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TWO TARZANS IN GORILLA COUNTRY

Tarzan moved stealthily in the trees high above a savage scene. The tempo of the dance had increased. Painted warriors were leaping and stamping around a small group that surrounded the prisoner. As Tarzan gazed at the prisoner he experienced a shock.

It was as though his disembodied spirit hovered above and looked down upon himself, so amazing was the likeness of this man to the Lord of the Jungle.

Who was this man who looked so much like Tarzan as to startle even Tarzan himself and what did he seek in the jungles of Africa?

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FOREWORD

If ever Burroughs wrote a tongue-in-cheek Tarzan story, Tarzan and the Lion Man came closest. Several critics have commented that Burroughs often satirized such things as religion, social customs and the like, but it should also be noted that he was not above kidding himself and his fellow men.

In Chapter 5, the suggestion is made that the motion picture hero go out in front of the safari, and clear the way of marauding natives. But the Lion Man is quick to reply that he'd "like to have the author of that story" sent out instead. The Old Master must have smiled to himself as he wrote that dialogue, for through his seventy-four years, he never once set foot in Africa.

Burroughs was also continually pointing out that man is the only creature that is cruel, vindictive, selfish, ambitious and treacherous, while wild animals are not. This is blandly pointed out in the novel, particularly in the latter portions of Chapter 25.

But the crowning satire of the whole novel, even overshadowing the fabulous episode of the gorillas, are the last couple of chapters dealing with Tarzan's visit to Hollywood, California. They concern the casting of a new Tarzan film, and one John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, Tarzan of the Apes himself. Upon being asked to try out for the part of Tarzan, he is considered by the casting director as "not the type." Truly, Burroughs must still be chuckling about that little scene.

—Camille Cazedessus, Jr.
Editor, ERB-dom, a magazine
devoted to Burroughs and his works.

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I	IN CONFERENCE
II	MUD
III	POISONED ARROWS
IV	DISSENSION
V	DEATH
VI	REMORSE
VII	DISASTER
VIII	THE COWARD
IX	TREACHERY
X	TORTURE
XI	THE LAST VICTIM
XII	THE MAP
XIII	A GHOST
XIV	A MADMAN
XV	TERROR
XVI	EYAD
XVII	ALONE
XVIII	GORILLA KING
XIX	DESPAIR
XX	"COME WITH ME!"
XXI	ABDUCTED
XXII	THE IMPOSTER
XXIII	MAN AND BEAST
XXIV	GOD
XXV	"BEFORE I EAT YOU!"
XXVI	TRAPPED
XXVII	HOLOCAUST
XXVIII	THROUGH SMOKE AND FLAME
XXIX	DEATH AT DAWN
XXX	THE WILD-GIRL
XXXI	DIAMONDS!
XXXII	GOOD-BYE, AFRICA!
XXXIII	HELLO, HOLLYWOOD!

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Mr. Milton Smith, Executive Vice President in Charge of Production, was in conference. A half dozen men lounged comfortably in deep, soft chairs and divans about his large, well-appointed office in the B.O. studio. Mr. Smith had a chair behind a big desk, but he seldom occupied it. He was an imaginative, dramatic, dynamic person. He required freedom and space in which to express himself. His large chair was too small; so he paced about the office more often than he occupied his chair, and his hands interpreted his thoughts quite as fluently as did his tongue.

"It's bound to be a knock-out," he assured his listeners; "no synthetic jungle, no faked sound effects, no toothless old lions that every picture fan in the U. S. knows by their first names. No, sir! This will be the real thing."

A secretary entered the room and closed the door behind her. "Mr. Orman is here," she said.

"Good! Ask him to come in, please." Mr. Smith rubbed his palms together and turned to the others. "Thinking of Orman was nothing less than an inspiration," he exclaimed. "He's just the man to make this picture."

"Just another one of your inspirations, Chief," remarked one of the men. "They've got to hand it to you."

Another, sitting next to the speaker, leaned closer to him. "I thought you suggested Orman the other day," he whispered.

"I did," said the first man out of the corner of his mouth.

Again the door opened, and the secretary ushered in a stocky, bronzed man who was greeted familiarly by all in the room. Smith advanced and shook hands with him.

"Glad to see you, Tom," he said. "Haven't seen you since you got back from Borneo. Great stuff you got down there. But I've got something bigger still on the fire for you. You know the clean-up Superlative Pictures made with their last jungle picture?"

"How could I help it; it's all I've heard since I got back. Now I suppose everybody's goin' to make jungle pictures."

"Well, there are jungle pictures and jungle pictures. We're going to make a real one. Every scene in that Superlative picture was shot inside a radius of twenty-five miles from Hollywood except a few African stock shots, and the sound effects—lousy!" Smith grimaced his contempt.

"And where are we goin' to shoot?" inquired Orman; "fifty miles from Hollywood?"

"No, sir! We're goin' to send a company right to the heart of Africa, right to the—ah—er—what's the name of that forest, Joe?"

"The Ituri Forest."

"Yes, right to the Ituri Forest with sound equipment and everything. Think of it, Tom! You get the real stuff, the real natives, the jungle, the animals, the sounds. You 'shoot' a giraffe, and at the same time you record the actual sound of his voice."

"You won't need much sound equipment for that, Milt."

"Why?"

"Giraffes don't make any sounds; they're supposed not to have any vocal organs."

"Well, what of it? That was just an illustration. But take the other animals for instance; lions, elephants, tigers—Joe's written in a great tiger sequence. It's goin' to yank 'em right out of their seats."

"There ain't any tigers in Africa, Milt," explained the director.

"Who says there ain't?"

"I do," replied Orman, grinning.

"How about it, Joe?" Smith turned toward the scenarist.

"Well, Chief, you said you wanted a tiger sequence."

"Oh, what's the difference? We'll make it a crocodile sequence."

"And you want me to direct the picture?" asked Orman.

"Yes, and it will make you famous."

"I don't know about that, but I'm game—I ain't ever been to Africa. Is it feasible to get sound trucks into Central Africa?"

"We're just having a conference to discuss the whole matter," replied Smith. "We've asked Major White to sit in. I guess you men haven't met—Mr. Orman, Major White," and as the two men shook hands Smith continued. "The major's a famous big game hunter, knows Africa like a book. He's to be technical advisor and go along with you."

"What do you think, Major, about our being able to get sound trucks into the Ituri Forest?" asked Orman.

"What'll they weigh? I doubt that you can get anything across Africa that weighs over a ton and a half."

"Ouch!" exclaimed Clarence Noice, the sound director. "Our sound trucks weigh seven tons, and we're planning on taking two of them."

"It just can't be done," said the major.

"And how about the generator truck?" demanded Noice. "It weighs nine tons."

The major threw up his hands. "Really, gentlemen, it's preposterous."

"Can you do it, Tom?" demanded Smith, and without waiting for a reply. "You've got to do it."

"Sure I'll do it—if you want to foot the bills."

"Good!" exclaimed Smith. "Now that's settled let me tell you something about the story. Joe's written a great story—it's goin' to be a knock-out. You see this fellow's born in the jungle and brought up by a lioness. He pals around with the lions all his life—doesn't know any other friends. The lion is king of beasts; when the boy grows up he's king of the lions; so he bosses the whole menagerie. See? Big shot of the jungle."

"Sounds familiar," commented Orman.

"And then the girl comes in, and here's a great shot! She doesn't know any one's around, and she's bathing in a jungle pool. Along comes the Lion Man. He ain't ever seen a woman before. Can't you see the possibilities, Tom? It's goin' to knock 'em cold." Smith was walking around the room, acting out the scene. He was the girl bathing in the pool in one corner of the room, and then he went to the opposite corner and was the Lion Man. "Great, isn't it?" he demanded. "You've got to hand it to Joe."

"Joe always was an original guy," said Orman. "Say, who you got to play this Lion Man that's goin' to pal around with the lions? I hope he's got the guts."

"Best ever, a regular find. He's got a physique that's goin' to have all the girls goofy."

"Yes, them and their grandmothers," offered another conferee.

"Who is he?"

"He's the world's champion marathoner."

"Marathon dancer?"

"No, marathon runner."

"If I was playin' that part I'd rather be a sprinter than a distance runner. What's his name?"

"Stanley Obroski."

"Stanley Obroski? Never heard of him."

"Well, he's famous nevertheless; and wait till you see him! He's sure got 'It,' and I don't mean maybe."

"Can he act?" asked Orman.

