Tarzan and the Lion-Man

The porters were nervous, frightened, sullen. Kwamudi came up to O'Grady. 'My people not go on,' he said. 'They turn back—go home.'

'They better stick with us,' O'Grady told him. 'If they turn back they'll all be killed; they won't have a lot of us guys with rifles to fight for 'em. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this Bansuto country. You better advise 'em to stick, Kwamudi.'

Kwamudi grumbled and walked away.

'That was just a bluff,' O'Grady confided to the other white. 'I don't believe they'd turn back through this Bansuto country alone.'

Presently the column got under way again, and Kwamudi and his men marched with it.

Up in front they had laid the bodies of Major White and the two natives on top of one of the loads to give them decent burial at the next camp. Orman marched well in advance with set, haggard face. The askaris were nervous and held back. The party of Negroes clearing the road for the leading truck was on the verge of mutiny. The Arabs lagged behind. They had all had confidence in White, and his death had taken the heart out of them. They remembered Orman's lash and his cursing tongue; they would not have followed him at all had it not been for his courage. That was so evident that it commanded their respect.

He didn't curse them now. He talked to them as he should have from the first. 'We've got to go on,' he said. 'If we turn back we'll be worse off. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this.'

He used violence only when persuasion failed. An axe man refused to work and started for the rear. Orman knocked him down and then kicked him back onto the job. That was something they could all understand. It was right because it was just. Orman knew that the lives of two hundred people depended upon every man sticking to his job, and he meant to see that they stuck.

The rear of the column was not attacked that day, but just before they reached a camping place another volley of arrows took its toll from the head of the column. This time three men died, and an arrow knocked Orman's sun helmet from Ms head.

It was a gloomy company that made camp late that afternoon. The death of Major White had brought their own personal danger closer to the white members of the party. Before this they had felt a certain subconscious sense of immunity, as though the poisoned arrows of the Bansutos could deal death only to black men. Now they were quick to the horror of their own situation. Who would be next? How many of them were asking themselves this question!

Chapter Six Remorse

Atewy, the Arab, taking advantage of his knowledge of English, often circulated among the Americans, asking questions, gossiping. They had become so accustomed to him that they thought nothing of his presence among them; nor did his awkward attempts at joviality suggest to them that he might be playing a part for the purpose of concealing ulterior motives, though it must have been apparent to the least observing that by nature Atewy was far from jovial.

He was, however, cunning; so he hid the fact that Ms greatest interest lay in the two girl members of the company. Nor did he ever approach them unless men of their own race were with them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I'm for it,' agreed Rhonda.

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

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

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

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

'Where to now, Rhonda?' inquired Marcus.

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

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

That night white men and black carried each their own dead into the outer darkness beyond the range of the