Then he thought about the lion. What if the lion came back and Tarzan was not around? Were all bets off, then?
If it wasn't one thing, it was two. Or three.
Exasperated, Hunt decided to finish drying his damp clothes. He removed them, stretched them out on a rock, and was once again dressed only in his shorts, socks, and shoes. He began to pluck and eat the berries Tarzan had pointed out.
The warm sun felt good, and while he ate, Hunt tried to determine his next course of action. One thing was certain. The trees were out.
Damn monkeys.
When the storm was over and the rain had stopped, Small was far too exhausted to move. He lay until the sun was high, dozing off and on, then awoke miserable in his wet clothes.
Small crawled out of his hideaway and looked about. No one tried to shoot him. Nothing tried to eat him. He decided he was off to a good start.
The jungle was thick, so the sunlight gave little warmth. Small removed his clothes and wrung the water from them, draped them over a limb and stood about in his wet underwear and shoes.
He walked a short distance until he found a gap in the foliage overhead and stood there trying to take in the gun, looking up through the limbs at the bright light of midday. Then, out on a limb he saw something that made his stomach fall.
A panther was moving slowly and stealthily down from the height of a tree.
"Oh, God," thought Small. "It's seen me!"
Small broke into a wild ran through the jungle, leaving his clothes behind. He would not realize he was nearly naked until he had fought and clawed his way through the jungle for a distance of a half-mile. By then he would be scratched and poked and dotted with bruises and blood.
But in the meantime, the panther, totally unaware of Small, sprang on the real target of its stealth. A large, colorful bird setting on a nest of eggs. The bird was dispatched in a rush of squawks and a wild rustle of red and yellow feathers.
The panther stretched out on a limb to enjoy the bird, feathers and all. It ate slowly, contemplating the second course. The bright bird's shell-covered children were snug in their nest, oblivious to their fate.
As Hanson's party followed the path the great tornado had cut through the foliage, the jungle was alive with movement. Birds and monkeys were especially notable. But one movement was not noted by the travelers. The most dangerous movement of all went undetected. The very jungle itself was moving. Bushes and small trees. They crept like alien creatures, so subtly that the limbs did not knock and the leaves did not rustle. When the party looked in their direction, they did not move. When the party looked away, they slipped through the jungle, blending with the true foliage.
Once, Billy, trained in the ways of the jungle, turned his head quickly but saw only that which he should see.
Solid vegetation.
Had he looked closer. Much closer. Or had he possessed the considerable abilities of a wild animal, or Tarzan, he might have seen that many of the plants had eyes. Or seemed to have. For disguised within the bushes and trees were living beings with dark faces ritualistically scarred by the placement of hot blades on their flesh. Foreheads marked by white bands of paint made from white clay and the whites of bird eggs completed the savage decorations.
When the disguised warriors had followed Hanson's party for a quarter of a mile, suddenly a signal was passed among them, and the false plants and trees broke loose from the forest and rushed down on the unsuspecting safari.
Billy was the first to respond. He wheeled, jerked his rifle to position and shot one of the living bushes, knocking it back. Then the bushes swarmed them and Billy was struck with the shaft of a spear in the side of the head. He went down, tried to get up, but a spear was slammed through the pack on his back. The impact was incredible. So intense, it jarred Billy's spine and sent him flat against the ground with a moan.
This was followed by a blow from a club to the side of his head.
Billy could hardly move. He managed to open his eyes and see the safari overwhelmed by the warriors in their leafy disguises. He heard shots fired by Hanson and the bearers. He saw Hanson struggle valiantly with a warrior, then he saw a bronze sword flash and Hanson doubled up and went down.
Billy tried to rise. Couldn't.
He saw Jean fire her pistol into a bush, point-blank, saw the bush fall, then he saw her overwhelmed by a horde of similarly attired warriors.
Billy closed his eyes. He felt warm, strangely comfortable.
The sounds of shots and screams caused him to force his eyes open again. And it wasn't worth it. The stealthy warriors had attacked and overwhelmed the safari completely. All this had been accomplished in but a few minutes.
Billy watched Jean as she was led away with the captured bearers. Her head hung low and her hands were bound behind her back, a leash of leather was firmly fastened around her neck, and a native, now devoid of his bushy costume, tall and regal, much scarred, his face decorated with stripes of white paint, was leading her off the trail and out of sight.
"Sonofabitch," Billy said.
Then a shadow fell over him and a tall native stuck a spear into Billy's shoulder. Billy didn't feel the pain at all. He felt nothing now. He thought of Hanson, Jean, his friends. He wished there was something he could do. He wished he'd stayed home. He closed his eyes again, felt | the world swing away from him as if on a string.
"And here it ends," he thought, then he thought nothing at all.
Chapter 12
WHEN HIS CLOTHES were dry, Hunt dressed and tried to concoct a plan. He eventually decided his best bet was to wait here, as Tarzan had suggested, but found he could not muster the patience to do that. He could not stop thinking about Jean and those two terrible men. He considered trying the trees again, in spite of all that had happened, but this was a consideration that rapidly passed.
Hunt was not a man who loved weapons, but right now he wished he had a rifle. It would make him feel a bit more secure, and he could perhaps provide himself with meat instead of berries, a food he had quickly tired of. And with a rifle, the idea of going to Jean's rescue would be more realistic. What could he hope to accomplish with a knife?
Hunt worked a heavy branch off a tree by swinging on it until it cracked, then he used his knife to sharpen one end so that it might serve as a spear. With his new weapon and knife, he located what passed for a trail and, trying to maintain a northerly direction, set out.
As he went, he did not forget Tarzan's advice entirely. He kept his eyes open for landmarks and trees that he could climb, for he knew that after feeding, the lions would be lying up somewhere in the neighborhood. Even with full bellies, they might make an exception in his case, and decide to gorge on some fresh tenderfoot.
By noon, however, having seen no signs of lions, Hunt experienced a feeling of relief and security. The feeling of security was tempered, however, by his lack of a rifle. His sharpened stick had given him a bit of courage, but now, traveling about, hearing the movements of animals in the bush, he felt less brave. Ultimately, a stick, sharp or not, was just a stick. Also, he was hungry and was not sufficiently familiar with the fruits of the jungle to risk eating anything other than the berries Tarzan had shown him, and they were no longer available.
Late in the afternoon, Hunt noticed a change in the nature of the forest. His quick apprehension of this change was the result of his having spent the day walking and visually searching out trees he could climb, he discovered there weren't any trees in sight that would serve his purpose. The boles of the nearby trees were very large, no limbs grew near the ground, and no lianas dropped within his reach.