"He don't have to act, but he looks great stripped—I'll run his tests for you."

"Who else is in the cast?"

"The Madison's cast for lead opposite Obroski, and—"

"M-m-m, Naomi's plenty hot at 34 north; she'll probably melt at the Equator."

"And Gordon Z. Marcus goes along as her father; he's a white trader."

"Think Marcus can stand it? He's getting along in years."

"Oh, he's rarin' to go. Major White, here, is taking the part of a white hunter."

"I'm afraid," remarked the major, "that as an actor I'll prove to be an excellent hunter."

"Oh, all you got to do is act natural. Don't worry."

"No, let the director worry," said the scenarist; "that's what he's paid for."

"And rewrittin' bum continuity," retorted Orman. "But say, Milt, gettin' back to Naomi. She's great in cabaret scenes and flaming youth pictures, but when it comes to steppin' out with lions and elephants—I don't know."

"We're sendin' Rhonda Terry along to double for her."

"Good! Rhonda'd go up and bite a lion on the wrist if a director told her to; and she does look a lot like the Madison, come to think of it."

"Which is flatterin' the Madison, if any one asks me," commented the scenarist.

"Which no one did," retorted Smith.

"And again, if any one asks me," continued Joe, "Rhonda can act circles all around Madison. How some of these punks get where they are beats me."

"And you hangin' around studios for the last ten years!" scoffed Orman. "You must be dumb."

"He wouldn't be an author if he wasn't," gibed another conferee.

"Well," asked Orman, "who else am I takin'? Who's my chief cameraman?"

"Bill West."

"Fine."

"What with your staff, the cast, and drivers you'll have between thirty-five and forty whites. Besides the generator truck and the two sound trucks, you'll have twenty five-ton trucks and five passenger cars. We're picking technicians and mechanics who can drive trucks so as to cut down the size of the company as much as possible. I'm sorry you weren't in town to pick your own company, but we had to rush things. Every one's signed up but the assistant director. You can take any one along you please."

"When do we leave?"

"In about ten days."

"It's a great life," sighed Orman. "Six months in Borneo, ten days in Hollywood, and then another six months in Africa! You guys give a fellow just about time to get a shave between trips."

"Between drinks, did you say?" inquired Joe.

"Between drinks!" offered another. "There isn't any between drinks in Tom's young life."

Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem and his swarthy followers sat in silence on their ponies and watched the mad Nasara sweating and cursing as they urged on two hundred blacks in an effort to drag a nine-ton generator truck through the muddy bottom of a small stream.

Nearby, Jerrold Baine leaned against the door of a muddy touring car in conversation with the two girls who occupied the back seat.

"How you feeling, Naomi?" he inquired.

"Rotten."

"Touch of fever again?"

"Nothing but since we left Jinja. I wish I was back in Hollywood; but I won't ever see Hollywood again. I'm going to die here."

"Aw, shucks! You're just blue. You'll be all right."

"She had a dream last night," said the other girl. "Naomi believes in dreams."

"Shut up," snapped Miss Madison.

"You seem to keep pretty fit, Rhonda," remarked Baine.

Rhonda Terry nodded. "I guess I'm just lucky."

"You'd better touch wood," advised the Madison; then she added, "Rhonda's physical, purely physical. No one knows what we artistes suffer, with our high-strung, complex, nervous organizations."

"Better be a happy cow than a miserable artiste," laughed Rhonda.

"Besides that, Rhonda gets all the breaks," complained Naomi. "Yesterday they shoot the first scene in which I appear, and where was I? Flat on my back with an attack of fever, and Rhonda has to double for me—even in the close-ups."

"It's a good thing you look so much alike," said Baine. "Why, knowing you both as well as I do, I can scarcely tell you apart."

"That's the trouble," grumbled Naomi. "People'll see her and think it's me."

"Well, what of it?" demanded Rhonda. "You'll get the credit."

"Credit!" exclaimed Naomi. "Why, my dear, it will ruin my reputation. You are a sweet girl and all that, Rhonda; but remember, I am Naomi Madison. My public expects superb acting. They will be disappointed, and they will blame me."

Rhonda laughed good-naturedly. "I'll do my best not to entirely ruin your reputation, Naomi," she promised.

"Oh, it isn't your fault," exclaimed the other. "I don't blame you. One is born with the divine afflatus, or one is not. That is all there is to it. It is no more your fault that you can't act than it is the fault of that sheik over there that he was not born a white man."

"What a disillusionment that sheik was!" exclaimed Rhonda.

"How so?" asked Baine.

"When I was a little girl I saw Rudolph Valentino on the screen; and, ah, brothers, sheiks was sheiks in them days!"

"This bird sure doesn't look much like Valentino," agreed Baine.

"Imagine being carried off into the desert by that bunch of whiskers and dirt! And here I've just been waiting all these years to be carried off."

"I'll speak to Bill about it," said Baine.

The girl sniffed. "Bill West's a good cameraman, but he's no sheik. He's just about as romantic as his camera."

"He's a swell guy," insisted Baine.

"Of course he is; I'm crazy about him. He'd make a great brother."

"How much longer we got to sit here?" demanded Naomi, peevishly.

"Until they get the generator truck and twenty-two other trucks through that mud hole."

"I don't see why we can't go on. I don't see why we have to sit here and fight flies and bugs."

"We might as well fight 'em here as somewhere else," said Rhonda.

"Orman's afraid to separate the safari," explained Baine. "This is a bad piece of country. He was warned against bringing the company here. The natives never have been completely subdued, and they've been acting up lately."

They were silent for a while, brushing away insects and watching the heavy truck being dragged slowly up the muddy bank. The ponies of the Arabs stood switching their tails and biting at the stinging pests that constantly annoyed them.

Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem spoke to one at his side, a swarthy man with evil eyes. "Which of the benat, Atewy, is she who holds the secret of the valley of diamonds?"

"Billah!" exclaimed Atewy, spitting. "They are as alike as two pieces of jella. I cannot be sure which is which."

"But one of them hath the paper? You are sure?"

"Yes. The old Nasrany, who is the father of one of them, had it; but she took it from him. The young man leaning against that invention of Sheytan, talking to them now, plotted to take the life of the old man that he might steal the paper; but the girl, his daughter, learned of the plot and took the paper herself. The old man and the young man both believe that the paper is lost."

"But the bint talks to the young man who would have killed her father," said the sheykh. "She seems friendly with him. I do not understand these Christian dogs."

"Nor I," admitted Atewy. "They are all mad. They quarrel and fight, and then immediately they sit down together, laughing and talking. They do things in great secrecy while every one is looking on. I saw the bint take the paper while the young man was looking on, and yet he seems to know nothing of it. He went soon after to her father and asked to see it. It was then the old man searched for it and could not find it. He said that it was lost, and he was heartbroken."

"It is all very strange," murmured Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem. "Are you sure that you understand their accursed tongue and know that which they say, Atewy?"

"Did I not work for more than a year with a mad old Nasrany who dug in the sands at Kheybar? If he found only a piece of a broken pot he would be happy all the rest of the day. From him I learned the language of el-Engleys."

"Wellah!" sighed the sheykh; "it must be a great treasure indeed, greater than those of Howwara and Geryeh combined; or they would not have brought so many carriages to transport it." He gazed with brooding eyes at the many trucks parked upon the opposite bank of the stream waiting to cross.

"When shall I take the bint who hath the paper?" demanded Atewy after a moment's silence.

"Let us bide our time," replied the sheykh. "There be no hurry, since they be leading us always nearer to the treasure and feeding us well into the bargain. The Nasrany are fools. They thought to fool the Bedauwy with their picture taking as they fooled el-Engleys, but we are brighter than they. We know the picture making is only a blind to hide the real purpose of their safari."

Sweating, mud covered, Mr. Thomas Orman stood near the line of blacks straining on the ropes attached to a heavy truck. In one hand he carried a long whip. At his elbow stood a bearer, but in lieu of a rifle he carried a bottle of Scotch.

By nature Orman was neither a harsh nor cruel task-master. Ordinarily, both his inclinations and his judgment would have warned him against using the lash. The sullen silence of the blacks which should have counselled him to forbearance only irritated him still further.

He was three months out of Hollywood and already almost two months behind schedule, with the probability staring him in the face that it would be another month before they could reach the location where the major part of the picture could be shot. His leading woman had a touch of fever that might easily develop into something that would keep her out of the picture entirely. He had already been down twice with fever, and that had had its effects upon his disposition. It seemed to him that everything had gone wrong, that everything had conspired against him. And now these damn niggers, as he thought of them, were lying down on the job.

