The leaves of the forest drowsed in the heat above the heads of the hunters. Beneath the drowsing leaves of other trees a stone’s throw ahead of them Tarzan and Tantor slept, their perceptive faculties momentarily dulled by the soothing influence of fancied security and the somnolence that is a corollary of equatorial midday.
Fejjuan, the Galla slave, halted in his tracks, stopping those behind him by the silent mandate of an upraised hand. Directly before him, seen dimly between the boles and through the foliage, swayed the giant bulk of el-fil. Fejjuan motioned to Fahd, who moved stealthily to the side of the black. The Galla slave pointed through the foliage toward a patch of gray hide. Fahd raised el-Lazzary, his ancient matchlock, to his shoulder. There was a flash of flame, a burst of smoke, a roar and el-fil, unhit, was bolting through the forest.
As Tantor surged forward at the sound of the report Tarzan started to spring to an upright position, and at the same instant the pachyderm passed beneath a low hanging limb which struck the ape-man’s head, sweeping him to the ground, where he lay stunned and unconscious.
Terrified, Tantor thought only of escape as he ran north through the forest, leaving in his wake felled trees, trampled or uptorn bushes. Perhaps he did not know that his friend lay helpless and injured, at the mercy of the common enemy, man. Tantor never thought of Tarzan as one of the Tarmangani, for the white man was synonymous with discomfort, pain, annoyance, whereas Tarzan of the Apes meant to him restful companionship, peace, happiness. Of all the jungle beasts, except his own kind, he fraternized with Tarzan only.
“Billah! Thou missed,” exclaimed Fejjuan.
“Gluck!” ejaculated Fahd. “Sheytan guided the bullet. But let us see—perhaps el-fil is hit.”
“Nay, thou missed.”
The two men pushed forward, followed by their fellows, looking for the hoped-for carmine spoor. Fahd suddenly stopped.
“Wellah! What have we here?” he cried. “I fired at el-fil and killed a Nasrany.”
The others crowded about. “It is indeed a Christian dog, and naked, too,” said Motlog.
“Or some wild man of the forest,” suggested another. “Where didst thy bullet strike him, Fahd?”
They stooped and rolled Tarzan over. “There is no mark of bullet upon him.”
“Is he dead? Perhaps he, too, hunted el-fil and was slain by the great beast.”
“He is not dead,” announced Fejjuan, who had kneeled and placed an ear above the ape-man’s heart. “He lives and from the mark upon his head I think but temporarily out of his wits from a blow. See, he lies in the path that el-fil made when he ran away—he was struck down in the brute’s flight.”
“I will finish him,” said Fahd, drawing his khusa.
“By Ullah, no! Put back thy knife, Fahd,” said Motlog. “Let the sheykh say if he shall be killed. Thou art always too eager for blood.”
“It is but a Nasrany,” insisted Fahd. “Think thou to carry him back to the menzil?”
“He moves,” said Fejjuan. “Presently he will be able to walk there without help. But perhaps he will not come with us, and look, he hath the size and muscles of a giant. Wellah! What a man!”
“Bind him,” commanded Fahd. So with thongs of camel hide they made the ape-man’s two wrists secure together across his belly, nor was the work completed any too soon. They had scarce done when Tarzan opened his eyes and looked them slowly over. He shook his head, like some great lion, and presently his senses cleared. He recognized the Arab instantly for what they were.
“Why are my wrists bound?” he asked them in their own tongue. “Remove the thongs!”
Fahd laughed. “Thinkest thou, Nasrany, that thou art some great sheykh that thou canst order about the Beduw as they were dogs?”
“I am Tarzan,” replied the ape-man, as one might say, “I am the sheykh of sheykhs.”
“Tarzan!” exclaimed Motlog. He drew Fahd aside. “Of all men,” he said, lowering his voice, “that it should be our ill fortune to offend this one! In every village that we have entered in the past two weeks we have heard his name. ‘Wait,’ they have said, ‘until Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle, returns. He will slay you when he learns that you have taken slaves in his country.’ ”
“When I drew my khusa thou shouldst not have stopped my hand, Motlog,” complained Fahd; “but it is not too late yet.” He placed his hand upon the hilt of his knife.
“Billah, nay!” cried Motlog. “We have taken slaves in this country. They are with us now and some of them will escape. Suppose they carry word to the fendy of this great sheykh that we have slain him? Not one of us will live to return to Beled el-Guad.”
“Let us then take him before Ibn Jad that the responsibility may be his,” said Fahd.
“Wellah, you speak wisely,” replied Motlog. “What the sheykh doeth with this man is the sheykh’s business. Come!”
As they returned to where Tarzan stood he eyed them questioningly.
“What have you decided to do with me?” he demanded. “If you are wise you will cut these bonds and lead me to your sheykh. I wish a word with him.”
“We are only poor men,” said Motlog. “It is not for us to say what shall be done, and so we shall take you to our sheykh who will decide.”
The Sheik Ibn Jad of the fendy el-Guad squatted in the open men’s compartment of his beyt es-sh’ar, and beside him in the mukaad of his house of hair sat Tollog, his brother, and a young Beduin, Zeyd, who, doubtless, found less attraction in the company of the shiek than in the proximity of the sheik’s hareem whose quarters were separated from the mukaad only by a breast high curtain suspended between the waist poles of the beyt, affording thus an occasional glimpse of Ateja, the daughter of Ibn Jad. That it also afforded an occasional glimpse of
