KA-ZAR OF THE BEASTS

CHAPTER IX
Murder in the Jungle

T

HE white man whose arm had known the bite of David's arrow, had other ideas. Seated before his fire, he cursed one of the blacks for his clumsiness when the fellow changed the dressing on his wound. Another managed to be busy at a safer distance.

Paul DeKraft, with a heart as greasy as the rolls of fat that covered his body, had a past as black as one of his natives and a future a little less promising. He was known and hated from the gaols of Sydney to the dives of Suez; from the gambling dens of Canton to the breakwater of Cape Town. He had committed every crime on the statutes of the white man's law. And only his sly and cunning brain had saved his neck from the gallows.

Right now he was in the grip of a sullen rage that the natives knew and feared. He vented his indignation on the nearest and, though the black could understand only a word or two, he poured forth his tirade, highly spiced with profanity., He knotted his fist in his black beard.

"Emeralds, Bouala. Emeralds--that's what we've stumbled on in this God-forsaken stream. Emeralds worth a King's ransom." With a vicious, back-handed blow he sent the unfortunate Bouala spinning.

The black crashed to the ground, rubbed his cheek and said dutifully: "Emeralds. Yes, Inkosi."

DeKraft jumped to his feet. "And some half-crazy hermit thinks he can order me away from here, does he? Throws them on the ground as though they were pebbles. And then expects me to forget all about them. Hah!"

Bouala rolled over, but not quickly enough. DeKraft's heavy boot lashed out and brought a wail of agony as it landed. Then a soft footfall sounded in the darkness beyond the firelight and DeKraft's head snapped in that direction. Bouala took advantage of the moment and crawled painfully away.

The form of the third native advanced into the glow.

"Well, Mubangi?" said DeKraft.

"They sleep, Inkosi," answered the newcomer. "The crazy one and a boy."

DeKraft took a step toward him, his fists clenched. "You did not look--you were afraid to go near. There are others--other men." He raised his right fist in a threatening gesture.

Mubangi fell back. "I saw, Inkosi," he protested. "The man and the boy. No others."

DeKraft hesitated. His eyes were gleaming slits in the firelight. "They have guns?"

The native shook his head. "Mubangi saw no guns," he answered.

DeKraft fingered the crude bandage that encircled his aching arm. "Excellent," he murmured. "That will make it easier--much easier."

Then sinking down before the fire, he made plans that boded no good for John Rand and his son.

David, also, slept little that night. The day had been an eventful one, indeed. The sight of other men had started a long train of fancy in his brain. He wondered where they came from. Closing his eyes he recalled the strange garments of the white leader. He remembered the significant gestures that had passed between the latter and his father. He remembered, too, that John Rand had ordered them to leave his wilderness domain.

Before the dawn he rose, careful not to disturb his father, and slipped out into the clearing. Plunging into the jungle, he headed for the other camp.

The motive that sent him to spy upon the invaders was compounded of many things. For one thing, if the men were to return from whence they came, he might never see them again. And he would like to observe them while he could. For another, the white leader had attempted the life of his father. David was glad that he had been watchful then and he meant to keep his eyes on the stranger until he had gone well beyond the borders of their wilderness home.

T

he pebbles that John Rand had flung from the other's hand, he did not consider. To him, even more than to his father, they were just that--pebbles and no more. Nono occasionally picked up things that took his eye--bright colored feathers, smooth sticks, bits of shining rock. But that was because Nono was a monkey, and silly.

The grayness that precedes the dawn had lightened the jungle when David cautiously approached the camp. Parting a tangle of creepers, he peered out from his cover. The dying embers of a fire smouldered before the tent. No sound issued from within.

Were they sleeping? He cocked his head to one side and strained his ears. But the silence was profound. Raising his head, he sniffed of the damp air.

No scent of man carried to him. He looked puzzled. Had they departed already on their long journey? Strange that they should have left their possessions behind them. Unless John Rand's warning and David's arrow had instilled such a fear in their hearts that they had fled in haste.

