บทที่ บทที่ 14 · At the Mercy of the Jungle

. At the Mercy of the Jungle

After Clayton had plunged into the jungle, the sailors—mutineers of the

_Arrow_—fell into a discussion of their next step; but on one point all

were agreed—that they should hasten to put off to the anchored _Arrow_,

where they could at least be safe from the spears of their unseen foe.

And so, while Jane Porter and Esmeralda were barricading themselves

within the cabin, the cowardly crew of cutthroats were pulling rapidly

for their ship in the two boats that had brought them ashore.

So much had Tarzan seen that day that his head was in a whirl of

wonder. But the most wonderful sight of all, to him, was the face of

the beautiful white girl.

Here at last was one of his own kind; of that he was positive. And the

young man and the two old men; they, too, were much as he had pictured

his own people to be.

But doubtless they were as ferocious and cruel as other men he had

seen. The fact that they alone of all the party were unarmed might

account for the fact that they had killed no one. They might be very

different if provided with weapons.

Tarzan had seen the young man pick up the fallen revolver of the

wounded Snipes and hide it away in his breast; and he had also seen him

slip it cautiously to the girl as she entered the cabin door.

He did not understand anything of the motives behind all that he had

seen; but, somehow, intuitively he liked the young man and the two old

men, and for the girl he had a strange longing which he scarcely

understood. As for the big black woman, she was evidently connected in

some way to the girl, and so he liked her, also.

For the sailors, and especially Snipes, he had developed a great

hatred. He knew by their threatening gestures and by the expression

upon their evil faces that they were enemies of the others of the

party, and so he decided to watch closely.

Tarzan wondered why the men had gone into the jungle, nor did it ever

occur to him that one could become lost in that maze of undergrowth

which to him was as simple as is the main street of your own home town

to you.

When he saw the sailors row away toward the ship, and knew that the

girl and her companion were safe in his cabin, Tarzan decided to follow

the young man into the jungle and learn what his errand might be. He

swung off rapidly in the direction taken by Clayton, and in a short

time heard faintly in the distance the now only occasional calls of the

Englishman to his friends.

Presently Tarzan came up with the white man, who, almost fagged, was

leaning against a tree wiping the perspiration from his forehead. The

ape-man, hiding safe behind a screen of foliage, sat watching this new

specimen of his own race intently.

At intervals Clayton called aloud and finally it came to Tarzan that he

was searching for the old man.

Tarzan was on the point of going off to look for them himself, when he

caught the yellow glint of a sleek hide moving cautiously through the

jungle toward Clayton.

It was Sheeta, the leopard. Now, Tarzan heard the soft bending of

grasses and wondered why the young white man was not warned. Could it

be he had failed to note the loud warning? Never before had Tarzan

known Sheeta to be so clumsy.

No, the white man did not hear. Sheeta was crouching for the spring,

and then, shrill and horrible, there rose from the stillness of the

jungle the awful cry of the challenging ape, and Sheeta turned,

crashing into the underbrush.

Clayton came to his feet with a start. His blood ran cold. Never in all

his life had so fearful a sound smote upon his ears. He was no coward;

but if ever man felt the icy fingers of fear upon his heart, William

Cecil Clayton, eldest son of Lord Greystoke of England, did that day in

the fastness of the African jungle.

The noise of some great body crashing through the underbrush so close

beside him, and the sound of that bloodcurdling shriek from above,

tested Clayton’s courage to the limit; but he could not know that it

was to that very voice he owed his life, nor that the creature who

hurled it forth was his own cousin—the real Lord Greystoke.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Clayton, disheartened and

discouraged, was in a terrible quandary as to the proper course to

pursue; whether to keep on in search of Professor Porter, at the almost

certain risk of his own death in the jungle by night, or to return to

the cabin where he might at least serve to protect Jane from the perils

which confronted her on all sides.

He did not wish to return to camp without her father; still more, he

shrank from the thought of leaving her alone and unprotected in the

hands of the mutineers of the _Arrow_, or to the hundred unknown

dangers of the jungle.