"Lay into it, you lazy bums!" he yelled, and the long lash reached out and wrapped around the shoulders of a black.

A young man in khaki shirt and shorts turned away in disgust and walked toward the car where Baine was talking to the two girls. He paused in the shade of a tree; and, removing his sun helmet, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and the inside of the hat band; then he moved on again and joined them.

Baine moved over to make room for him by the rear door of the car. "You look sore, Bill," he remarked.

West swore softly. "Orman's gone nuts. If he doesn't throw that whip away and leave the booze alone we're headed for a lot of grief."

"It's in the air," said Rhonda. "The men don't laugh and sing the way they used to."

"I saw Kwamudi looking at him a few minutes ago," continued West. "There was hate in his eyes all right, and there was something worse."

"Oh, well," said Baine, "you got to treat those niggers rough; and as for Kwamudi, Tom can tie a can to him and appoint some one else headman."

"Those slave driving days are over, Baine; and the blacks know it. Orman'll get in plenty of trouble for this if the blacks report it, and don't fool yourself about Kwamudi. He's no ordinary headman; he's a big chief in his own country, and most of our blacks are from his own tribe. If he says quit, they'll quit; and don't you forget it. We'd be in a pretty mess if those fellows quit on us."

"Well, what are we goin' to do about it? Tom ain't asking our advice that I've ever noticed."

"You could do something, Naomi," said West, turning to the girl.

"Who, me? What could I do?"

"Well, Tom likes you a lot. He'd listen to you."

"Oh, nerts! It's his own funeral. I got troubles of my own."

"It may be your funeral, too," said West.

"Blah!" said the girl. "All I want to do is get out of here. How much longer I got to sit here and fight flies? Say, where's Stanley? I haven't seen him all day."

"The Lion Man is probably asleep in the back of his car," suggested Baine. "Say, have you heard what Old Man Marcus calls him?"

"What does he call him?" demanded Naomi.

"Sleeping Sickness."

"Aw, you're all sore at him," snapped Naomi, "because he steps right into a starring part while you poor dubs have been working all your lives and are still doin' bits. Mr. Obroski is a real artiste."

"Say, we're going to start!" cried Rhonda. "There's the signal."

At last the long motorcade was under way. In the leading cars was a portion of the armed guards, the askaris; and another detachment brought up the rear. To the running boards of a number of the trucks clung some of the blacks, but most of them followed the last truck afoot. Pat O'Grady, the assistant director, was in charge of these.

O'Grady carried no long whip. He whistled a great deal, always the same tune; and he joshed his charges unmercifully, wholly ignoring the fact that they understood nothing that he said. But they reacted to his manner and his smile, and slowly their tenseness relaxed. Their sullen silence broke a little, and they talked among themselves. But still they did not sing, and there was no laughter.

"It would be better," remarked Major White, walking at O'Grady's side, "if you were in full charge of these men at all times. Mr. Orman is temperamentally unsuited to handle them."

O'Grady shrugged. "Well, what is there to do about it?"

"He won't listen to me," said the major. "He resents every suggestion that I make. I might as well have remained in Hollywood."

"I don't know what's got into Tom. He's a mighty good sort. I never saw him like this before." O'Grady shook his head.

"Well, for one thing there's too much Scotch got into him," observed White.

"I think it's the fever and the worry." The assistant director was loyal to his chief.

"Whatever it is we're in for a bad mess if there isn't a change," the Englishman prophesied. His manner was serious, and it was evident that he was worried.

"Perhaps you're—" O'Grady started to reply, but his words were interrupted by a sudden rattle of rifle fire coming, apparently, from the direction of the head of the column.

"My lord! What now?" exclaimed White, as, leaving O'Grady, he hurried toward the sound of the firing.

The ears of man are dull. Even on the open veldt they do not record the sound of a shot at any great distance. But the ears of hunting beasts are not as the ears of man; so hunting beasts at great distances paused when they heard the rifle fire that had startled O'Grady and White. Most of them slunk farther away from the dread sound.

Not so two lying in the shade of a tree. One was a great black-maned golden lion; the other was a man. He lay upon his back, and the lion lay beside him with one huge paw upon his chest.

"Tarmangani!" murmured the man.

A low growl rumbled in the cavernous chest of the carnivore.

"I shall have to look into this matter," said the man, "perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow." He closed his eyes and fell asleep again, the sleep from which the shots had aroused him.

The lion blinked his yellow-green eyes and yawned; then he lowered his great head, and he too slept.

Near them lay the partially devoured carcass of a zebra, the kill that they had made at dawn. Neither Ungo, the jackal, nor Dango, the hyena, had as yet scented the feast; so quiet prevailed, broken only by the buzzing of insects and the occasional call of a bird.

Before Major White reached the head of the column the firing had ceased, and when he arrived he found the askaris and the white men crouching behind trees gazing into the dark forest before them, their rifles ready. Two black soldiers lay upon the ground, their bodies pierced by arrows. Already their forms were convulsed by the last throes of dissolution. Naomi Madison crouched upon the floor of her car. Rhonda Terry stood with one foot on the running board, a pistol in her hand.

White ran to Orman who stood with rifle in hand peering into the forest. "What happened, Mr. Orman?" he asked.

"An ambush," replied Orman. "The devils just fired a volley of arrows at us and then beat it. We scarcely caught a glimpse of them."

"The Bansutos," said White.

Orman nodded. "I suppose so. They think they can frighten me with a few arrows, but I'll show the dirty niggers."

"This was just a warning, Orman. They don't want us in their country."

"I don't care what they want; I'm going in. They can't bluff me."

"Don't forget, Mr. Orman, that you have a lot of people here for whose lives you are responsible, including two white women, and that you were warned not to come through the Bansuto country."

"I'll get my people through all right; the responsibility is mine, not yours." Orman's tone was sullen, his manner that of a man who knows that he is wrong but is constrained by stubbornness from admitting it.

"I cannot but feel a certain responsibility myself," replied White. "You know I was sent with you in an advisory capacity."

"I'll ask for your advice when I want it."

"You need it now. You know nothing about these people or what to expect from them."

"The fact that we were ready and sent a volley into them the moment that they attacked has taught 'em a good lesson," blustered Orman. "You can be sure they won't bother us again."

"I wish that I could be sure of that, but I can't. We haven't seen the last of those beggars. What you have seen is just a sample of their regular strategy of warfare. They'll never attack in force or in the open—just pick us off two or three at a time; and perhaps we'll never see one of them."

"Well, if you're afraid, go back," snapped Orman. "I'll give you porters and a guard."

White smiled. "I'll remain with the company, of course." Then he turned back to where Rhonda Terry still stood, a trifle pale, her pistol ready in her hand.

"You'd best remain in the car, Miss Terry," he said. "It will afford you some protection from arrows. You shouldn't expose yourself as you have."

"I couldn't help but overhear what you said to Mr. Orman," said the girl. "Do you really think they will keep on picking us off like this?"

"I am afraid so; it is the way they fight. I don't wish to frighten you unnecessarily, but you must be careful."

She glanced at the two bodies that lay quiet now in the grotesque and horrible postures of death. "I had no idea that arrows could kill so quickly." A little shudder accompanied her words.

"They were poisoned," explained the major.

"Poisoned!" There was a world of horror in the single word.

White glanced into the tonneau of the car. "I think Miss Madison has fainted," he said.

"She would!" exclaimed Rhonda, turning toward the unconscious girl.

Together they lifted her to the seat, and Rhonda applied restoratives; and, as they worked, Orman was organizing a stronger advance guard and giving orders to the white men clustered about him.

"Keep your rifles ready beside you all the time. I'll try to put an extra armed man on every truck. Keep your eyes open, and at the first sight of anything suspicious, shoot.

"Bill, you and Baine ride with the girls; I'll put an askari on each running board of their car. Clarence, you go to the rear of the column and tell Pat what has happened. Tell him to strengthen the rear guard, and you stay back there and help him.

"And Major White!" The Englishman came forward. "I wish you'd see old el-Ghrennem and ask him to send half his force to the rear and the other half up with us. We can use 'em to send messages up and down the column, if necessary.

"Mr. Marcus," he turned to the old character man, "you and Obroski ride near the middle of the column." He looked about him suddenly. "Where is Obroski?"

