gault, but no one volunteered, and a moment later Tarzan disappeared into the forest dragging Trent with him… The safari did not get an early start that morning, and long before they got under way Trent came out of the forest and rejoined them. He was still trembling from fear. "Give me a spot of brandy, John," he said to Ramsgate. "I think that demon broke my wrist. God, I'm about done up. That fellow's not human. He handled me as though I were a baby. When he was sure no one was following us, he let me go. And then he took to the trees just like a monkey. I tell you, it's uncanny." "Did he harm you in any way after he took you out of camp?" Ramsgate wanted to know. "No. He just dragged me along. He never spoke once, never said a word. It was like—why, it was like being dragged off by a lion." "I hope we've seen the last of him," said Ramsgate hopefully. "Well, there's not much doubt about that," replied Trent. "He killed poor Burton, all right, and he's made a clean getaway." The safari moved slowly, four carriers bearing the body of Burton on an improvised stretcher. It brought up the rear of the column, and Barbara walked ahead with her brother so she would not have to see it. They did not reach Bangali that day, and had to make another camp. Everyone was depressed. There was no laughing or singing among the native boys, and very shortly after the evening meal everyone turned in for the night. About midnight the camp was aroused by wild shouting and a shot. Then Smith came running from the tent he shared with Peterson. Ramsgate leaped from his cot and ran out into the open in his pajamas, almost colliding with Smith. "What's the matter, man? For God's sake, what's happened?" "That crazy giant," cried Smith. "He was here again. He killed poor Peterson this time. I shot at him. I think I hit him, but I don't know. I couldn't be sure." "Where did he go?" snapped Ramsgate. "Off there, into the jungle," panted Smith, pointing. Ramsgate shook his head. "There's no use following," he said. "We could never find him." They went into Peterson's tent and found him lying on his cot, stabbed through the heart while he slept. There was no more sleep in camp that night and the whites as well as the askaris stood guard. 





VII Murder Will Out 

In Bangali, Tarzan sat in the bungalow of Col. Gerald Giles-Burton. "The shock of your news was not as great as it might have been," said Colonel Burton. "I'd given my boy up for dead a long while ago. Yet, to know that he was alive all the time, and almost here—that's what is hard to bear. Did they have any idea who killed him?" "They're all pretty sure I did it." "Nonsense," said Burton. "There are three men in the safari he had trouble with. They all threatened to get him. But from what I heard, the threats were all made in the heat of anger, and probably didn't mean anything. Only one of them might have thought he had reason to kill." "Who was that?" asked Burton. "A chap by the name of Trent, who was in love with Lady Barbara. That was the only real motive, so far as I could learn." "Sometimes a very strong motive," said Burton. "However," continued Tarzan, "Trent didn't kill your son. He couldn't have. If the murderer was in camp, I could have found him if they hadn't run me out." "Will you remain here and help me find him when the safari gets in?" "Of course. You didn't nee d to ask." "There is something else I think you ought to know. At the time that he was lost, my son was carrying some very important papers for the Government. He was ostensibly flying from London to Capetown, but his instructions were to stop here and leave the papers with me." "And he was being pursued by three men in an Italian military plane," said Tarzan. "Gad, man! How did you know that?" demanded Burton. "I ran across both planes. Your son's plane was shot down, but he had bailed out safely. I found his parachute near the plane. But before he bailed out, he shot the pilot of the other plane. The fellow brought his plane down safely before he died. I found him still sitting at the controls. The two men with him got out all right. One of them may have been hurt a little, for I noticed that he limped, but he might have been lame before. That, of course, I do not know." "Did you see them?" asked Burton. "No. I followed their tracks for a little way until I came across your son's ship. Then, knowing he was an Englishman, or believing so because he was piloting an English plane, I started off after him. You see, he had landed in lion country. You know, the Buiroo country." "Yes; and the Buiroos are worse than the lions." "Yes," said Tarzan, reminiscing, "I've had business with them before. They nearly put an end to me this time. After I got away from them I started for Bangali again, and early this morning I stumbled onto this safari." "Do you think those two men had a chance to get the papers away from my son?" "No. They were following different trails. They are probably both dead by this time. It's bad country where they came down. They were a couple of Italians, I suppose." Colonel Burton shook his head. "No. One was an American and the other was a Russian. Their names were Campbell and Zubanev. I got a full report on them from London. They were wanted for espionage and murder back there." "Well, I don't think they'll bother anyone again," said Tarzan. "And in the morning you'll have the papers." "Yes, I'll have the papers," said Burton sadly. "It is strange, Tarzan, how little we appreciate happiness until we lose it. I'm not vindictive, but I'd like to know who killed my son." "Africa is a large place, Burton," said the ape-man, "but if the man who murdered your boy is still alive, I'll get him before he gets out of Africa. I promise you that." "If you can't find him, no one can," said Burton. "Thanks, Tarzan." Tarzan shook Burton's hand warmly. 