Possibly, too, he thought, the professor and Philander might have

returned to camp. Yes, that was more than likely. At least he would

return and see, before he continued what seemed to be a most fruitless

quest. And so he started, stumbling back through the thick and matted

underbrush in the direction that he thought the cabin lay.

To Tarzan’s surprise the young man was heading further into the jungle

in the general direction of Mbonga’s village, and the shrewd young

ape-man was convinced that he was lost.

To Tarzan this was scarcely comprehensible; his judgment told him that

no man would venture toward the village of the cruel blacks armed only

with a spear which, from the awkward way in which he carried it, was

evidently an unaccustomed weapon to this white man. Nor was he

following the trail of the old men. That, they had crossed and left

long since, though it had been fresh and plain before Tarzan’s eyes.

Tarzan was perplexed. The fierce jungle would make easy prey of this

unprotected stranger in a very short time if he were not guided quickly

to the beach.

Yes, there was Numa, the lion, even now, stalking the white man a dozen

paces to the right.

Clayton heard the great body paralleling his course, and now there rose

upon the evening air the beast’s thunderous roar. The man stopped with

upraised spear and faced the brush from which issued the awful sound.

The shadows were deepening, darkness was settling in.

God! To die here alone, beneath the fangs of wild beasts; to be torn

and rended; to feel the hot breath of the brute on his face as the

great paw crushed down upon his breast!

For a moment all was still. Clayton stood rigid, with raised spear.

Presently a faint rustling of the bush apprised him of the stealthy

creeping of the thing behind. It was gathering for the spring. At last

he saw it, not twenty feet away—the long, lithe, muscular body and

tawny head of a huge black-maned lion.

The beast was upon its belly, moving forward very slowly. As its eyes

met Clayton’s it stopped, and deliberately, cautiously gathered its

hind quarters behind it.

In agony the man watched, fearful to launch his spear, powerless to

fly.

He heard a noise in the tree above him. Some new danger, he thought,

but he dared not take his eyes from the yellow green orbs before him.

There was a sharp twang as of a broken banjo-string, and at the same

instant an arrow appeared in the yellow hide of the crouching lion.

With a roar of pain and anger the beast sprang; but, somehow, Clayton

stumbled to one side, and as he turned again to face the infuriated

king of beasts, he was appalled at the sight which confronted him.

Almost simultaneously with the lion’s turning to renew the attack a

half-naked giant dropped from the tree above squarely on the brute’s

back.

With lightning speed an arm that was banded layers of iron muscle

encircled the huge neck, and the great beast was raised from behind,

roaring and pawing the air—raised as easily as Clayton would have

lifted a pet dog.

The scene he witnessed there in the twilight depths of the African

jungle was burned forever into the Englishman’s brain.

The man before him was the embodiment of physical perfection and giant

strength; yet it was not upon these he depended in his battle with the

great cat, for mighty as were his muscles, they were as nothing by

comparison with Numa’s. To his agility, to his brain and to his long

keen knife he owed his supremacy.

His right arm encircled the lion’s neck, while the left hand plunged

the knife time and again into the unprotected side behind the left

shoulder. The infuriated beast, pulled up and backwards until he stood

upon his hind legs, struggled impotently in this unnatural position.

Had the battle been of a few seconds’ longer duration the outcome might

have been different, but it was all accomplished so quickly that the

lion had scarce time to recover from the confusion of its surprise ere

it sank lifeless to the ground.

Then the strange figure which had vanquished it stood erect upon the

carcass, and throwing back the wild and handsome head, gave out the

fearsome cry which a few moments earlier had so startled Clayton.

Before him he saw the figure of a young man, naked except for a loin

cloth and a few barbaric ornaments about arms and legs; on the breast a

priceless diamond locket gleaming against a smooth brown skin.

The hunting knife had been returned to its homely sheath, and the man

was gathering up his bow and quiver from where he had tossed them when

he leaped to attack the lion.

