The great lion charged when it saw Tarzan, leapt on the dead buffalo and swatted it so hard the blow almost swung its head all the way around on its damaged neck.
So fast had Jad-bal-ja struck, Nkima lost his balance and was hurled from the back of the lion. Nkima went tumbling along the ground, chattering all the while.
"It's all right," said Tarzan in the language of the jungle, his voice weak and raspy. "It's the leather that holds me now, Jad-bal-ja. Loosen me. I can hardly breathe."
The lion stood on its hind legs, a paw on either side of Tarzan's head. Jad-bal-ja nuzzled Tarzan, licked his face, then used his teeth delicately, biting through the leather thong around Tarzan's neck.
When the thong broke, Tarzan fell forward with a gasp. Even as Jad-bal-ja moved to bite through the leather that held Tarzan's arms to the tree, Tarzan, no longer restricted by the throat strap, regained his strength, pushed the flats of his feet against the tree, expanded his chest, and with an angry jerk snapped his bonds.
As Tarzan peeled the remains of the leather from his wrists, Nkima, leaping up and down and gesturing wildly, was relaying a series of unpleasant things about Jad-bal-ja and his ancestry. Jad-bal-ja roared at the little monkey, and Nkima fled up the tree like a shot and continued scolding from behind a thick branch.
Tarzan stretched his neck slowly. He looked up at the angry Nkima and laughed. "Brave monkey," he said.
The lion growled. Tarzan looked at Jad-bal-ja. "I understand, old friend. I am hungry too. Eat."
Jad-bal-ja turned to the corpse of the buffalo. He grabbed it by the head with his great jaws and began to feed on the soft and sweet parts of its muzzle, turning soon to the soft underbelly, which he tore open and eviscerated with his sharp fangs.
Just before the sun fell into the jungle and night rose up like a demon, Tarzan sniffed the air. It smelled damp and forbidding. Tarzan turned his attention to the trees. The tops swayed and there were no animals visible. There was not even a bird.
A storm was coming. A bad one.
Tarzan decided to feed. He knelt beside Jad-bal-ja, scooped a handful of warm innards from the buffalo's open gut, and began to chew, savoring the warm blood. When he had eaten his fill, he put his foot on the corpse of Gorgo, grasped one of its legs, and started to pull and twist. It took some time, but eventually, the bone cracked and the sinew tore, and Tarzan jerked a leg of the beast loose. It was a crude, bloody weapon, but it would serve until he could do better. And there was always an added benefit. It was meat.
Tarzan sniffed the air again. The wet smell permeated the jungle, covering up much of the scent of Wilson and the others, but enough of it remained for Tarzan to deduce they were heading in the direction of the Hanson party.
"Come," Tarzan called to Nkima and Jad-bal-ja, and without confirming their response, Tarzan started off at a trot.
Jad-bal-ja tore a last morsel from the buffalo, then, snout red with blood, tongue flashing over his whiskers, followed. A moment later, Nkima came yammering after them, protesting that there was nothing for him to eat.
Wilson paused and pulled a flashlight from his pack. He shined it down the trail. "I don't like it," he said to Cannon. "It's too dark. Stormy. I think we've gotten off the path."
"Ain't no think about it," Cannon said. "We're lost as gooses."
"Geese," Wilson said.
"What?"
"Nevermind."
Hunt and Small stood close to one another in the darkness, watching Wilson shine the flashlight around. Hunt thought now might be the time to jump Wilson and Cannon. If he could get Small to understand, maybe that's what they should do.
He thought back to earlier, to how easily Wilson had knocked him about with the .45. Even a surprise attack wasn't enough when the most difficult battle he had ever fought was on the tennis court. And he'd lost. As for Small, well, he wasn't much better, if he was better at all.
Perhaps fighting these brutes wasn't such a good plan after all.
Heavens, thought Hunt, life is hell when you live it as a weakling and a coward. What would Jean think of him?
Most likely she would be the one to jump them, win or lose. She was that way. Hardheaded. Overconfident. Beautiful.
And she thought he was an idiot.
He was glad she couldn't see him. He hung his head, resigned.
"If we're caught by the storm, so will they be," Cannon said. "I think we ought to go back to camp, batten down the hatches, and ride it out. We can visit with them clowns when we want. Besides, I ain't in the mood for that woman right now and I want to see her when I am. I'm hungry and tired and I don't like it wet, and it's gonna get wet. I ain't in no mood when I'm hungry and wet."
"You talk like you're goin' on a date," Wilson said.
"You got to have some romantic notions," Cannon said.
Listening to them talk, Hunt felt a fire go through him. They were discussing Jean like she was a piece of meat they were going to buy. The bastards!
Wilson considered for a moment, then said to Cannon, "All right, but which way is back?"
Cannon turned and studied the jungle. It was so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He got out his flashlight and moved the light around. That didn't help much. Trees. No trail.
"I knew we was goin' wrong," Cannon said.
"You didn't know nothing," Wilson said.
"Yeah, I did. I knew we was wrong."
"Shut up," Wilson said. "Shut up and let me think."
Rain began to blow through the trees. A crack of lightning rode through the sky and made everything bright, hit the top of a great tree and split it asunder. In that instant, spurred by his anger at what they had said about Jean, Hunt grabbed Small and pushed him toward the jungle, yelled, "Run."
Hunt took off hard and fast and Small raced after him and fell, stumbled to his feet and kept going. Wilson whipped the light around and spotted the two as they ran, but when he lowered the light to aim his rifle, he lost sight of them and fired blind. The shot tore through the collar of Small's shirt, but he was unaware. He only knew that the bullet came close. It buzzed by his head like a hornet with an agenda.
Small tripped, rolled, found himself tumbling downhill. He wanted to call out for Hunt, but knew that was suicide. He had some advantage here in the dark.
The air was cut by two more shots, fired wild, then the flashlight roamed the shadows and the trees, and Small pushed himself close to the ground and lay tight.
Off in the distance he could hear a crashing noise, and he knew it was Hunt. He could hear him grunting, cussing, as limbs struck him, tripped him, poked him. If Wilson and Cannon had a mind to, they could follow him by his trail of profanity.
As Small lay facedown, the smell of rotting leaves in his nostrils, he felt something move across the back of his legs. Instinctively, he knew it was a very large snake. A python most likely. Probably it had not taken shelter when it should have, or had been out hunting. Perhaps its belly was full of mice or monkey, and therefore it was moving slow.
And maybe the snake was so hungry it was shopping for its meal in the rain. Perhaps a stupid explorer would be just the thing for Mr. Python. That perfect hit-the-spot meal.
Small bit his hand to keep from screaming. He thought if, he jerked his leg up quickly and wheeled away from the direction the snake was going, he might be able to proceed downhill and find a new place to hide. He didn't want to do that, not with Wilson and Cannon nearby, but the waiting, the weight of that heavy snake crawling across his legs, was too much to bear.
As he was about to bolt, the beam of a flashlight danced above him. Small rolled his head to the side and looked up. Behind the light was a shape. Wilson. He was standing on the edge of the incline where Small had fallen, flashing the light out at the jungle.
God, don't look down, thought Small. Don't look down. The light bobbed down, then up. Small heard a crackling of brush, then Cannon's voice: "Anything?"