Throck looked at his partner in stupid surprise. “What do you mean?” he growled. “What makes you think we was travelin’ east?”
“It’s easy enough,” replied Peebles, “and I can prove it to you. Because this party here knows so much more than the rest of us we’ve been travelin’ straight toward the interior ever since the niggers deserted us.” He nodded toward the Russian, who stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing the other quizzically.
“If you think I’m taking you in the wrong direction, Peebles,” said Kraski, “you just turn around and go the other way; but I’m going to keep on the way we’ve been going, which is the right way.”
“It ain’t the right way,” retorted Peebles, “and I’ll show yer. Listen here. When you travel west the sun is at your left side, isn’t it—that is, all durin’ the middle of the day. Well, ever since we’ve been travelin’ without the niggers the sun has been on our right. I thought all the time there was somethin’ wrong, but I could never figure it out until just now. It’s plain as the face on your nose. We’ve been travelin’ due east right along.”
“Blime,” cried Throck, “that we have, due east, and this blighter thinks as ’ow ’e knows it all.”
“Oi!” groaned Bluber, “und ve got to valk it all back again yet, once more?”
Kraski laughed and turned away to resume the march in the direction he had chosen. “You fellows go on your own way if you want to,” he said, “and while you’re traveling, just ponder the fact that you’re south of the equator and that therefore the sun is always in the north, which, however, doesn’t change its old-fashioned habit of setting in the west.”
Bluber was the first to grasp the truth of Kraski’s statement. “Come on, boys,” he said, “Carl vas right,” and he turned and followed the Russian.
Peebles stood scratching his head, entirely baffled by the puzzling problem, which Throck, also, was pondering deeply. Presently the latter turned after Bluber and Kraski. “Come on, John,” he said to Peebles, “hi don’t hunderstand it, but hi guess they’re right. They are headin’ right toward where the sun set last night, and that sure must be west.”
His theory tottering, Peebles followed Throck, though he remained unconvinced.
The four men, hungry and footsore, had dragged their weary way along the jungle trail toward the west for several hours in vain search for game. Unschooled in jungle craft they blundered on. There might have been on every hand fierce carnivore or savage warriors, but so dull are the perceptive faculties of civilized man, the most blatant foe might have stalked them unperceived.
And so it was that shortly after noon, as they were crossing a small clearing, the zip of an arrow that barely missed Bluber’s head, brought them to a sudden, terrified halt. With a shrill scream of terror the Jew crumpled to the ground. Kraski threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired.
“There!” he cried, “behind those bushes,” and then another arrow, from another direction, pierced his forearm. Peebles and Throck, beefy and cumbersome, got into action with less celerity than the Russian, but, like him, they showed no indication of fear.
“Down,” cried Kraski, suiting the action to the word. “Lie down and let them have it.”
Scarcely had the three men dropped among the long grass when a score of pygmy hunters came into the open, and a volley of arrows whizzed above the prone men, while from a nearby tree two steel-gray eyes looked down upon the ambush.
Bluber lay upon his belly with his face buried in his arms, his useless rifle lying at his side, but Kraski, Peebles, and Throck, fighting for their lives, pumped lead into the band of yelling pygmies.
Kraski and Peebles each dropped a native with his rifle and then the foe withdrew into the concealing safety of the surrounding jungle. For a moment there was a cessation of hostilities. Utter silence reigned, and then a voice broke the quiet from the verdure of a nearby forest giant.
“Do not fire until I tell you to,” it said, in English, “and I will save you.”
Bluber raised his head. “Come qvick! Come qvick!” he cried, “ve vill not shoot. Safe me, safe me, und I giff you five pounds.”
From the tree from which the voice had issued there came a single, low, long-drawn, whistled note, and then silence for a time.
The pygmies, momentarily surprised by the mysterious voice emanating from the foliage of a tree, ceased their activities, but presently, hearing nothing to arouse their fear, they emerged from the cover of the bushes and launched another volley of arrows toward the four men lying among the grasses in the clearing. Simultaneously the figure of a giant white leaped from the lower branches of a patriarch of the jungle, as a great black-maned lion sprang from the thicket below.
“Oi!” shrieked Bluber, and again buried his face in his arms.
For an instant the pygmies stood terrified, and then their leader cried: “It is Tarzan!” and turned and fled into the jungle.
“Yes, it is Tarzan—Tarzan of the Apes,” cried Lord Greystoke. “It is Tarzan and the golden lion,” but he spoke in the dialect of the pygmies, and the whites understood no word of what he said. Then he turned to them. “The Gomangani have gone,” he said; “get up.”
The four men crawled to their feet. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” demanded Tarzan of the Apes. “But I do not need to ask who you are. You are the men who drugged me, and left me helpless in your camp, a prey to the first passing lion or savage native.”
Bluber stumbled forward, rubbing his palms together and cringing and smiling. “Oi! Oi! Mr. Tarzan, ve did not know you. Neffer vould ve did vat ve done, had ve known