Clayton spoke to the stranger in English, thanking him for his brave

rescue and complimenting him on the wondrous strength and dexterity he

had displayed, but the only answer was a steady stare and a faint shrug

of the mighty shoulders, which might betoken either disparagement of

the service rendered, or ignorance of Clayton’s language.

When the bow and quiver had been slung to his back the wild man, for

such Clayton now thought him, once more drew his knife and deftly

carved a dozen large strips of meat from the lion’s carcass. Then,

squatting upon his haunches, he proceeded to eat, first motioning

Clayton to join him.

The strong white teeth sank into the raw and dripping flesh in apparent

relish of the meal, but Clayton could not bring himself to share the

uncooked meat with his strange host; instead he watched him, and

presently there dawned upon him the conviction that this was Tarzan of

the Apes, whose notice he had seen posted upon the cabin door that

morning.

If so he must speak English.

Again Clayton attempted speech with the ape-man; but the replies, now

vocal, were in a strange tongue, which resembled the chattering of

monkeys mingled with the growling of some wild beast.

No, this could not be Tarzan of the Apes, for it was very evident that

he was an utter stranger to English.

When Tarzan had completed his repast he rose and, pointing a very

different direction from that which Clayton had been pursuing, started

off through the jungle toward the point he had indicated.

Clayton, bewildered and confused, hesitated to follow him, for he

thought he was but being led more deeply into the mazes of the forest;

but the ape-man, seeing him disinclined to follow, returned, and,

grasping him by the coat, dragged him along until he was convinced that

Clayton understood what was required of him. Then he left him to follow

voluntarily.

The Englishman, finally concluding that he was a prisoner, saw no

alternative open but to accompany his captor, and thus they traveled

slowly through the jungle while the sable mantle of the impenetrable

forest night fell about them, and the stealthy footfalls of padded paws

mingled with the breaking of twigs and the wild calls of the savage

life that Clayton felt closing in upon him.

Suddenly Clayton heard the faint report of a firearm—a single shot, and

then silence.

In the cabin by the beach two thoroughly terrified women clung to each

other as they crouched upon the low bench in the gathering darkness.

The Negress sobbed hysterically, bemoaning the evil day that had

witnessed her departure from her dear Maryland, while the white girl,

dry eyed and outwardly calm, was torn by inward fears and forebodings.

She feared not more for herself than for the three men whom she knew to

be wandering in the abysmal depths of the savage jungle, from which she

now heard issuing the almost incessant shrieks and roars, barkings and

growlings of its terrifying and fearsome denizens as they sought their

prey.

And now there came the sound of a heavy body brushing against the side

of the cabin. She could hear the great padded paws upon the ground

outside. For an instant, all was silence; even the bedlam of the forest

died to a faint murmur. Then she distinctly heard the beast outside

sniffing at the door, not two feet from where she crouched.

Instinctively the girl shuddered, and shrank closer to the black woman.

“Hush!” she whispered. “Hush, Esmeralda,” for the woman’s sobs and

groans seemed to have attracted the thing that stalked there just

beyond the thin wall.

A gentle scratching sound was heard on the door. The brute tried to

force an entrance; but presently this ceased, and again she heard the

great pads creeping stealthily around the cabin. Again they

stopped—beneath the window on which the terrified eyes of the girl now

glued themselves.

“God!” she murmured, for now, silhouetted against the moonlit sky

beyond, she saw framed in the tiny square of the latticed window the

head of a huge lioness. The gleaming eyes were fixed upon her in intent

ferocity.

“Look, Esmeralda!” she whispered. “For God’s sake, what shall we do?

Look! Quick! The window!”

Esmeralda, cowering still closer to her mistress, took one frightened

glance toward the little square of moonlight, just as the lioness

emitted a low, savage snarl.

The sight that met the poor woman’s eyes was too much for the already

overstrung nerves.

“Oh, Gaberelle!” she shrieked, and slid to the floor an inert and

senseless mass.

For what seemed an eternity the great brute stood with its forepaws

upon the sill, glaring into the little room. Presently it tried the

strength of the lattice with its great talons.

