"Either dead from the storm or they have run off. Now, come."
With that, the ape-man started off at a trot and Small did his best to follow.
Billy awoke and was surprised by the sun. The great storm had cleared such a path that the sky was easily visible. Growing up in the jungle, it was seldom Billy had seen such a vast expanse of sky. Sometimes on the veldt he would look up at it in awe, but his natural habitat was the jungle, and of course he had seen the sun before, but now, here it was, big as a flaming ostrich egg, and all about it was a radiant blue sky.
At first Billy thought he might be dead. That this was the beauty of the other side. Then he felt pain from his wounds and knew, in fact, he was alive. Billy sat up slowly, looked around, saw the bodies of two bearers, friends of his. Hanson's body lay nearby.
Billy eventually made it to his feet, checked the bearers. Quite dead. Hanson, on the other hand, groaned when he touched him.
"Bwana," Billy said. "I thought you dead."
"Help me, Billy."
Billy rolled Hanson on his back. Hanson was bloody, but breathing well enough. There was no gory spittle on his lips, so Billy concluded that no major internal organs had been punctured.
"Sit me up," Hanson said.
"I don't know, Bwana."
"It's all right. I'll be okay."
"Talking about me. Not sure I am strong enough to sit you up. Doing good to squat here."
"Of course. Sorry."
"All right. Give me time, then maybe I hop around like frog, wrestle crocodile, and sit you up. Right now, though, not feeling all that hoppy. Think I will lie down beside you."
Billy practically collapsed beside Hanson.
"Billy?" Hanson said.
"Yeah, Bwana."
"We going to make it?"
"Not a soothsayer. Can't tell. I think old men in village who read future in smoking animal guts probably not know. Figure all along they just handling hot guts. Me, I can lie without guts. But I prefer not to. Too tired to make anything up. We live maybe. Die maybe."
Hanson was uncertain how his simple question had led to reading the future in smoking animal entrails, but all he could say was: "Jean?"
"They took her away, Bwana. Alive."
"Thank God!"
"Took everyone else away, except for two dead. Udalo. Ydeni. Friends of mine. Good men. Both dead."
"Yes, good men."
"I don't think tree-people meant to kill anyone."
"Nice to know it was all an accident."
"They not mind killing. But Billy think they prefer to take alive, for whatever reason, and I got feeling we knew reason it would not make us happy much. They would take us, they thought we were alive. Try and kill us only because we give them serious trouble."
"They leave the guns?"
"No."
"At least Jean's alive. I have to go after her, Billy."
"I know that."
"God, I'm so sleepy."
"Loss of blood. Both of us leak like rotten boat."
"I'm not still bleeding, though, am I?"
"No. You have not so good wounds, but not so bad either ... Bwana, got to tell you, don't know when or if I'm gonna feel froggy."
"Got to... they've got Jean and your friends."
"Right now, Bwana ... right now, think maybe I got to nap little bit."
Hanson did not respond.
"Bwana?" Billy said.
Then Billy heard Hanson's deep breathing. Pain and loss of blood had caused him to pass out.
Rest a little, thought Billy. That's all we need. Rest a little, then we'll be okay. Go after Jean and friends. We'll get them back.
But just as Billy was about to close his eyes, he realized things had gone from bad to worse. A man stepped into view and stood over him. Billy recognized the face.
Wilson.
"Dangit," Billy said.
When the great sword fell Jean closed her eyes and hoped there would be no pain.
And there wasn't.
The sword struck with a thunk.
Jean opened her eyes. She could still see. Oh, no, she thought. The head does live for a time after decapitation. But at least she did not feel pain.
Laughter.
Jean tried to move. Her neck turned.
It was connected to her head.
She lifted her chin. The laughter was coming from the warriors, the executioner, and the woman who had led her to the block. They were having a merry time.
The sword that would have taken her head was buried close to her neck in the block. It had all been a joke.
The executioner worked the sword back and forth, managed to remove it from the block. When this was done, the woman jerked the leash, pulling Jean into the dirt. She yanked again and Jean struggled to her feet.
So, thought Jean, all that business before, this woman making the male warrior leave her alone, that had apparently been to expedite matters, and had nothing to do with feelings of humanity.
Jean studied the woman's face carefully. She did not want to forget it. Her time would come, and when it did, this woman would die. And there would be no joke about it.
As Jean was led away, one of the male captives was forced to his knees, his head pushed down on the block.
Jean turned away, heard the sword whistle and thunk soundly into the chopping block. Afterward came the wailing of the condemned and the cheers of the captors.
Chapter 15
HUNT MOVED ALONG the tunnel by the light of the flaming gutters and he could feel the draft was growing stronger. It was a long tunnel and many tunnels branched off of it, but they led into darkness. Hunt decided to stay with the light. Could be the other tunnels were also provided with gutters of oil, but he decided to stick with this one, see where it led. Judging by the way the fire was burning-the fact that there was still plenty of air to breathe and the flames seemed to be whipping in a direction that indicated an oxygen feed-Hunt was optimistic.
This optimism was soon tempered. Now and then, Hunt would turn as if expecting something to leap on him from behind. He sensed the presence of someone, or something, following him. He thought perhaps it was his imagination, but he also believed his senses were becoming more sensitive. Perhaps, like Tarzan-though on a much lower level-he was gradually losing some of his civilized veneer and the more primitive aspects of his reptilian brain were at work, allowing him to use his faculties to a greater degree than ever before.
And possibly he was illogically frightened and the only thing following him was his shadow. Still, he could not shake the feeling that something was stalking him. Hunt clutched the short spear tightly, and continued to cast an occasional glance over his shoulder.
Then something happened that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. There was a sound down one of the long, dark tunnels. It was a kind of rustling sound, a crawling sound, a clacking sound; it reached inside his brain and sharply prodded buried racial memories. It was a nameless dread that rattled and banged and slithered.
Hunt paused, took a deep breath, and listened.
This was a different sensation than the earlier one. Before he had felt he was being followed, and that was nerve-racking, but this ... this was worse. Something was waiting.
The horrid sounds stopped. The feeling of dread lessened, but now Hunt was aware of his original concern- that of being tracked. This was compounded by the fact that he could hear his pursuer's soft tread. In a moment it would come around the bend in the passageway and become visible.
Hunt clutched the short spear with all his might.
And waited.
Jad-bal-ja, after a long nap, had awakened and raced to the cavern where the man was supposed to be waiting- the man Tarzan told him to protect.
Jad-bal-ja sniffed at the opening of the cavern, but the spoor of the man was weak. Jad-bal-ja entered the cavern and confirmed what his nose had suggested. The man was gone. But his scent, though weak, was still present; it led into the depths of the cavern. The lion followed after it.