KA-ZAR OF THE BEASTS

CHAPTER XIX
Greed and Death

A

LL throughout that day, concealed in the tall branches of the trees that hemmed in the clearing, Ka-Zar kept a watchful eye on DeKraft's camp. He had been a witness to the scene between Kivlin and the Hollander by the stream; had seen DeKraft leave the clearing a few moments later, armed with a long, shining fire-stick.

For a moment he had been tempted to follow him, but decided to remain behind and watch the clearing instead. It was obvious to him that the black men were ill at ease, apprehensive about something. Ka-Zar sensed their hate for Fat-Face and felt that it was only their fear of the white man's gun and whip that kept them at their work.

For the first time an alien sentiment stirred at his heart. Though he did not know it, it was pity.

But he dismissed the feeling with a shrug. He had troubles of his own--and serious ones. With each hour that Fat-Face and his men stayed in the jungle, his own position became more difficult. Fanned by the evil tongue of N'Jaga, old fears, hates and enmities were being stirred up against him. True, he knew that Zar and Trajah would stand beside him no matter what happened, but he had serious doubts of the outcome if the jungle denizens openly revolted against him.

He was suspected and though he was embittered to think that the animals believed he would betray them, he could understand the justice of their attitude. After all, these invading two-legged creatures who had come, bringing destruction with them, were his blood brothers.

Ka-Zar smiled bitterly at that. His blood brothers! And one of them--Fat-Face--had killed his father!

No! Even though they both walked erect on two legs, there was no kinship between him and the white man. For hadn't he, Ka-Zar, sworn a mighty oath over the grave of his father--that Fat-Face should die at his hands.

Ka-Zar was proud. There was nothing but scorn in his heart for DeKraft. Even though his enemy went forever armed with the fire-stick, he felt no fear of him. It would have been the simplest thing in the world for him to have killed DeKraft--if that would have been an end of things.

But Ka-Zar knew that it would not be. There was the other white man and the blacks. He could not kill them all. And so long as they stayed in the forest with their fire-sticks, no jungle beast was safe.

Analyzing his problem, he arrived at three conclusions. First, by some means he had to capture the Oman's weapons; next, he had to make them leave the land over which Zar had ruled for so long. And lastly, when the first two objectives had been accomplished, he would kill the fat-faced one.

From his tree he saw DeKraft return, speak animatedly with Kivlin for a few minutes, then make a long oration to the black men.

The work of the camp proceeded throughout the day. Evening came, the fires were built and the evening meal prepared and eaten.

Then as the shadows fell, Ka-Zar saw DeKraft enter one of the tents and emerge a moment later carrying four of the fire-sticks. He spoke again for a long time to his blacks, then passed out the weapons to the four most sturdy ones.

Watching from narrowed eyes, high in his tree, Ka-Zar saw the four natives thus armed begin a slow pacing, one on either side of the camp. He had seen Sha pace like that before the mouth of the cave which sheltered her cubs, when danger was near. And he knew that the four natives were on guard.

Against what? Himself, probably. He smiled at the futility of it. Let the four blacks pace themselves weary. He was not interested in them. He was interested in the tent from which Fat-Face had emerged with the four fire-sticks. For he reasoned, and rightly, if the strange shelter had held four of the Oman's weapons it would probably hold more.

N

ot a sound, not one false cry of alarm disturbed the quiet serenity of that night. The four natives paced steadily the lengths of their beats and in his tent DeKraft dreamed of untold wealth in an untroubled sleep.

He was up early with the rising sun. Rolling out of his cot he stepped to the door of his tent and glanced out. The sight of the four guards still tramping stolidly back and forth brought a grin to his thick lips.

"Jungle god!" he snorted with vast disgust. "By God, I'll fix him with a dose of lead and I'll fix those blacks at the first sign of monkey-business. It's the kid, all right, grown up. Show him a couple of guns and he stays away. Smart lad."