No one had seen him since the attack. "He was in the car when I left it," said Marcus. "Perchance he has fallen asleep again." There was a sly twinkle in the old eyes.

"Here he comes now," said Clarence Noice.

A tall, handsome youth with a shock of black hair was approaching from down the line of cars. He wore a six-shooter strapped about his hips and carried a rifle. When he saw them looking toward him he commenced to run in their direction.

"Where are they?" he called. "Where did they go?"

"Where you been?" demanded Orman.

"I been looking for them. I thought they were back there."

Bill West turned toward Gordon Z. Marcus and winked a slow wink.

Presently the column moved forward again. Orman was with the advance guard, the most dangerous post; and White remained with him.

Like a great snake the safari wound its way into the forest, the creaking of springs, the sound of the tires, the muffled exhausts its only accompaniment. There was no conversation—only tense, fearful expectancy.

There were many stops while a crew of blacks with knives and axes hewed a passage for the great trucks. Then on again into the shadows of the primitive wilderness. Their progress was slow, monotonous, heartbreaking.

At last they came to a river. "We'll camp here," said Orman.

White nodded. To him had been delegated the duty of making and breaking camp. In a quiet voice he directed the parking of the cars and trucks as they moved slowly into the little clearing along the river bank.

As he was thus engaged, those who had been passengers climbed to the ground and stretched their legs. Orman sat on the running board of a car and took a drink of Scotch. Naomi Madison sat down beside him and lighted a cigarette. She darted fearful glances into the forest around them and across the river into the still more mysterious wood beyond.

"I wish we were out of here, Tom," she said. "Let's go back before we're all killed."

"That ain't what I was sent out here for. I was sent to make a picture, and I'm goin' to make it in spite of hell and high water."

She moved closer and leaned her lithe body against him. "Aw, Tom, if you loved me you'd take me out of here. I'm scared. I know I'm going to die. If it isn't fever it'll be those poisoned arrows."

"Go tell your troubles to your Lion Man," growled Orman, taking another drink.

"Don't be an old meany, Tom. You know I don't care anything about him. There isn't any one but you."

"Yes, I know it—except when you think I'm not looking. You don't think I'm blind, do you?"

"You may not be blind, but you're all wet," she snapped angrily. "I—"

A shot from the rear of the column halted her in mid-speech. Then came another and another in quick succession, followed by a fusillade.

Orman leaped to his feet. Men started to run toward the rear. He called them back. "Stay here!" he cried. "They may attack here, too—if that's who it is back again. Major White! Tell the sheik to send a horseman back there pronto to see what's happened."

Naomi Madison fainted. No one paid any attention to her. They left her lying where she had fallen. The black askaris and the white men of the company stood with rifles in tense fingers, straining their eyes into the woods about them.

The firing at the rear ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The ensuing silence seemed a thing of substance. It was broken by a weird, blood-curdling scream from the dark wood on the opposite bank of the river.

"Gad!" exclaimed Baine. "What was that?"

"I think the bounders are just trying to frighten us," said White.

"Insofar as I am concerned they have succeeded admirably," admitted Marcus. "If one could be scared out of seven years growth retroactively, I would soon be a child again."

Bill West threw a protective arm about Rhonda Terry. "Lie down and roll under the car," he said. "You'll be safe from arrows there."

"And get grease in my eyes? No, thanks."

"Here comes the sheik's man now," said Baine. "There's somebody behind him on the horse—a white man."

"It's Clarence," said West.

As the Arab reined his pony in near Orman, Noice slipped to the ground.

"Well, what was it?" demanded the director.

"Same thing that happened up in front back there," replied Noice. "There was a volley of arrows without any warning, two men killed; then we turned and fired; but we didn't see any one, not a soul. It's uncanny. Say, those blacks of ours are all shot. Can't see anything but the whites of their eyes, and they're shaking so their teeth rattle."

"Is Pat hurryin' the rest of the safari into camp?" asked Orman.

Noice grinned. "They don't need any hurryin'. They're comin' so fast that they'll probably go right through without seein' it."

A scream burst in their midst, so close to them that even the stolid Major White jumped. All wheeled about with rifles ready.

Naomi Madison had raised herself to a sitting position. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes wild. She screamed a second time and then fainted again.

"Shut up!" yelled Orman, frantically, his nerves on edge; but she did not hear him.

"If you'll have our tent set up, I'll get her to bed," suggested Rhonda.

Cars, horsemen, black men afoot were crowding into the clearing. No one wished to be left back there in the forest. All was confusion.

Major White, with the assistance of Bill West, tried to restore order from chaos; and when Pat O'Grady came in, he helped.

At last camp was made. Blacks, whites, and horses were crowded close together, the blacks on one side, the whites on the other.

"If the wind changes," remarked Rhonda Terry, "we're sunk."

"What a mess," groaned Baine, "and I thought this was going to be a lovely outing. I was so afraid I wasn't going to get the part that I was almost sick."

"Now you're sick because you did get it."

"I'll tell the world I am."

"You're goin' to be a whole lot sicker before we get out of this Bansuto country," remarked Bill West.

"You're telling me!"

"How's the Madison, Rhonda?" inquired West.

The girl shrugged. "If she wasn't so darned scared she wouldn't be in such a bad way. That last touch of fever's about passed, but she just lies there and shakes—scared stiff."

"You're a wonder, Rhonda. You don't seem to be afraid of anything."

"Well, I'll be seein' yuh," remarked Baine as he walked toward his own tent.

"Afraid!" exclaimed the girl. "Bill, I never knew what it was to be afraid before. Why, I've got goose-pimples inside."

West shook his head. "You're sure a game kid. No one would ever know you were afraid—you don't show it."

"Perhaps I've just enough brains to know that it wouldn't get me anything. It doesn't even get her sympathy." She nodded her head toward the tent.

West grimaced. "She's a—" he hesitated, searching for adequate invective.

The girl placed her fingers against his lips and shook her head. "Don't say it," she admonished. "She can't help it. I'm really sorry for her."

"You're a wonder! And she treats you like scum. Gee, kid, but you've got a great disposition. I don't see how you can be decent to her. It's that dog-gone patronizing air of hers toward you that gets my nanny. The great artiste! Why, you can act circles all around her, kid; and as for looks! You got her backed off the boards."

Rhonda laughed. "That's why she's a famous star and I'm a double. Quit your kidding."

"I'm not kidding. The company's all talking about it. You stole the scenes we shot while she was laid up. Even Orman knows it, and he's got a crush on her."

"You're prejudiced—you don't like her."

"She's nothing in my young life, one way or another. But I do like you, Rhonda. I like you a lot. I—oh, pshaw—you know what I mean."

"What are you doing, Bill—making love to me?"

"I'm trying to."

"Well, as a lover you're a great cameraman—and you'd better stick to your camera. This is not exactly the ideal setting for a love scene. I am surprised that a great cameraman like you should have failed to appreciate that. You'd never shoot a love scene against this background."

"I'm shootin' one now, Rhonda. I love you."

"Cut!" laughed the girl.

Kwamudi, the black headman, stood before Orman. "My people go back," he said; "not stay in Bansuto country and be killed."

"You can't go back," growled Orman. "You signed up for the whole trip. You tell 'em they got to stay; or, by George, I'll—"

"We not sign up to go Bansuto country; we not sign up be killed. You go back, we come along. You stay, we go back. We go daylight." He turned and walked away.

Orman started up angrily from his camp chair, seizing his ever ready whip. "I'll teach you, you black——!" he yelled.

White, who had been standing beside him, seized him by the shoulder. "Stop!" His voice was low but his tone peremptory. "You can't do that! I haven't interfered before, but now you've got to listen to me. The lives of all of us are at stake."

"Don't you interfere, you meddlin' old fool," snapped Orman. "This is my show, and I'll run it my way."

"You'd better go soak your head, Tom," said O'Grady; "you're full of hootch. The major's right. We're in a tight hole, and we won't ever get out of it on Scotch." He turned to the Englishman. "You handle things, Major. Don't pay any attention to Tom; he's drunk. Tomorrow he'll be sorry—if he sobers up. We're all back of you. Get us out of the mess if you can. How long would it take to get out of this Bansuto country if we kept on in the direction we want to go?"

Orman appeared stunned by this sudden defection of his assistant. It left him speechless.

White considered O'Grady's question. "If we were not too greatly delayed by the trucks, we could make it in two days," he decided finally.

"And how long would it take us to reach the location we're headed for if we have to go back and go around the Bansuto country?" continued O'Grady.

