"They cute, all right," said Billy, "but they cook up nice you put a stick through them. That Tarzan's monkey. He sure look good. Nice and fat. I would like to put him on a stick."
"I don't think Tarzan would like that idea," Jean said.
"You right," Billy said. "We will not say I said that. But I tell you, you get hungry enough, monkey starts to look less cute and more plump."
Soon the carriers, who had been silent all night, commenced to joke and laugh. They told stories of the two dead men. Stories of their lives and exploits. They told all they could tell that would honor them, and in their honor, they tried not to be sad. The dead men had lived their lives as best they could, and now they were gone to the other side, where all men eventually go.
Midday they came upon a wild hog and Billy shot it. They made camp shortly thereafter and roasted the pig on a spit over a large fire. The meat was good and sweet, and soon they began to feel rested and refreshed.
Hanson, a belly full of roasted pork, felt the worse had been done, and that it was smooth sailing from here on out.
Of course, he was wrong.
In the camp of the renegades, all was not so well. In fact, there wasn't a camp anymore, and as Wilson and Cannon approached it, they found Gromvitch.
Part of him anyway. The head actually. It was lodged between low tree branches at about their head-height. The rest of him was nowhere in sight.
Cannon grunted. "Gromvitch seems to have lost his head."
"Your sentimentality overwhelms me," Wilson said.
"Lookee here," Cannon said, removing his knife, from its sheath and poking it into Gromvitch's mouth. "He ain't got but a couple teeth left here, and they got gold in them."
Cannon used the point of his knife to pop the teeth loose. He put them in his pocket.
"Sure you don't want to boil his head down," Wilson said, "save it for a souvenir?"
"I knew how and had the time," Cannon said, "I would."
"You're somethin', Cannon. And ain't none of that somethin' any good."
"What I'm worried about is practical stuff," Cannon said. "Like is mere still supplies enough for us? Ammunition. Guns. Look at it this way, Wilson. Gromvitch dead has its good side. Now we just got to divide what we get two ways."
Cannon ducked under the limbs that held Gromvitch's head, proceeded toward the campsite.
"Hey," Wilson said. "It was Gromvitch, our heads were hanging up there, he'd bury us. Don't you think?"
Cannon turned and looked at Wilson. "Yeah. He'd slit a throat for a dollar, but he was like that. Way I see it though, what Gromvitch would do is one thing. What I'll do is another. You dig a hole, you're feeling Christian. My point of view is he don't deserve nothing no more than Talent got, and Talent didn't get nothing, and you didn't want to give him nothing. You're gettin' dewy-eyed all of a sudden, ain't you?"
"Just sayin' what Gromvitch would do is all."
"Bury his noggin, you want. Me, I say let the bugs take care of him."
With that, Cannon proceeded into what was left of the camp.
Wilson took a long hard look at Gromvitch's head. "There was a look of surprise on Gromvitch's face. Not horror. Just surprise. His nearly toothless mouth hung open as if in idiotic satisfaction. It was as if he had just opened a present and found it to be exactly what he wanted.
Wilson ducked under the limbs and followed Cannon toward the campsite. He realized he was losing his control over Cannon. Cannon was gradually starting to see himself as the big dog of the pair, and Wilson felt certain he would have to eliminate Cannon at some point, or at least teach him some manners. He needed him right now, at least until he found the city, found the treasure that was there. Then, when Cannon helped him carry it out, he'd kill him. Quick and painless. A shot in the back o the head.
Might as well. He knew for a fact, if he didn't kill Cannon, Cannon would kill him.
Chapter 11
WHEN HUNT AWOKE the sun was shining brightly through the slit of an opening that led into the cave. The air smelled cool and sweet. He saw Tarzan asleep and apparently relaxed on the rough stony ground with Nkima snuggled in his arms. The great lion was nowhere in sight.
Tarzan opened his eyes and looked at Hunt. "Do not stare if you are watching someone. I can feel you. Always glance, take in what you see, but do not hold the look. If a person is sensitive enough, he can feel the gaze of others."
"Sorry ... Where'd you get those knives?"
"I found them. Around the corner of the cave there are burials and weapons."
Hunt's heart beat faster. His love for anthropology and archaeology flared up. "Really, can I see?"
"Take a look. But don't go far."
"The lion isn't around there, is he?"
"He went off to hunt. There is no way to know when he will return."
"Yeah, well, that breaks my heart," Hunt said. "Least he isn't viewing me as food. And I guess that's a plus."
"You can be certain it is," Tarzan said.
Hunt followed the trail by the stream, went around to look at what Tarzan had discovered. He was overwhelmed. Many of the skulls appeared to be quite primitive, fossilized by the dripping of calcium through the rocks. But as Hunt proceeded along the cavern wall, he was amazed to discover some of the skulls were not that old. In fact, they could have been as recent as last week. Hunt experienced a burning excitement. He wished he could tell his mentor, Professor Hanson.
Here was an incredible discovery. At a glance, it appeared this cavern was a sacred burial place for a primitive race here in the jungle. Perhaps there was some connection with this and the lost city they sought. And even if there was no connection, it meant this ill-fated journey to Africa might have a happy ending after all.
That led Hunt to thinking again of Small and Jean. He hurried back to Tarzan. Neither Tarzan nor Nkima was in sight. Hunt had a sudden sinking feeling, then Tarzan crawled into the cave opening and pulled a pile of brush in after him. He went out again, brought more brush back.
"Where is the monkey?" Hunt asked.
"Off to find fruit," Tarzan said. "He has a short attention span. He likes my company best when he is frightened. Now that the storm is over, he is brave again."
"I know how he feels," Hunt said, "though I'm not that brave."
Tarzan began snapping the brush into kindling.
"You're building a fire," Hunt said.
"Nothing escapes you, does it?" Tarzan said.
"You don't have to be snide," Hunt .said. "Isn't the brush too wet to burn?"
"Some of it is damp, but most of it I pulled from the lower quarters, so it is drier. Besides, this kind of brush dries quickly, and it burns well."
"How long have we slept?" Hunt asked.
"Most of the day."
"Shouldn't we help Jean and find Small?"
Tarzan granted. "Rest and food are our greatest allies. We have had one, now we must have the other."
Tarzan opened a small bag fastened to his breechcloth, took out a piece of flint and steel. He used them to make a spark, got the brash going.
"Good," Hunt said. "I'm freezing."
"It is the wet clothes," Tarzan said. "Take them off."
"What?"
"Suit yourself."
Hunt thought this over for a while. It was hard for a civilized man to travel about naked, but finally he removed everything but his undershorts, shoes, and socks.
"Use some of these limbs to make a prop for your clothes," Tarzan said. "Let them dry by the fire. After you eat, go outside and stand in the sun till you dry. But, with your white skin, you will have to put your clothes on before too long, or you will burn like an ant under a magnifying glass."
When the fire was going, Tarzan blew on it and added more brash. He used one of the knives to cut meat off the filthy buffalo leg. He tossed the meat into the fire.