The girl had almost ceased to breathe, when, to her relief, the head

disappeared and she heard the brute’s footsteps leaving the window. But

now they came to the door again, and once more the scratching

commenced; this time with increasing force until the great beast was

tearing at the massive panels in a perfect frenzy of eagerness to seize

its defenseless victims.

Could Jane have known the immense strength of that door, built piece by

piece, she would have felt less fear of the lioness reaching her by

this avenue.

Little did John Clayton imagine when he fashioned that crude but mighty

portal that one day, twenty years later, it would shield a fair

American girl, then unborn, from the teeth and talons of a man-eater.

For fully twenty minutes the brute alternately sniffed and tore at the

door, occasionally giving voice to a wild, savage cry of baffled rage.

At length, however, she gave up the attempt, and Jane heard her

returning toward the window, beneath which she paused for an instant,

and then launched her great weight against the timeworn lattice.

The girl heard the wooden rods groan beneath the impact; but they held,

and the huge body dropped back to the ground below.

Again and again the lioness repeated these tactics, until finally the

horrified prisoner within saw a portion of the lattice give way, and in

an instant one great paw and the head of the animal were thrust within

the room.

Slowly the powerful neck and shoulders spread the bars apart, and the

lithe body protruded farther and farther into the room.

As in a trance, the girl rose, her hand upon her breast, wide eyes

staring horror-stricken into the snarling face of the beast scarce ten

feet from her. At her feet lay the prostrate form of the Negress. If

she could but arouse her, their combined efforts might possibly avail

to beat back the fierce and bloodthirsty intruder.

Jane stooped to grasp the black woman by the shoulder. Roughly she

shook her.

“Esmeralda! Esmeralda!” she cried. “Help me, or we are lost.”

Esmeralda opened her eyes. The first object they encountered was the

dripping fangs of the hungry lioness.

With a horrified scream the poor woman rose to her hands and knees, and

in this position scurried across the room, shrieking: “O Gaberelle! O

Gaberelle!” at the top of her lungs.

Esmeralda weighed some two hundred and eighty pounds, and her extreme

haste, added to her extreme corpulency, produced a most amazing result

when Esmeralda elected to travel on all fours.

For a moment the lioness remained quiet with intense gaze directed upon

the flitting Esmeralda, whose goal appeared to be the cupboard, into

which she attempted to propel her huge bulk; but as the shelves were

but nine or ten inches apart, she only succeeded in getting her head

in; whereupon, with a final screech, which paled the jungle noises into

insignificance, she fainted once again.

With the subsidence of Esmeralda the lioness renewed her efforts to

wriggle her huge bulk through the weakening lattice.

The girl, standing pale and rigid against the farther wall, sought with

ever-increasing terror for some loophole of escape. Suddenly her hand,

tight-pressed against her bosom, felt the hard outline of the revolver

that Clayton had left with her earlier in the day.

Quickly she snatched it from its hiding-place, and, leveling it full at

the lioness’s face, pulled the trigger.

There was a flash of flame, the roar of the discharge, and an answering

roar of pain and anger from the beast.

Jane Porter saw the great form disappear from the window, and then she,

too, fainted, the revolver falling at her side.

But Sabor was not killed. The bullet had but inflicted a painful wound

in one of the great shoulders. It was the surprise at the blinding

flash and the deafening roar that had caused her hasty but temporary

retreat.

In another instant she was back at the lattice, and with renewed fury

was clawing at the aperture, but with lessened effect, since the

wounded member was almost useless.

She saw her prey—the two women—lying senseless upon the floor. There

was no longer any resistance to be overcome. Her meat lay before her,

and Sabor had only to worm her way through the lattice to claim it.

Slowly she forced her great bulk, inch by inch, through the opening.

Now her head was through, now one great forearm and shoulder.

Carefully she drew up the wounded member to insinuate it gently beyond

the tight pressing bars.

A moment more and both shoulders through, the long, sinuous body and

the narrow hips would glide quickly after.

It was on this sight that Jane Porter again opened her eyes.