Pushing through the vines, David cautiously approached the tent. It was empty, right enough. Curiously he fingered the stuff of which it was made before he ventured inside. There he examined the various things that belonged to the strange white man. A canvas cot puzzled him for long moments before he realized its use. He poked into a kit of eating utensils, peered into a box of cartridges, found a bottle of Holland gin.

The first two items he could make nothing of. Examining the latter, he accidentally pulled the cork. To him, the colorless liquid within was water. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow.

An agony of fire consumed his throat. The rare phenomenon of tears came to his eyes. The bottle slipped from his nerveless fingers and spilled over, as he spat to rid himself of the terrible stuff.

The lesson was well-learned and he tasted nothing more. He found a circular, shining disc and when he looked at it, he was astounded to see his own face look back at him. The reflection was far more clear than any he had seen in the smooth waters of the lake. He was fascinated by the mirror and would have taken it then and there, but he remembered Nono's penchant for glittering things and with a rueful smile at such foolishness he laid it down again.

Leaving the tent, he headed back for his own camp. He would tell his father about the many and wonderful things that the strangers had left behind them. Perhaps his father would be able to tell him what they were and what they were used for.

Elated with his discovery, he moved along the jungle trail, swinging through the forest with an easy, deceivingly fast stride. The first tinge of dawn was flaming in the east; about him the jungle stirred, whispered and came to life.

There was a care-free, abandoned song in David's heart as he neared the clearing. Then abruptly a staccato crack pulled him up in mid-stride. The song in his heart died. He sensed danger and fitted an arrow to his bow.

For a moment the explosive sound puzzled him. It was not the roar of any jungle beast, he knew, yet it was vaguely familiar. Then with sudden clarity he remembered--his mind flashed back to that distant day when his father had shot the bounding N'Jaga. A sound like the one he had just heard had accompanied the proceeding.

And hard on this realization, a second shot came from the direction of the clearing.

David waited for no more. He bounded forward. Thoughts of his father gave an added speed to his legs. He broke through the jungle wall into the clearing and for once he threw caution to the winds.

One swift glance told him that the lean-to was being consumed by billowing flames. No one was in sight. with an agonized heart he jumped forward, at the thought that his father had been trapped in the burning shelter. Then a dark object, crawling along the ground a few feet from the lean-to, caught his eye.

With a decided shock he realized that it was his father and from Rand's slow, tortured movements it was obvious that he was wounded.

D

avid sped to him, dropped down beside him on the ground. "Father!" he cried. "What happened?" Then he saw that the front of Rand's chest was stained an ugly red.

At the sound of his son's voice, John Rand collapsed. Tenderly David lifted his head from the ground, stared down anxiously at his drawn face.

"You're hurt. Badly. What happened?" he whispered urgently.

With an effort, Rand forced open his eyes. A flood of relief passed over his face as he recognized his son; then the relief was followed swiftly by a look of apprehension. Weakly he grasped the boy's arm; his lips worked feverishly but no words came.

David sensed from the expression of his face and from his tense attitude that he was trying to transmit a warning. A warning against what? If he had seen the naked black even then sneaking around a corner of the burning lean-to, he would have known.

His head close to his father's lips, he was still trying to interpret the latter's mumbled words when something sharp pricked him at the base of his spine.

He straightened slowly, pivoted even more slowly on the point of the spear in the black's hand. He recognized the native at once as one of the men he had seen at the camp of the fat white man.

With his fists clenched impotently at his sides, he glared at the native. He knew what that spear was, pricking now into his belly, and coolly he calculated his chances against it. But before he could act, the black called out and to his surprise the fat white man followed by two other natives, came on the run from the far side of the burning shelter. And in the fat white man's hand was a long, shining stick.

It was all very clear to David, then, what had happened. This fat, two-legged creature had wounded his father--with the stick. He--David--was consumed by an all-embracing hate and his fingers crept to the knife tucked in his belt.

He ignored the spear still pricking his middle and confronted the white man. "Fat-Face has wounded my father," he said coolly. "And for that, Fat-Face shall die."