DeKraft threw himself into his clothes, splashed a handful of water into his face but did a far more thorough job of washing his gullet from the bottle of gin.

Well pleased with himself and with the night's strategy, he swaggered out of the tent. The clearing was flooded with golden light by now and there was a general stir of activity through the camp.

Feeling that there was no longer any need for the guards, DeKraft took the rifles from them and started with the guns for the tent that housed his supplies. He pushed through the flap, then stopped in speechless amazement. For a moment he could not believe the evidence of his eyes. Again he swept the interior of the tent. But there was no mistake about it. His stock of rifles had vanished and along with them his ammunition.

DeKraft was stunned and speechless for a moment. His first thought was that the blacks had stolen the weapons--either as a protection against the jungle gods they feared, or what was worse--for a contemplated uprising.

Then he shook his head. He had instilled the fear of death into them too long, for that. The natives would not have dared to violate the tent.

Kivlin? No. Kivlin feared him as much as the blacks did.

There was only one other answer. The brat. DeKraft cursed bitterly though impotently for a few minutes. Then a cunning idea occurred to him. The incident of the stolen guns was the excuse he had been waiting for.

He stepped out of the tent and his loud bellow echoed across the clearing. In his hand he still clutched one of the rifles he had taken from the guards. The blacks looked up from their work and trembled in fear. A moment later, his eyes still puffy with sleep, Kivlin stumbled out of his tent, clutching an automatic in his hand. He raced across the clearing to where DeKraft still stood by the looted tent.

"What's the matter? What happened?" he asked breathlessly.

DeKraft eyed him from cunning, pig-like eyes; his hairy hands worked at his sides.

"That's a nice question from you--you little rat!" he answered.

The concentrated venom in his voice was like a slap in Kivlin's face. He stepped back and half raised the automatic in his hand in a defensive movement.

"What's eating you?" he growled. "What's happened? Why are you calling me a rat?"

"Smart guy, eh?" sneered DeKraft, playing his role to perfection. "Playing dumb, eh? Yeah, dumb like a fox!"

"You're nuts," growled Kivlin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, no? Then take a look in the tent and see for yourself."

P

uzzled, Kivlin holstered his automatic, looked suspiciously at DeKraft, then stepped past him and entered the tent. DeKraft followed hard on his heels.

"The guns--the ammunition--they're gone!" exclaimed Kivlin, a moment later.

DeKraft laughed. "You're telling me? Of course they're gone and you're the rat that took them. It's a double-cross but you can't get away with it, Kivlin."

For a long moment the two men stood toe to toe, glaring into each other's eyes. Kivlin suspected treachery but it never dawned on him that it had been Ka-Zar who had rifled the tent the preceding night, and who had buried forever their precious guns and bullets in the bottomless quicksands of the swamp.

"You lie in your teeth," he said at last. "If there's any double-cross, you're behind it. You've been planning it all along. I knew. I've seen it in your eyes...."

And then Kivlin saw something else in DeKraft's pig eyes--something that put the fear of God in his heart. He took a long step back, snatched at his automatic.

But before he could whip it out of its holster, DeKraft had jerked up the barrel of the rifle and prodded it deep into his navel.

Kivlin's heart turned sick at what he saw in the Hollander's eyes. Twin pulses pounded in his throat and his mouth was suddenly hot and dry.

"Don't, Dutch--for God's sake, don't," he pleaded frantically. "You can have the emeralds--all of them--honest--all of them--don't--don't...."

The final word was blasted from his mouth by a reverberating explosion. DeKraft had shot and the muzzle of the rifle had been tight against Kivlin’s ribs.

Kivlin swayed drunkenly on his feet for a moment, then went down slowly, joint by joint, as if he didn't want to die. DeKraft watched him from cold, implacable eyes, then when his erstwhile partner was prone on the ground he kicked at his ribs with a heavy boot.

"You poor fool," he said contemptuously. "You never had a chance. I never intended you to have one."

With the satisfaction of an honest man who has seen a job well done, he left the tent.

---