"We couldn't do it under two weeks," replied the major. "We'd be lucky if we made it in that time. We'd have to go way to the south through a beastly rough country."

"The studio's put a lot of money into this already," said O'Grady, "and we haven't got much of anything to show for it. We'd like to get onto location as quick as possible. Don't you suppose you could persuade Kwamudi to go on? If we turn back, we'll have those beggars on our neck for a day at least. If we go ahead, it will only mean one extra day of them. Offer Kwamudi's bunch extra pay if they'll stick—it'll be a whole lot cheaper for us than wastin' another two weeks."

"Will Mr. Orman authorize the bonus?" asked White.

"He'll do whatever I tell him, or I'll punch his fool head," O'Grady assured him.

Orman had sunk back into his camp chair and was staring at the ground. He made no comment.

"Very well," said White. "I'll see what I can do. I'll talk to Kwamudi over at my tent, if you'll send one of the boys after him."

White walked over to his tent, and O'Grady sent a black boy to summon the headman; then he turned to Orman. "Go to bed, Tom," he ordered, "and lay off that hootch."

Without a word, Orman got up and went into his tent.

"You put the kibosh on him all right, Pat," remarked Noice, with a grin. "How do you get away with it?"

O'Grady did not reply. His eyes were wandering over the camp, and there was a troubled expression on his usually smiling face. He noted the air of constraint, the tenseness; as though all were waiting for something to happen, they knew not what.

He saw his messenger overhaul Kwamudi and the headman turn back toward White's tent. He saw the blacks silently making their little cooking fires. They did not sing or laugh, and when they spoke they spoke in whispers.

The Arabs were squatting in the muk'aad of the sheykh's beyt. They were a dour lot at best; and their appearance was little different tonight than ordinarily, yet he sensed a difference.

Even the whites spoke in lower tones than usual and there was less chaffing. And from all the groups constant glances were cast toward the surrounding forest.

Presently he saw Kwamudi leave White and return to his fellows; then O'Grady walked over to where the Englishman was sitting in a camp chair, puffing on a squat briar. "What luck?" he asked.

"The bonus got him," replied White. "They will go on, but on one other condition."

"What is that?"

"His men are not to be whipped."

"That's fair enough," said O'Grady.

"But how are you going to prevent it?"

"For one thing, I'll throw the whip away; for another, I'll tell Orman we'll all quit him if he doesn't lay off. I can't understand him; he never was like this before. I've worked with him a lot during the last five years."

"Too much liquor," said White; "it's finally got him."

"He'll be all right when we get on location and get to work. He's been worrying too much. Once we get through this Bansuto country everything'll be jake."

"We're not through it yet, Pat. They'll get some more of us tomorrow and some more the next day. I don't know how the blacks will stand it. It's a bad business. We really ought to turn around and go back. It would be better to lose two weeks time than to lose everything, as we may easily do if the blacks quit us. You know we couldn't move through this country without them."

"We'll pull through somehow," O'Grady assured him. "We always do. Well, I'm goin' to turn in. Good-night, Major."

The brief equatorial twilight had ushered in the night. The moon had not risen. The forest was blotted out by a pall of darkness. The universe had shrunk to a few tiny earth fires surrounded by the huddled forms of men and, far above, a few stars.

Obroski paused in front of the girls' tent and scratched on the flap. "Who is it?" demanded Naomi Madison from within.

"It's me, Stanley."

She bade him enter; and he came in to find her lying on her cot beneath a mosquito bar, a lantern burning on a box beside her.

"Well," she said peevishly, "it's a wonder any one came. I might lie here and die for all any one cares."

"I'd have come sooner, but I thought of course Orman was here."

"He's probably in his tent soused."

"Yes, he is. When I found that out I came right over."

"I shouldn't think you'd be afraid of him. I shouldn't think you'd be afraid of anything." She gazed admiringly on his splendid physique, his handsome face.

"Me afraid of that big stiff!" he scoffed. "I'm not afraid of anything, but you said yourself that we ought not to let Orman know about—about you and me."

"No," she acquiesced thoughtfully, "that wouldn't be so good. He's got a nasty temper, and there's lots of things a director can do if he gets sore."

"In a picture like this he could get a guy killed and make it look like an accident," said Obroski.

She nodded. "Yes. I saw it done once. The director and the leading man were both stuck on the same girl. The director had the wrong command given to a trained elephant."

Obroski looked uncomfortable. "Do you suppose there's any chance of his coming over?"

"Not now. He'll be dead to the world 'til morning."

"Where's Rhonda?"

"Oh, she's probably playing contract with Bill West and Baine and old man Marcus. She'd play contract and let me lie here and die all alone."

"Is she all right?"

"What do you mean, all right?"

"She wouldn't tell Orman about us—about my being over here—would she?"

"No, she wouldn't do that—she ain't that kind."

Obroski breathed a sigh of relief. "She knows about us, don't she?"

"She ain't very bright; but she ain't a fool, either. The only trouble with Rhonda is, she's got it in her head she can act since she doubled for me while I was down with the fever. Some one handed her some applesauce, and now she thinks she's some pumpkins. She had the nerve to tell me that I'd get credit for what she did. Believe me, she won't get past the cutting room when I get back to Hollywood—not if I know my groceries and Milt Smith."

"There couldn't anybody act like you, Naomi," said Obroski. "Why, before I ever dreamed I'd be in pictures I used to go see everything you were in. I got an album full of your pictures I cut out of movie magazines and newspapers. And now to think that I'm playin' in the same company with you, and that"—he lowered his voice—"you love me! You do love me, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Then I don't see why you have to act so sweet on Orman."

"I got to be diplomatic—I got to think of my career."

"Well, sometimes you act like you were in love with him," he said, petulantly.

"That answer to a bootlegger's dream! Say, if he wasn't a big director I couldn't see him with a hundred-inch telescope."

In the far distance a wailing scream echoed through the blackness of the night, a lion rumbled forth a thunderous answer, the hideous, mocking voice of a hyena joined the chorus.

The girl shuddered. "God! I'd give a million dollars to be back in Hollywood."

"They sound like lost souls out there in the night," whispered Obroski.

"And they're calling to us. They're waiting for us. They know that we'll come, and then they'll get us."

The flap of the tent moved, and Obroski jumped to his feet with a nervous start. The girl sat straight up on her cot, wide-eyed. The flap was pulled back, and Rhonda Terry stepped into the light of the lone lantern.

"Hello, there!" she exclaimed cheerily.

"I wish you'd scratch before you come in," snapped Naomi. "You gave me a start."

"If we have to camp this close to the black belt every night we'll all be scratching." She turned to Obroski. "Run along home now; it's time all little Lion Men were in bed."

"I was just going," said Obroski. "I—"

"You'd better. I just saw Tom Orman reeling in this direction."

Obroski paled. "Well, I'll be running along," he said hurriedly, while making a quick exit.

Naomi Madison looked distinctly worried. "Did you really see Tom out there?" she demanded.

"Sure. He was wallowing around like the Avalon in a heavy sea."

"But they said he went to bed."

"If he did, he took his bottle to bed with him."

Orman's voice came to them from outside. "Hey, you! Come back here!"

"Is that you, Mr. Orman?" Obroski's voice quavered noticeably.

"Yes, it's me. What you doin' in the girls' tent? Didn't I give orders that none of you guys was to go into that tent?"

"I was just lookin' for Rhonda. I wanted to ask her something."

"You're a liar. Rhonda wasn't there. I just saw her go in. You been in there with Naomi. I've got a good mind to bust your jaw."

"Honestly, Mr. Orman, I was just in there a minute. When I found Rhonda wasn't there I came right out."

"You came right out after Rhonda went in, you dirty, sneakin' skunk; and now you listen to me. You lay off Naomi. She's my girl. If I ever find you monkeyin' around her again I'll kill you. Do you get that?"

"Yes, sir."

Rhonda looked at Naomi and winked. "Papa cross; papa spank," she said.

"My God! he'll kill me," shuddered Naomi.

The flap of the tent was thrust violently aside, and Orman burst into the tent. Rhonda wheeled and faced him.

"What do you mean by coming into our tent?" she demanded. "Get out of here!"

Orman's jaw dropped. He was not accustomed to being talked to like that, and it took him off his feet. He was as surprised as might be a pit bull slapped in the face by a rabbit. He stood swaying at the entrance for a moment, staring at Rhonda as though he had discovered a new species of animal.