Eight stretcher bearers, carrying the bodies of Cecil Burton and Peterson brought up the rear of the safari as it halted just on the outskirts of Bangali and prepared to go into camp. Ramsgate and Romanoff went immediately to report to Colonel Burton. They found him sitting in his office, a screened veranda along one side of his bungalow. He stood up as they entered and held out his hand to the young Englishman. "Lord John Ramsgate, I presume," he said, then turning to the Russian, "and Mr. Romanoff. I have been expecting you gentlemen." "We come on a very sad mission, Colonel Burton," said Ramsgate, a catch in his voice. "Yes, I know," said Burton. Ramsgate and Romanoff looked astonished. "You know!" exclaimed Romanoff. "Yes. Word was brought to me last night." "But that is impossible," said Ramsgate. "We must be referring to different things." "No. We are both referring to the murder of my son." "Extraordinary!" exclaimed Ramsgate. "I don't understand. But Colonel, we are pretty sure now that we know who the murderer is. Last night there was another similar murder committed in our camp, and one of the members of our safari saw the murderer in the act of committing the crime. He fired at him, and thinks that he hit him." At this moment the door of the bungalow opened and Tarzan stepped suddenly out onto the veranda! Ramsgate and Romanoff both leaped to their feet. "There's the man! There's the murderer!" cried Ramsgate. Colonol Burton shook his head. "No, gentlemen," he said quietly. "Tarzan of the Apes would not have murdered my son, and he could not have murdered the other man because he was here in my bungalow all last night!" "But," said Romanoff, "Smith said that he saw this man and recognized him when Peterson was murdered last night." "Well, in a moment of excitement like that," said Burton, "and in the darkness, a man might easily make a mistake. Suppose we go to your camp and question some of the people involved. I understand that three of them had either attacked or threatened my son." "Yes," said Ramsgate. "Both my sister and I wish a most thorough investigation be made, and I am sure that Mr. Romanoff feels as we do about it." 

