Tarzan Triumphant

do not go naked and alone through the forests, like the low Bagesu. Where is your safari?'

'Tarzan of the Apes needs no safari,' replied the white man.

Goloba was stunned. He had never seen Tarzan of the Apes, for he came from a country far from Tarzan's stamping ground, but he had heard tales of the great bwana—tales that had lost nothing in the telling.

'You are Tarzan?' he asked.

The white man nodded, and Goloba sank, fearfully, to his knees. 'Have mercy, great bwana!' he begged. 'Goloba did not know.'

'Now, answer my question,' said Tarzan. 'Why did you desert your bwana?'

'We were attacked by a band of shiftas,' replied Goloba. 'They rode upon us, firing their rifles. There were at least a hundred of them. We fought bravely—'

'Stop!' commanded Tarzan. 'I saw all that transpired. No shots were fired. You ran away before you knew whether the horsemen were enemies or friends. Speak now, but speak true words.'

'We knew that they were enemies,' said Goloba, 'for we had been warned by vifiagers, near whom we had camped, that these shiftas would attack us and sell into slavery all whom they captured.'

'What more did the villagers tell you?' asked the ape-man.

'That the shiftas are led by a white man.'

'That is what I wished to know,' said Tarzan.

'And now may Goloba and his people go?' asked the black. 'We fear that the shiftas may be pursuing us.'

'They are not,' Tarzan assured him. 'I saw them ride away toward the west, taking your bwana with them. It is of him I would know more. Who is he? What does he here?'

'He is from a country far in the north,' replied Goloba. 'He called it Russa.'

'Yes,' said Tarzan. 'I know the country. Why did he come here?'

'I do not know,' replied Goloba. 'It was not to hunt. He did not hunt, except for food.'

'Did he speak ever of Tarzan?' demanded the ape-man.

'Yes,' replied Goloba. 'Often he asked about Tarzan. At every village he asked when they had seen Tarzan and where he was; but none knew.'

'That is all,!' said the ape-man. 'You may go.'

Chapter 5 When the Lion Charged

Lord Passmore was camped in a natural clearing on the bank of a small river a few miles south of the jungle's northern fringe. His stalwart porters and askaris squatted over their cooking fires laughing and joking among themselves. It was two hours past sunset; and Lord Passmore, faultlessly attired in dinner clothes, was dining, his native boy, standing behind his chair, ready to anticipate his every need.

A tall, well built Negro approached the fly beneath which Lord Passmore's camp table had been placed. 'You sent for me, bwana?' he asked.

Lord Passmore glanced up into the intelligent eyes of the handsome black. There was just the faintest shadow of a smile lurking about the corners of the patrician mouth of the white man. 'Have you anything to report?' he asked.

'No, bwana,' replied the black. 'Neither to the east nor to the west were there signs of game. Perhaps the bwana had better luck.'

'Yes,' replied Passmore, 'I was more fortunate. To the north I saw signs of game. Tomorrow, perhaps, we shall have better hunting. Tomorrow I shall—' He broke off abruptly. Both men were suddenly alert, straining their ears to a faint sound that rose above the nocturnal voices of the jungle for a few brief seconds.

The black looked questioningly at his master. 'You heard it, bwana?' he asked. The white nodded. 'What was it, bwana?'

'It sounded deucedly like a machine gun,' replied Passmore. 'It came from south of us; but who the devil would be firing a machine gun here? and why at night?'

'I do not know, bwana,' replied the headman. 'Shall I go and find out?'

'No,' said the Englishman. 'Perhaps totnorrow. We shall see. Go now, and get your sleep.'

'Yes, bwana; good night.'

'Good night—and warn the askari on sentry duty to be watchful.'

'Yes, bwana.' The black bowed very low and backed from beneath the fly. Then he moved silently away, the flickering flames of the cook fires reflecting golden high lights from his smooth brown skin, beneath which played the mighty muscles of a giant.

'This,' remarked 'Gunner' Patrick, 'is the life. I ain't seen a cop for weeks.'

Lafayette Smith smiled. 'If cops are the only things you fear, Danny, your mind and your nerves can be at rest for several weeks more.'

'What give you the idea I was afraid of cops?' demanded Danny. 'I ain't never seen the cop I was afraid of. They're a bunch of punks. Anyhow, they ain't got nothin' on me. What a guy's got to look out for though is they might frame a guy. But, geeze, out here a guy don't have to worry about nothin'.' He settled back easily in his camp chair and exhaled a slowly spiraling column of cigarette smoke that rose lazily in the soft night air of the jungle. 'Geeze,' he remarked after a brief silence, 'I didn't know a guy could feel so peaceful. Say, do you know this is the first time in years I ain't packed a rod?'

'A what?'

'A rod, iron, a gat—you know—a gun.'

'Why didn't you say so in the first place?' laughed Smith. 'Why don't you try talking English once in a while?'

'Geeze!' exclaimed Danny. 'You're a great guy to talk about a guy talkin' English. What's that you pulled on me the other day when we was crossin' that open rollin' coun, try? I learned that by heart—'a country of low relief in an advanced stage of mature dissection'—an' you talk about me talkin' English! You and your thrust faults and escarpments, your calderas and solfataras—geeze!'

'Well, you're learning, Danny.'

'Learnin' what? Every racket has its own lingo. What good is your line to me? But every guy wants to know what a rod is—if he knows what's good for his health.'

'From what Ogonyo tells me it may be just as well to continue 'packing your rod,'' said Smith.

'How come?'

'He says we're getting into lion country. We may even find them near here. They don't often frequent jungles, but we're only about a day's march to more open terrain.'

'Whatever that is. Talk English. Geeze! What was that?' A series of coughing grunts rose from somewhere in the solid black wall of jungle that surrounded the camp, to be followed by a thunderous roar that shook the earth.

'Simba!' cried one of the blacks, and immediately a half dozen men hastened to add fuel to the fires.

'Gunner' Patrick leaped to his feet and ran into the tent, emerging a moment later with a Thompson submachine gun. 'T'ell with a rod,' he said. 'When I get that baby on the spot I want a typewriter.'

'Are you going to take him for a ride?' inquired Lafayette Smith, whose education had progressed noticeably in the weeks he had spent in the society of Danny 'Gunner' Patrick.

'No,' admitted Danny, 'unless he tries to muscle in on my racket.'

Once again the rumbling roar of the lion shattered the quiet of the outer darkness. This time it sounded so close that both men started nervously.

'He appears to be harboring the thought,' commented Smith.

'What thought?' demanded the 'Gunner.'