"I just wanted to speak to Naomi," he said. "I didn't know you were here."

"You can speak to Naomi in the morning. And you did know that I was here; I heard you tell Stanley."

At the mention of Obroski's name Orman's anger welled up again. "That's what I'm goin' to talk to her about." He took a step in the direction of Naomi's cot. "Now look here, you dirty little tramp," he yelled, "you can't make a monkey of me. If I ever catch you playin' around with that Polack again I'll beat you into a pulp."

Naomi shrank back, whimpering. "Don't touch me! I didn't do anything. You got it all wrong, Tom. He didn't come here to see me; he came to see Rhonda. Don't let him get me, Rhonda; for God's sake, don't let him get me."

Orman hesitated and looked at Rhonda. "Is that on the level?" he asked.

"Sure," she replied; "he came to see me. I asked him to come."

"Then why didn't he stay after you came in?" Orman thought he had her there.

"I saw you coming, and I told him to beat it."

"Well, you got to cut it out," snapped Orman. "There's to be no more men in this tent—do your visiting outside."

"That suits me," said Rhonda. "Good-night."

As Orman departed, the Madison sank back on her cot trembling. "Phew!" she whispered after she thought the man was out of hearing; "that was a close shave." She did not thank Rhonda. Her selfish egotism accepted any service as her rightful due.

"Listen," said the other girl. "I'm hired to double for you in pictures, not in your love affairs. After this, watch your step."

Orman saw a light in the tent occupied by West and one of the other cameramen. He walked over to it and went in. West was undressing. "Hello, Tom!" he said. "What brings you around? Anything wrong?"

"There ain't now, but there was. I just run that dirty Polack out of the girls' tent. He was over there with Rhonda."

West paled. "I don't believe it."

"You callin' me a liar?" demanded Orman.

"Yes, you and any one else who says that."

Orman shrugged. "Well, she told me so herself—said she asked him over and made him scram when she saw me coming. That stuff's got to stop, and I told her so. I told the Polack too—the damn pansy;" then he lurched out and headed for his own tent.

Bill West lay awake until almost morning.

While the camp slept, a bronzed white giant, naked but for a loin cloth, surveyed it—sometimes from the branches of overhanging trees, again from the ground inside the circle of the sentries. Then, he moved among the tents of the whites and the shelters of the blacks as soundlessly as a shadow. He saw everything, he heard much. With the coming of dawn he melted away into the mist that enveloped the forest.

It was long before dawn that the camp commenced to stir. Major White had snatched a few hours sleep after midnight. He was up early routing out the cooks, getting the whites up so that their tents could be struck for an early start, directing the packing and loading by Kwamudi's men. It was then that he learned that fully twenty-five of the porters had deserted during the night.

He questioned the sentries, but none had seen any one leave the camp during the night. He knew that some of them lied. When Orman came out of his tent he told him what had happened.

The director shrugged. "We still got more niggers than we need anyway."

"If we have any more trouble with the Bansutos today, we'll have more desertions tonight," White warned. "They may all leave in spite of Kwamudi, and if we're left in this country without porters I wouldn't give a fig for our chances of ever getting out.

"I still think, Mr. Orman, that the sensible thing would be to turn back and make a detour. Our situation is extremely grave."

"Well, turn back if you want to, and take the niggers with you," growled Orman. "I'm going on with the trucks and the company." He turned and walked away.

The whites were gathering at the mess table—a long table that accommodated them all. In the dim light of the coming dawn and the mist rising from the ground figures at a little distance appeared spectral, and the illusion was accentuated by the silence of the company. Every one was cold and sleepy. They were apprehensive too of what the day held for them. Memory of the black soldiers, pierced by poisoned arrows, writhing on the ground was too starkly present in every mind.

Hot coffee finally thawed them out a bit. It was Pat O'Grady who thawed first. "Good morning, dear teacher, good morning to you," he sang in an attempt to reach a childish treble.

"Ain't we got fun!" exclaimed Rhonda Terry. She glanced down the table and saw Bill West. She wondered a little, because he had always sat beside her before. She tried to catch his eye and smile at him, but he did not look in her direction—he seemed to be trying to avoid her glance.

"Let us eat and drink and be merry; for tomorrow we die," misquoted Gordon Z. Marcus.

"That's not funny," said Baine.

"On second thought I quite agree with you," said Marcus. "I loosed a careless shaft at humor and hit truth—"

"Right between the eyes," said Clarence Noice.

"Some of us may not have to wait until tomorrow," offered Obroski; "some of us may get it today." His voice sounded husky.

"Can that line of chatter!" snapped Orman. "If you're scared, keep it to yourself."

"I'm not scared," said Obroski.

"The Lion Man scared? Don't be foolish." Baine winked at Marcus. "I tell you, Tom, what we ought to do now that we're in this bad country. It's funny no one thought of it before."

"What's that?" asked Orman.

"We ought to send the Lion Man out ahead to clear the way for the rest of us; he'd just grab these Bansutos and break 'em in two if they got funny."

"That's not a bad idea," replied Orman grimly. "How about it, Obroski?"

Obroski grinned weakly. "I'd like to have the author of that story here and send him out," he said.

"Some of those smokes had good sense anyway," volunteered a truck driver at the foot of the table.

"How come?" asked a neighbor.

"Hadn't you heard? About twenty-five or thirty of 'em pulled their freight out of here—they beat it back for home."

"Those bimbos must know," said another; "this is their country."

"That's what we ought to do," growled another—"get out of here and go back."

"Shut up!" snapped Orman. "You guys make me sick. Who ever picked this outfit for me must have done it in a pansy bed."

Naomi Madison was sitting next to him. She turned her frightened eyes up to him. "Did some of the blacks really run away last night?" she asked.

"For Pete's sake! don't you start in too," he exclaimed; then he got up and stamped away from the table.

At the foot of the table some one muttered something that sounded like that epithet which should always be accompanied with a smile; but it was not.

By ones and twos they finished their breakfasts and went about their duties. They went in silence without the customary joking that had marked the earlier days of the expedition.

Rhonda and Naomi gathered up the hand baggage that they always took in the car with them and walked over to the machine. Baine was at the wheel warming up the motor. Gordon Z. Marcus was stowing a make-up case in the front of the car.

"Where's Bill?" asked Rhonda.

"He's going with the camera truck today," explained Baine.

"That's funny," commented Rhonda. It suddenly occurred to her that he was avoiding her, and she wondered why. She tried to recall anything that she had said or done that might have offended him, but she could not. She felt strangely sad.

Some of the trucks had commenced to move toward the river. The Arabs and a detachment of askaris had already crossed to guard the passage of the trucks.

"They're going to send the generator truck across first," explained Baine. "If they get her across the rest will be easy. If they don't, we'll have to turn back."

"I hope it gets stuck so fast they never get it out," said the Madison.

The crossing of the river, which Major White had anticipated with many misgivings, was accomplished with ease; for the bottom was rocky and the banks sloping and firm. There was no sign of the Bansutos, and no attack was made on the column as it wound its way into the forest ahead.

All morning they moved on with comparative ease, retarded only by the ordinary delays consequent upon clearing a road for the big trucks where trees had to be thinned. The underbrush they bore down beneath them, flattening it out into a good road for the lighter cars that followed.

Spirits became lighter as the day progressed without revealing any sign of the Bansutos. There was a noticeable relaxation. Conversation increased and occasionally a laugh was heard. Even the blacks seemed to be returning to normal. Perhaps they had noticed that Orman no longer carried his whip, nor did he take any part in the direction of the march.

He and White were on foot with the advance guard, both men constantly alert for any sign of danger. There was still considerable constraint in their manner, and they spoke to one another only as necessity required.

The noon-day stop for lunch passed and the column took up its snakelike way through the forest once more. The ring of axes against wood ahead was accompanied by song and laughter. Already the primitive minds of the blacks had cast off the fears that had assailed them earlier in the day.

Suddenly, without warning, a dozen feathered missiles sped from the apparently deserted forest around them. Two blacks fell. Major White, walking beside Orman, clutched at a feathered shaft protruding from his breast and fell at Orman's feet. The askaris and the Arabs fired blindly into the forest. The column came to a sudden halt.

"Again!" whispered Rhonda Terry.

Naomi Madison screamed and slipped to the floor of the car. Rhonda opened the door and stepped out onto the ground.

"Get back in, Rhonda!" cried Baine. "Get under cover."

The girl shook her head as though the suggestion irritated her. "Where is Bill?" she asked. "Is he up in front?"