Paul DeKraft rocked back on his heels and gave vent to a raucous laugh. "Spunky, eh? But you're wrong, kid. It's the other way around. I'm going to kill you, see? I don't want no witness to this little scene this morning--and dead men tell no tales." He laughed again. "I don't know who you or your father are--daffy, both of you--but you're in my way. It's the only way out, kid."

David only half understood the meaning of his words. He only knew that Fat-Face had wounded his father and now intended to kill him. In his arrogant youth he laughed at the idea. Coolly he measured the fat man from narrowed eyes and knew that he was his master.

But he had completely forgotten the speed of the death lurking in the shiny stick.

Slowly he drew out his knife. The rifle whipped up.

There could have been only one possible outcome of the affair a moment later--David's death--if Fate had not intervened.

All unknown to the parties concerned, there had been another spectator to the grim drama. Crouched on the fringe of the clearing, his slitted amber eyes, watching them, lay Zar. If David had forgotten the terrible destruction of the fire stick, not so the lion. And now this one was pointed at the man-cub, the creature who had rescued him from the quicksands.

A low growl rumbled in Zar's throat. Then with a mighty roar, he leaped into the clearing. At the first note of his challenge, the native with the spear stepped hastily back.

DeKraft whirled. A lion, bigger than any he had ever seen, was plunging straight for him. Hastily he raised the rifle; hastily he fired. Too hastily--he realized bitterly a moment later. He saw his bullet kick up a cloud of dust by the side of the lion's head, saw the jungle lord, jaws agape, loom ever larger before him.

DeKraft knew that he would not have time to reload before the sabre claws and dripping fangs of the lion sank deep into his flesh. Death touched at his craven heart. With one coordinated movement he grasped his native spearman and threw the screaming black straight into the path of the charging lion.

W

aiting for no more, he turned on his heel and fled across the clearing on the heels of the other two.

The black spearman went down before Zar's charge like a sack of straw. There was a lightning movement from the lion's forepaw and the unfortunate black lay disemboweled.

Satisfied with his work thus far, Zar propped his forefeet on the native's chest and threw back his head. The roar of the male lion who has made his kill, rumbled through the forest.

Crashing heavily through the undergrowth, ever further away from the clearing, DeKraft heard and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then a smile curled at his greasy fat lips. True, he had failed to kill the brat of the mad jungle hermit. But he had every confidence that the lion would take care of that oversight. He was well content.

Once Zar had proclaimed his might over the dead native, he swung his majestic head slowly about and surveyed the clearing. It was deserted save for the man-cub and his father. The bearded one lay prone on the ground and Zar knew that he was wounded.

He roared once to say that he had fulfilled his obligation and that there was nothing more for him to do. Then slowly, his tufted tail switching from side to side, he walked to the edge of the clearing with majestic stride and disappeared.

John Rand had fainted from loss of blood at the moment that Zar had charged. He regained consciousness a few minutes later, with David leaning over him, forcing cool water between his lips.

With an effort he swung his head and looked about the clearing.

David understood his unspoken question. "Gone," he said tersely. "Zar killed one of the blacks and scared the others off."

Rand smiled feebly. "Zar the lion, eh--your friend?"

David nodded. "Drink now, father," he ordered.

But John Rand knew that he was beyond all aid. "No use, son," he said. "Too late. I'm dying... I'm going to join your mother."

His eyes closed and David's heart was swept by an anguish of sorrow. His world seemed to be crumbling about him and he could not speak. After a moment his father's eyes fluttered open again.

With fast-ebbing strength, Rand tugged at the narrow gold band on his little finger. He succeeded in removing it at last and with a trembling hand, slipped the loop onto one of David's fingers.

"Your mother's wedding ring," he gasped. "Keep it--to remember her by." He spoke through a breaking bubble of blood. "And David--boy, bury me by her side in the clearing. She was--she was an angel."

For the last time John Rand looked into the eyes of his son and smiled. Then his chin dropped forward on his chest and with the simple conviction that he would join Constance in the Great Beyond, he died.

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