Tomar felt the need to do something positive, some action that would restore his own diminished sense of selfesteem. The boy felt, rightly or wrongly, that his . own role in recent events had fallen considerably short of heroism or even of manliness. Because he had tied himself to the tree, then fallen into trouble like some oafish simpleton, all their plans had gone awry, they had become separated, and Ylana had gotten into her present dire predicament.
Stealing a knife, he began to creep away from where the hunters of Jugrid’s force lay. It was not difficult to do, since the attention of everyone else was riveted I upon the council of the River People, and no one was paying any attention at all to their former captive, who was now a captive no longer, but an ally.
Keeping well to the blacker shadows and avoiding, where possible, patches of moonlight, the determined boy circled the camp of Jugrid widely, and made his way down to the bank of the river, hopefully unseen. The grasses grew long and thick along here. He wormed through them on his belly, slid into the dark, cold waters, and made his way across to the other side of the stream. There the ground rose in low dunes or hillocks, and he could approach the village without detection.
He entered the town, staying in the shadows, and moved toward the but wherein Ylana was imprisoned. Jugrid had pointed it out to all of them, and it was unmistakable, even in the shifting rays of the many colored moonlight.
Tomar probably would not have been able to enter the village so easily had it not been for the war council. As its outcome was one that would affect the entire tribe, most of the people were gathered round the fire to listen and to lend their voice in support of the faction of their choice.
Reaching the rear of the but in which Ylana lay bound, the boy took the knife from between his teeth and began to cut his way in. This did not prove to be as difficult as he had feared, for the but was not constructed of wooden planks or logs but of dry bundles of river-reeds, tied together with ropes of woven grasses.
THE council arrived at the moment of decision. Zuruk obstinately refused to consider war on any terms, until he had himself laid questions to the captive Jungle Maid. Only she, he pointed out, could tell them what she and her comrades had really been doing “skulking” in the jungle. Her mission might easily have been an innocent one, posing no danger to the security of the River People. To decide on war without questioning her, was to decide upon the impulse of the moment, without ascertaining the facts. And the matter was too important to be decided impulsively.
Even among those of Charak’s faction, there were more than a few to whom the chief’s calm and reasonable remarks made good sense. So the angry chorus of hooting cries which rose―upon a secret signal from Charak―in protest to Zuruk’s decision was less vociferous and noisy than that worthy could have wished. He sprang to his feet, losing his temper, and growing fearful of the way events were beginning to slip from his control. Of all the things Charak did not wish to happen, he wished least of all for Zuruk to question Ylana and to discover her true identity.
But there was no way to stop the chief than by challenging him. The right of challenge belonged to every mature tribesmen, and was his to exercise upon any and all occasions when he disagreed vehemently with the decision of the moment. The challenge was, however, to personal combat. And Charak did not quite feel up to engaging in a handto-hand battle with Zuruk. The chief, once mighty, now old, was possibly still strong enough to beat Charak. Charak knew this, and hesitated.
Zuruk waited in majestic aloofness for a long, suspenseful moment, to see if Charak intended to challenge him. When the wrathful snarl died on Charak’s ugly visage, to be replaced by sullen scowls, he turned on his heel and began to stride in the direction of Ylana’s hut.
In so doing, of course, he turned his back on his enemy.
The tribesmen of the jungle plateau had a rude and simple conception of honor. Men fought face to face, they did not leap upon their foes from behind. But Charak, in this instance, threw honor to the winds. He knew that if he could slay Zuruk, even in so cowardly a manner as this, he would become chief in his stead.
Then all decisions of peace or war were his to make. The temptation to take the easiest way out of his dilemma proved irresistible.
Drawing his flint knife, he threw himself on Zuruk, striking from behind, swift as a serpent. Those near enough to see what he was attempting to do, shouted to alarm Zuruk. But, as it happened, the old chief did not need their warnings. For he knew Charak to the depths of his unscrupulous and ambitious heart, and had been listening for that scrape of sandal-leather against beaten earth that would announce his movement.
With a swiftness which belied his hoary locks, Zuruk turned to meet the astounded Charak in mid-leap. One strong hand reached up to seize Charak’s outthrust arm, and clamped about his wrist with a grip like steel. The other hand caught him by the upper thigh.
Whirling about, so that the impetus of Charak’s leap propelled him―but in another direction―Zuruk let go.
Charak yelped shrilly, losing his knife, and fell into the middle of the council fire!
Sparks exploded in every direction. Blazing coals and burning sticks of wood went flying. In the confusion, in the whirling smoke, everyone drew back from the scene, leaving Zuruk and Charak alone in the center of a wide circle.
Singed and besmirched with soot, Charak crawled and floundered out of the fire. With wincing hands he smote at his burning garment, beating out the smoldering places where the tanned hides had caught fire. Then, recovering himself, he glared around to locate his enemy―a wild-eyed and ferocious―looking madman, half his beard burnt away, his face blackened by soot, the ends of his tangled mane smoking and still afire in places.
He was furious and maniacal, and the expression on his face was foolish, compounded equally of astonished outrage and frustrated fury. His eyes bulged like those of a fish, and, equally ridiculous, he gasped and sputtered like a fish out of water.
Someone in the crowd tittered at his wild-eyed expression. He glared around furiously to see who was laughing at him, letting everyone see how funny he looked with his hair all on end and smoking, and half his beard gone.
They all began to laugh, for when tension grows so taut that it must be released, it gives way either to murderous fury or to helpless laughter. In the present instance, laughter proved the panacea. And to be laughed at, to appear ridiculous in the eyes of his followers and supporters, was the one thing in all the world that Charak feared the most. Far rather would he have faced Zuruk and fought him, than to endure the ridicule of his fellow-tribesmen.
Spitting curses, he limped away into the darkness, and the duel was over.
YLANA had fallen into a doze. Suddenly a furtive sound woke her to full alertness. Something was scratching away at the rear wall of the but in which she lay helplessly bound.
The girl sat up quickly, peering around her in the darkness. Her hands were free, but she was tethered to the centerpost of the but by stout thongs. If some deadly predator had crept stealthily into the camp and was now trying to claw its way through the but to pounce upon her in the night, she knew herself to be defenseless, for she could not flee, and had no weapon.
With a pounding heart she lay there in the darkness and strained her ears to make out what was trying to get to her. Should she cry out for help, and alarm the camp? That would have been the sensible thing to do, but how could a girl as stubborn and spirited as Ylana have called upon her enemies for help?