"Not way up," replied Baine; "only a few cars ahead of us."

The men all along the line of cars slipped to the ground with their rifles and stood searching the forest to right and left for some sign of an enemy.

A man was crawling under a truck.

"What the hell are you doing, Obroski?" demanded Noice.

"I—I'm going to lie in the shade until we start again."

Noice made a vulgar sound with his lips and tongue.

In the rear of the column Pat O'Grady stopped whistling. He dropped back with the askaris guarding the rear. They had faced about and were nervously peering into the forest. A man from the last truck joined them and stood beside O'Grady.

"Wish we could get a look at 'em once," he said.

"It's tough tryin' to fight a bunch of guys you don't ever see," said O'Grady.

"It sort of gets a guy's nanny," offered the other. "I wonder who they got up in front this time."

O'Grady shook his head.

"It'll be our turn next; it was yesterday," said the man.

O'Grady looked at him. He saw that he was not afraid—he was merely stating what he believed to be a fact. "Can't ever tell," he said. "If it's a guy's time, he'll get it; if it isn't, he won't."

"Do you believe that? I wish I did."

"Sure—why not? It's pleasanter. I don't like worryin'."

"I don't know," said the other dubiously. "I ain't superstitious." He paused and lighted a cigarette.

"Neither am I," said O'Grady.

"I got one of my socks on wrong side out this morning," the man volunteered thoughtfully.

"You didn't take it off again, did you?" inquired O'Grady.

"No."

"That's right; you shouldn't."

Word was passed back along the line that Major White and two askaris had been killed. O'Grady cursed. "The major was a swell guy," he said. "He was worth all the lousy coons in Africa. I hope I get a chance to get some of 'em for this."

The porters were nervous, frightened, sullen. Kwamudi came up to O'Grady. "Black boys not go on," he said. "They turn back—go home."

"They better stick with us," O'Grady told him. "If they turn back they'll all be killed; they won't have a lot of us guys with rifles to fight for 'em. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this Bansuto country. You better advise 'em to stick, Kwamudi."

Kwamudi grumbled and walked away.

"That was just a bluff," O'Grady confided to the other white. "I don't believe they'd turn back through this Bansuto country alone."

Presently the column got under way again, and Kwamudi and his men marched with it.

Up in front they had laid the bodies of Major White and the two blacks on top of one of the loads to give them decent burial at the next camp. Orman marched well in advance with set, haggard face. The askaris were nervous and held back. The party of blacks clearing the road for the leading truck was on the verge of mutiny. The Arabs lagged behind. They had all had confidence in White, and his death had taken the heart out of them. They remembered Orman's lash and his cursing tongue; they would not have followed him at all had it not been for his courage. That was so evident that it commanded their respect.

He didn't curse them now. He talked to them as he should have from the first. "We've got to go on," he said. "If we turn back we'll be worse off. Tomorrow we ought to be out of this."

He used violence only when persuasion failed. An axe man refused to work and started for the rear. Orman knocked him down and then kicked him back onto the job. That was something they could all understand. It was right because it was just. Orman knew that the lives of two hundred people depended upon every man sticking to his job, and he meant to see that they stuck.

The rear of the column was not attacked that day, but just before they reached a camping place another volley of arrows took its toll from the head of the column. This time three men died, and an arrow knocked Orman's sun helmet from his head.

It was a gloomy company that made camp late that afternoon. The death of Major White had brought their own personal danger closer to the white members of the party. Before this they had felt a certain subconscious sense of immunity, as though the poisoned arrows of the Bansutos could deal death only to black men. Now they were quick to the horror of their own situation. Who would be next? How many of them were asking themselves this question!

Atewy, the Arab, taking advantage of his knowledge of English, often circulated among the Americans, asking questions, gossiping. They had become so accustomed to him that they thought nothing of his presence among them; nor did his awkward attempts at joviality suggest to them that he might be playing a part for the purpose of concealing ulterior motives, though it must have been apparent to the least observing that by nature Atewy was far from jovial.

He was, however, cunning; so he hid the fact that his greatest interest lay in the two girl members of the company. Nor did he ever approach them unless men of their own race were with them.

This afternoon Rhonda Terry was writing at a little camp table in front of her tent, for it was not yet dark. Gordon Z. Marcus had stopped to chat with her. Atewy from the corners of his eyes noted this and strolled casually closer.

"Turning literary, Rhonda?" inquired Marcus.

The girl looked up and smiled. "Trying to bring my diary up to date."

"I fear that it will prove a most lugubrious document."

"Whatever that is. Oh, by the way!" She picked up a folded paper. "I just found this map in my portfolio. In the last scene we shot they were taking close-ups of me examining it. I wonder if they want it again—I'd like to swipe it for a souvenir."

As she unfolded the paper Atewy moved closer, a new light burning in his eyes.

"Keep it," suggested Marcus, "until they ask you for it. Perhaps they're through with it. It's a most authentic looking thing, isn't it? I wonder if they made it in the studio."

"No. Bill says that Joe found it between the leaves of a book he bought in a secondhand book store. When he was commissioned to write this story it occurred to him to write it around this old map. It is intriguing, isn't it? Almost makes one believe that it would be easy to find a valley of diamonds." She folded the map and replaced it in her portfolio. Hawklike, the swarthy Atewy watched her.

Marcus regarded her with his kindly eyes. "You were speaking of Bill," he said. "What's wrong with you two children? He used to be with you so much."

With a gesture Rhonda signified her inability to explain. "I haven't the remotest idea," she said. "He just avoids me as though I were some particular variety of pollen to which he reacted. Do I give you hives or hay fever?"

Marcus laughed. "I can imagine, Rhonda, that you might induce high temperatures in the male of the species; but to suggest hives or hay fever—that would be sacrilege."

Naomi Madison came from the tent. Her face was white and drawn. "My God!" she exclaimed. "How can you people joke at such a time? Why, any minute any of us may be killed!"

"We must keep up our courage," said Marcus. "We cannot do it by brooding over our troubles and giving way to our sorrows."

"Pulling a long face isn't going to bring back Major White or those other poor fellows," said Rhonda. "Every one knows how sorry every one feels about it; we don't have to wear crêpe to prove that."

"Well, we might be respectful until after the funeral anyway," snapped Naomi.

"Don't be stupid," said Rhonda, a little tartly.

"When are they going to bury them, Mr. Marcus?" asked Naomi.

"Not until after dark. They don't want the Bansutos to see where they're buried."

The girl shuddered. "What a horrible country! I feel that I shall never leave it—alive."

"You certainly won't leave it dead." Rhonda, who seldom revealed her emotions, evinced a trace of exasperation.

The Madison sniffed. "They would never bury me here. My public would never stand for that. I shall lie in state in Hollywood."

"Come, come!" exclaimed Marcus. "You girls must not dwell on such morbid, depressing subjects. We must all keep our minds from such thoughts. How about a rubber of contract before supper? We'll just about have time."

"I'm for it," agreed Rhonda.

"You would be," sneered the Madison; "you have no nerves. But no bridge for me at such a time. I am too highly organized, too temperamental. I think that is the way with all true artistes, don't you, Mr. Marcus? We are like high-strung thoroughbreds."

"Well," laughed Rhonda, running her arm through Marcus's, "I guess we'll have to go and dig up a couple more skates if we want a rubber before supper. Perhaps we could get Bill and Jerrold. Neither of them would ever take any prizes in a horse show."

They found Bill West pottering around his cameras. He declined their invitation glumly. "You might get Obroski," he suggested, "if you can wake him up."

Rhonda shot a quick glance at him through narrowed lids. "Another thoroughbred," she said, as she walked away. And to herself she thought, "That's the second crack he's made about Obroski. All right, I'll show him!"

"Where to now, Rhonda?" inquired Marcus.

"You dig up Jerrold; I'm going to find Obroski. We'll have a game yet."

They did, and it so happened that their table was set where Bill West could not but see them. It seemed to Marcus that Rhonda laughed a little more than was usual and a little more than was necessary.

That night white men and black carried each their own dead into the outer darkness beyond the range of the camp fires and buried them. The graves were smoothed over and sprinkled with leaves and branches, and the excess dirt was carried to the opposite side of the camp where it was formed in little mounds that looked like graves.

The true graves lay directly in the line of march of the morrow. The twenty-three trucks and the five passenger cars would obliterate the last trace of the new-made graves.

