Cannon came toward them grinning. "Get your hands up, and no funny business." He removed their revolvers, taking far longer unbuckling Jean's ammunition belt and holster than was necessary.
"You and me, we could have some fun, baby," Cannon said, and he slipped an arm around Jean's waist and whispered something in her ear.
She slapped him. It was a fast, hard slap, and it left a huge red imprint on his face.
"You witch," he said, and drew back his hand to strike her. Hanson, oblivious to the guns covering him, stepped in and landed a short right on Cannon's chin that sent him down and caused him to drop his .45.
Cannon scrambled in the leaf mold for the .45, grabbed it, turned to point it at Hanson. "Good-bye, tough guy," he said.
Wilson stepped in and kicked Cannon's arm and the gun went off and sent a shell whistling through the trees. Monkeys screamed and chattered and leaves rained down on them like colorful snow.
"No killing necessary," Wilson said. "They hang people for murder even in Africa." Cannon stood up slowly, rubbing his wrist. The look he gave Wilson was incredulous. "We've done enough to get hung already. Two more, ten more, won't make a difference."
"Then don't do it because I say don't do it," Wilson said. Wilson turned back to Hanson and Jean. "We'll take your bearers, your supplies. Even those cameras. Things like that'll trade or sell good. I'll leave you with a little food and water."
"We ought to just go on an kill this bastard," Cannon said, waving his .45 at Hanson. "We could find use for the girl, though."
"No," Wilson said. "Leave 'em."
Wilson grinned at Hanson. "I'll tell you this, that wasn't a bad punch. I've seen some good ones, and that one wasn't bad."
"Yeah, well. I'm flattered," Hanson said.
"You go on and be tough," Wilson said. "It's no matter to me, but it was still a good punch."
Hanson didn't need a Ph.D. to size up these men, and he knew that nothing he might say would change things. Wilson seemed reluctant to kill them, but in a sense, he was doing just that, leaving them unarmed in the jungle. For them to make it out of this area of Africa, to safety, more than a bit of luck would have to be with them. Perhaps, the sentence Cannon wanted to pass would have been the best. At least death would have been immediate.
A few minutes later, Hanson and Jean stood side by side, a container of water and food at their feet, watching their stolen safari disappearing into the jungle.
"The beasts," Jean said.
"You malign the beasts." said Hanson.
After a moment of silence, Jean softly, "There was one bright in the whole affair."
Hanson stared at her. "And what could that be?"
"The big, black man was right. That was one pretty right you landed, Dad." It was the one bright spot in the whole, hideous affair."
Hanson rubbed his scraped knuckles. "Felt good, too," he said. "But I got to tell you, that slap you landed wasn't second-rate either. You rattled that ole boy's teeth."
"Good." Jean said.
Chapter 2
FOUR DAYS PASSED. The Hansons soon ran out of their meaner rations, and had eaten some fruit and nuts, such as they had seen the monkeys eat with evident impunity. But they were half-starved. The future looked grim. They had trekked back in the direction from which they had come, but covered little distance due to their failing strength and the delays necessitated by the need for building platforms in the trees to escape the lions who prowled incessantly at night. Hanson couldn't help but think one change of the wind might carry their scent below, and if it did, the lions might easily climb to their not-so-elevated height and take them for dinner. Certainly a leopard might. It was not a thought that allowed deep, comfortable sleep.
It was day now, however, and Hanson's spirits were lifted somewhat, though they weren't the sort of spirits one might proudly write home about. He was sitting on a fallen log by Jean, slapping at biting insects, considering all this. They had found it necessary to rest more often as they seemed to tire more easily each mile.
"I was a stupid fool to bring you along," Hanson said. "It was dangerous if we hadn't met up with those thieving bastards. We may never get out of here."
"Sure, we will," Jean said. "And don't blame yourself. I made you miserable until you gave in. I knew the dangers as well as you. And there's Hunt and Small. We'll meet up with them soon enough."
Hunt and Small were head of the party they hoped to join soon, but at the moment, they might as well have been on the other side of the world. And furthermore, Jean was merely trying to lift his spirits. She had no in either Hunt or Small-especially Hunt, and that was probably because she had grown up with the boy and he was madly in love with her. Hanson knew for a fact she thought Hunt and Small incompetent, and together, doubly incompetent, and in his darkest moments, Hanson feared she might be right. He realized he should have chosen his teammates more on ability to traverse the jungle than an understanding of the nature of anthropoids or the culture of lost civilizations. Pact was, just one man or woman with expertise in simple woodcraft and a knowledge of directions might have been a wiser pick.
But it was of no significance now. Nothing could be changed. They were in bad shape, no matter how you sliced it, Hanson tried to smile at Jean, but she looked past him and blanched.
Hanson swung around, saw an almost-naked giant approaching them. A bow and a quiver of arrows were slung to his back across his right shoulder. A wicked-looking knife hung at one hip, and he carried a spear with a leather loop at its hilt. Across his left shoulder and under his right arm a crude rope was coiled. He wore a breechcloth of the soft skin of an antelope. His black hair was long and shaggy and his skin was deeply tanned and crisscrossed with numerous thin, white scars.
Hanson stood up, tried to position himself in front of Jean. The man watched him, but neither slowed nor sped up. He finally came to a stop ten feet in front of them. His keen eyes appraised Hanson and the girl. "Where is your safari? How did you come to be alone here, without food and weapons?"
Hanson relaxed slightly. He thought the man had a commanding, nonbelligerent attitude. His English, though good, was odd. Not quite American or British. Formal and stiff. Accented, but with no influence Hanson could name. Perhaps here was some kind of help. Someone who could guide them to safety. His manner, his voice, even his appearance aroused confidence. And besides, there was nothing to lose. Hanson dropped his guard but stayed mentally alert while he explained who they were and what had happened to them.
"I have seen those men," said the giant. "I thought they might be dangerous. Stay here and I will get you food, then I will go after your safari."
"They've got guns," Hanson said.
"I know," said the man, and betook the leather loop on the spear, fitted it around his neck, grabbed the low limb of a tree, swung into its leafy denseness, and disappeared. Treetops rustled ahead and beyond where Hanson and Jean stood, and in a moment the man was consumed by foliage. He was gone.
"Well," Jean said. "I've gone whole weeks without seeing anything like that."
Hanson, stunned, nodded. "Kind of short on words, isn't he?"
"Do you think he can get food out here?" Jean said.
"I hate to say it," Hanson said, "but I think we've seen the last of him. A man who goes through the trees like that, he's bound to have fallen on his head a time or two. Probably one of those slightly 'teched' characters you read about-a wild man of the woods."
"Isn't that what we're looking for?" Jean said. "Wild men of the woods?"
"The ones with fur, Jean. The ones with fur. Did you see how he looked when I mentioned what we were doing? I think he was amused. Or amazed. I got the feeling he thought we were a couple of dopes."