Romanoff inclined his head in assent "You will come with us, of course, Tarzan?" asked Burton. "If you wish," Tarzan replied. It was with mixed emotions that the members of the safari saw Tarzan enter the camp with Ramsgate, Romanoff and Colonel Burton, and a detail of native constabulary. "They got him," said Gault to Trent. "That was quick work." "They ought to handcuff him," said Trent, "or he'll get away just as he did before. They haven't even taken his weapons away from him." At Colonel Burton's suggestion all the whites in the party were gathered together for questioning. While they were being summoned Tarzan carefully examined the body of Peterson. He looked particularly at the man's hands and feet. Then he scrutinized the wound over the heart. Just for a moment he bent low over the body, his face close to the sleeve of the man's tunic. Then he returned to where the company was gathered in front of Colonel Burton. One by one, the English official questioned them. He listened intently to the evidence of Violet, Tomlin and Lady Barbara. He questioned Godensky, Gault and Trent. He questioned Smith about the murderer of Peterson. "I understand that you said you saw this man kill Peterson." He indicated Tarzan. "I thought it was him," said Smith, "but I might have been mistaken. It was very dark." "Well, now, as to my son," said Burton. "Is there anyone here who cares to make a direct charge of murder against any individual?" Lady Barbara Ramsgate stiffened. "Yes, Colonel," she said. "I charge Duncan Trent with the murder of Cecil Giles-Burton." Trent paled considerably, but did not speak. All eyes were turned upon him. Tarzan bent close and whispered something in Burton's ear. The latter nodded. "Tarzan wishes to ask a few questions," said Burton. "You will please answer them as you would if I asked them." "May I see your knife?" asked Tarzan, pointing at Pierre. "I do not carry one, sir." "And yours?" He indicated Gault. Gault withdrew his knife from its scabbard and handed it to the ape-man, who examined it for a moment and then returned it. Then he asked for Tomlin's knife; but Tomlin did not carry one. In rapid succession he asked for and examined the knives of Smith, Godensky, and Trent. Then he turned to Smith. "Smith," he said, "you were in the tent after Peterson was murdered. Can you tell me how he was lying on his cot?" "He was lying flat on his back," Smith said. "Which side of his cot was against the side of the tent?" "The left side." Tarzan turned to Ramsgate. "How long have you known this man Smith?" he asked. "A few weeks only," replied Ramsgate. "We found him and Peterson wandering around lost. They said their boys had deserted them." "He was limping when you found him, wasn't he?" John Ramsgate looked his astonishment. "Yes," he said. "He told us he had sprained his ankle." "What's that got to do with it?" demanded Smith. "Didnt I tell you the guy's a nut?" Tarzan stepped close to Smith. "Let me have your gun," he said. "I ain't got no gun," growled Smith. "What is that bulge underneath the left side of your shirt?" As he spoke, Tarzan placed his hand quickly over the spot. Smith grinned. "You ain't as smart as you think you are," he said. Tarzan turned to Lady Barbara. "Mr. Trent did not kill Burton," he said with great conviction. "Smith killed him. Smith killed Peterson, too." "It's a damn lie!" cried Smith. "You killed 'em yourself! I'm being framed! Can't you all see it?" "What makes you think Smith is the murderer?" asked Colonel Burton. "Well, I'll make one change in my statement," said Tarzan. "It was Campbell who killed them. This man's name is not Smith. It is Campbell. The real name of the man he killed last night was not Peterson, but Zubanev!" "I tell you it's a damned lie!" shouted Smith. "You ain't got nothin' on me! You can't prove nothin'!" Tarzan towered over the rest of the company. A hush fell over the group. Even Smith was silent. "A very powerful, left-handed man with the second finger of his right hand missing killed Lieutenant Burton," Tarzan said. "The wound which killed Burton could only have been inflicted if the knife were held in the left hand. On his throat were the imprints of a thumb, a first, third, and little finger. "You will notice that the second finger of Smith's, or rather Campbell's right hand is missing. Also I noticed that when I asked the men to hand me their knives, Campbell was the only man who passed the weapon to me with his left hand. The knife wound in Zubanev's chest was made by a knife held in a left hand." "But the motive for these murders," exclaimed Romanoff. "Colonel Burton will find them inside of Campbell's shirt! They are the papers that Lieutenant Burton was carrying when he was shot down by the pursuing plane that carried Campbell and Zubanev. I know that Peterson, or rather Zubanev, was on that plane. The other man with him limped when he walked away from the plane. That man was Campbell, who calls himself Smith." "But why did Smith or Campbell, or whatever his name is, want to kill Burton and Peterson?" asked John Ramsgate. "He and Zubanev wanted the papers that Burton carried," Tarzan explained. "No one else knew about the papers. Campbell knew that if he stole the papers and let Burton live, the latter would immediately launch an intensive search through the safari for them. He had to kill Burton. He killed Zubanev so that he would not have to share with him the money that he expected to get for the papers, which they had already tentatively sold to the Italian Government. Here"—Tarzan ripped open Campbell's shut—"are the papers!" 

The native constabulary dragged Joseph Campbell, alias Joe the Pooch, away. "How did you know that Zubanev was on that Italian plane?" Ramsgate asked curiously. "I found his glove in the rear cockpit," replied the ape-man. Ramsgate shook his head in bewilderment "I still don't understand," he said. Tarzan smiled. "That is because you are a civilized man," he said. "Numa, the Lion, or Sheeta, the Leopard, would understand. When I found that glove I took its scent. Therefore I carried in my memory the smell of Zubanev. Then when I smelled Peterson, I knew he was Zubanev. Hence, Smith must be Campbell. And now—" Tarzan paused, swept them with his glance. "I am going home," he said. "Goodby, my friends. It was good to see some of my own people again, but the call of the jungle is stronger. Gopdby…" And Tarzan of the Apes returned to the jungle.