The silent men working in the dark hoped that they were unseen by prying eyes; but long into the night a figure lay above the edge of the camp, hidden by the concealing foliage of a great tree, and observed all that took place below. Then, when the last of the white men had gone to bed, it melted silently into the somber depths of the forest.

Toward morning Orman lay sleepless on his army cot. He had tried to read to divert his mind from the ghastly procession of thoughts that persisted despite his every effort to sleep or to think of other things. In the light of the lantern that he had placed near his head harsh shadows limned his face as a drawn and haggard mask.

From his cot on the opposite side of the tent Pat O'Grady opened his eyes and surveyed his chief. "Hell, Tom," he said, "you better get some sleep or you'll go nuts."

"I can't sleep," replied Orman wearily. "I keep seein' White. I killed him. I killed all those blacks."

"Hooey!" scoffed O'Grady. "It wasn't any more your fault than it was the studio's. They sent you out here to make a picture, and you did what you thought was the thing to do. There can't nobody blame you."

"It was my fault all right. White warned me not to come this way. He was right; and I knew he was right, but I was too damn pig-headed to admit it."

"What you need is a drink. It'll brace you up and put you to sleep."

"I've quit."

"It's all right to quit; but don't quit so sudden—taper off."

Orman shook his head. "I ain't blamin' it on the booze," he said; "there's no one nor nothing to blame but me—but if I hadn't been drinkin' this would never have happened, and White and those other poor devils would have been alive now."

"One won't hurt, Tom; you need it."

Orman lay silent in thought for a moment; then he threw aside the mosquito bar and stood up. "Perhaps you're right, Pat," he said.

He stepped to a heavy, well-worn pigskin bag that stood at the foot of his cot and, stooping, took out a fat bottle and a tumbler. He shook a little as he filled the latter to the brim.

O'Grady grinned. "I said one drink, not four."

Slowly Orman raised the tumbler toward his lips. He held it there for a moment looking at it; then his vision seemed to pass beyond it, pass through the canvas wall of the tent out into the night toward the new-made graves.

With an oath, he hurled the full tumbler to the ground; the bottle followed it, breaking into a thousand pieces.

"That's goin' to be hell on bare feet," remarked O'Grady.

"I'm sorry, Pat," said Orman; then he sat down wearily on the edge of his cot and buried his face in his hands.

O'Grady sat up, slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and crossed the tent. He sat down beside his friend and threw an arm about his shoulders. "Buck up, Tom!" That was all he said, but the pressure of the friendly arm was more strengthening than many words or many drinks.

From somewhere out in the night came the roar of a lion and a moment later a blood-curdling cry that seemed neither that of beast nor man.

"Sufferin' cats!" ejaculated O'Grady. "What was that?"

Orman had raised his head and was listening. "Probably some more grief for us," he replied forebodingly.

They sat silent for a moment then, listening.

"I wonder what could make such a noise," O'Grady spoke in hushed tones.

"Pat," Orman's tone was serious, "do you believe in ghosts?"

O'Grady hesitated before he replied. "I don't know—but I've seen some funny things in my time."

"So have I," said Orman.

But perhaps of all that they could conjure to their minds nothing so strange as the reality; for how could they know that they had heard the victory cry of an English lord and a great lion who had just made their kill together?

The cold and gloomy dawn but reflected the spirits of the company as the white men dragged themselves lethargically from their blankets. But the first to view the camp in the swiftly coming daylight were galvanized into instant wakefulness by what it revealed.

Bill West was the first to suspect what had happened. He looked wonderingly about for a moment and then started, almost at a run, for the crude shelters thrown up by the blacks the previous evening.

He called aloud to Kwamudi and several others whose names he knew, but there was no response. He looked into shelter after shelter, and always the results were the same. Then he hurried over to Orman's tent. The director was just coming out as West ran up. O'Grady was directly behind him.

"What's the matter with breakfast?" demanded the latter. "I don't see a sign of the cooks."

"And you won't," said West; "they've gone, ducked, vamoosed. If you want breakfast, you'll cook it yourself."

"What do you mean gone, Bill?" asked Orman.

"The whole kit and kaboodle of 'em have run out on us," explained the cameraman. "There's not a smoke in camp. Even the askaris have beat it. The camp's unguarded, and God only knows how long it has been."

"Come!" Orman's inflection registered incredulity. "But they couldn't! Where have they gone?"

"Search me," replied West. "They've taken a lot of our supplies with 'em too. From what little I saw I guess they outfitted themselves to the queen's taste. I noticed a couple of trucks that looked like they'd been rifled."

Orman swore softly beneath his breath; but he squared his shoulders, and the haggard, hang-dog expression he had worn vanished from his face. O'Grady had been looking at him with a worried furrow in his brow; now he gave a sigh of relief and grinned—the Chief was himself again.

"Rout every one out," Orman directed. "Have the drivers check their loads. You attend to that, Bill, while Pat posts a guard around the camp. I see old el-Gran'ma'am and his bunch are still with us. You better put them on guard duty, Pat. Then round up every one else at the mess tables for a palaver."

While his orders were being carried out Orman walked about the camp making a hurried survey. His brain was clear. Even the effects of a sleepless night seemed to have been erased by this sudden emergency call upon his resources. He no longer wasted his nervous energy upon vain regrets, though he was still fully conscious of the fact that this serious predicament was of his own making.

When he approached the mess table five minutes later the entire company was assembled there talking excitedly about the defection of the blacks and offering various prophecies as to the future, none of which were particularly roseate.

Orman overheard one remark. "It took a case of Scotch to get us into this mess, but Scotch won't ever get us out of it."

"You all know what has happened," Orman commenced; "and I guess you all know why it happened, but criminations won't help matters. Our situation really isn't so hopeless. We have men, provisions, arms, and transportation. Because the coons deserted us doesn't mean that we've got to sit down here and kiss ourselves good-bye.

"Nor is there any use in turning around now and going back—the shortest way out of the Bansuto country is straight ahead. When we get out of it we can recruit more blacks from friendly tribes and go ahead with the picture.

"In the meantime every one has got to work and work hard. We have got to do the work the blacks did before—make camp, strike camp, unload and load, cook, cut trail, drag trucks through mud holes, stand guard on the march and in camp. That part and trail cutting will be dangerous, but every one will have to take his turn at it—every one except the girls and the cooks; they're the most important members of the safari." A hint of one of Orman's old smiles touched his lips and eyes.

"Now," he continued, "the first thing to do is eat. Who can cook?"

"I can like nobody's business," said Rhonda Terry.

"I'll vouch for that," said Marcus. "I've eaten a chicken dinner with all the trimmings at Rhonda's apartment."

"I can cook," spoke up a male voice.

Every one turned to see who had spoken; he was the only man that had volunteered for the only safe assignment.

"When did you learn to cook, Obroski?" demanded Noice. "I went camping with you once; and you couldn't even build a fire, let alone cook on one after some one else had built it."

Obroski flushed. "Well, some one's got to help Rhonda," he said lamely, "and no one else offered to."

"Jimmy, here, can cook," offered an electrician. "He used to be assistant chef in a cafeteria in L. A."

"I don't want to cook," said Jimmy. "I don't want no cinch job. I served in the Marines in Nicaragua. Gimme a gun, and let me do guard duty."

"Who else can cook?" demanded Orman. "We need three."

"Shorty can cook," said a voice from the rear. "He used to run a hot-dog stand on Ventura Boulevard."

"O.K.!" said Orman. "Miss Terry is chief cook; Jimmy and Shorty will help her; Pat will detail three more for K.P. every day. Now get busy. While the cooks are rustling some grub the rest of you strike the tents and load the trucks."

"Oh, Tom," said Naomi Madison at his elbow, "my personal boy has run away with the others. I wish you would detail one of the men to take his place."

Orman wheeled and looked at her in astonishment. "I'd forgotten all about you, Naomi. I'm glad you reminded me. If you can't cook, and I don't suppose you can, you'll peel spuds, wait on the tables, and help wash dishes."

For a moment the Madison looked aghast; then she smiled icily. "I suppose you think you are funny," she said, "but really this is no time for joking."

"I'm not joking, Naomi." His tone was serious, his face unsmiling.

"Do you mean to say that you expect me, Naomi Madison, to peel potatoes, wait on tables, and wash dishes! Don't be ridiculous—I shall do nothing of the kind."

"Be yourself, Naomi! Before Milt Smith discovered you you were slinging hash in a joint on Main Street; and you'll do it again here, or you won't eat." He turned and walked away.