Chapter 5

Son of Tarzan

by Edgar R. Burroughs

CHAPTER 5, SON OF TARZAN by Edgar R. Burroughs
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Captain Armand Jacot of the Foreign Legion sat upon an
outspread saddle blanket at the foot of a stunted palm tree.
His broad shoulders and his close-cropped head rested in
luxurious ease against the rough bole of the palm. His long
legs were stretched straight before him overlapping the meager
blanket, his spurs buried in the sandy soil of the little
desert oasis. The captain was taking his ease after a long
day of weary riding across the shifting sands of the desert.

Lazily he puffed upon his cigarette and watched his orderly
who was preparing his evening meal. Captain Armand Jacot was
well satisfied with himself and the world. A little to his right
rose the noisy activity of his troop of sun-tanned veterans,
released for the time from the irksome trammels of discipline,
relaxing tired muscles, laughing, joking, and smoking as they,
too, prepared to eat after a twelve-hour fast. Among them, silent
and taciturn, squatted five white-robed Arabs, securely bound
and under heavy guard.

It was the sight of these that filled Captain Armand Jacot with
the pleasurable satisfaction of a duty well-performed. For a
long, hot, gaunt month he and his little troop had scoured the
places of the desert waste in search of a band of marauders to
the sin-stained account of which were charged innumerable thefts
of camels, horses, and goats, as well as murders enough to have
sent the whole unsavory gang to the guillotine several times over.

A week before, he had come upon them. In the ensuing battle
he had lost two of his own men, but the punishment inflicted
upon the marauders had been severe almost to extinction. A half
dozen, perhaps, had escaped; but the balance, with the exception
of the five prisoners, had expiated their crimes before the nickel
jacketed bullets of the legionaries. And, best of all, the ring
leader, Achmet ben Houdin, was among the prisoners.

From the prisoners Captain Jacot permitted his mind to traverse
the remaining miles of sand to the little garrison post where,
upon the morrow, he should find awaiting him with eager welcome
his wife and little daughter. His eyes softened to the memory
of them, as they always did. Even now he could see the beauty
of the mother reflected in the childish lines of little Jeanne's
face, and both those faces would be smiling up into his as he
swung from his tired mount late the following afternoon.
Already he could feel a soft cheek pressed close to each of
his--velvet against leather.

His reverie was broken in upon by the voice of a sentry summoning
a non-commissioned officer. Captain Jacot raised his eyes.
The sun had not yet set; but the shadows of the few trees
huddled about the water hole and of his men and their horses
stretched far away into the east across the now golden sand.
The sentry was pointing in this direction, and the corporal,
through narrowed lids, was searching the distance. Captain Jacot
rose to his feet. He was not a man content to see through the eyes
of others. He must see for himself. Usually he saw things long
before others were aware that there was anything to see--a trait
that had won for him the sobriquet of Hawk. Now he saw, just
beyond the long shadows, a dozen specks rising and falling
among the sands. They disappeared and reappeared, but always
they grew larger. Jacot recognized them immediately. They were
horsemen--horsemen of the desert. Already a sergeant was running
toward him. The entire camp was straining its eyes into the distance.
Jacot gave a few terse orders to the sergeant who saluted, turned
upon his heel and returned to the men. Here he gathered a dozen
who saddled their horses, mounted and rode out to meet the strangers.
The remaining men disposed themselves in readiness for instant action.
It was not entirely beyond the range of possibilities that the
horsemen riding thus swiftly toward the camp might be friends of
the prisoners bent upon the release of their kinsmen by a
sudden attack. Jacot doubted this, however, since the strangers
were evidently making no attempt to conceal their presence.
They were galloping rapidly toward the camp in plain view
of all. There might be treachery lurking beneath their fair
appearance; but none who knew The Hawk would be so gullible as
to hope to trap him thus.

The sergeant with his detail met the Arabs two hundred yards
from the camp. Jacot could see him in conversation with a
tall, white-robed figure--evidently the leader of the band.
Presently the sergeant and this Arab rode side by side toward camp.
Jacot awaited them. The two reined in and dismounted before him.

"Sheik Amor ben Khatour," announced the sergeant by way
of introduction.

Captain Jacot eyed the newcomer. He was acquainted with nearly
every principal Arab within a radius of several hundred miles.
This man he never had seen. He was a tall, weather beaten, sour
looking man of sixty or more. His eyes were narrow and evil.
Captain Jacot did not relish his appearance.

"Well?" he asked, tentatively.

The Arab came directly to the point.

"Achmet ben Houdin is my sister's son," he said. "If you
will give him into my keeping I will see that he sins no more
against the laws of the French."

Jacot shook his head. "That cannot be," he replied. "I must
take him back with me. He will be properly and fairly tried by
a civil court. If he is innocent he will be released."

"And if he is not innocent?" asked the Arab.

"He is charged with many murders. For any one of these, if
he is proved guilty, he will have to die."

The Arab's left hand was hidden beneath his burnous. Now he
withdrew it disclosing a large goatskin purse, bulging and
heavy with coins. He opened the mouth of the purse and let a
handful of the contents trickle into the palm of his right hand--
all were pieces of good French gold. From the size of the purse
and its bulging proportions Captain Jacot concluded that it must
contain a small fortune. Sheik Amor ben Khatour dropped the
spilled gold pieces one by one back into the purse. Jacot was
eyeing him narrowly. They were alone. The sergeant, having
introduced the visitor, had withdrawn to some little distance--
his back was toward them. Now the sheik, having returned all
the gold pieces, held the bulging purse outward upon his open
palm toward Captain Jacot.

"Achmet ben Houdin, my sister's son, MIGHT escape tonight,"
he said. "Eh?"

Captain Armand Jacot flushed to the roots of his close-cropped hair.
Then he went very white and took a half-step toward the Arab.
His fists were clenched. Suddenly he thought better of whatever
impulse was moving him.

"Sergeant!" he called. The non-commissioned officer hurried toward
him, saluting as his heels clicked together before his superior.

"Take this black dog back to his people," he ordered. "See that
they leave at once. Shoot the first man who comes within range
of camp tonight."

Sheik Amor ben Khatour drew himself up to his full height.
His evil eyes narrowed. He raised the bag of gold level with the
eyes of the French officer.

"You will pay more than this for the life of Achmet ben Houdin,
my sister's son," he said. "And as much again for the name that
you have called me and a hundred fold in sorrow in the bargain."

"Get out of here!" growled Captain Armand Jacot, "before
I kick you out."

All of this happened some three years before the opening of this tale.
The trail of Achmet ben Houdin and his accomplices is a matter of
record--you may verify it if you care to. He met the death he
deserved, and he met it with the stoicism of the Arab.

A month later little Jeanne Jacot, the seven-year-old daughter
of Captain Armand Jacot, mysteriously disappeared. Neither the
wealth of her father and mother, or all the powerful resources
of the great republic were able to wrest the secret of her
whereabouts from the inscrutable desert that had swallowed her
and her abductor.

A reward of such enormous proportions was offered that many
adventurers were attracted to the hunt. This was no case for the
modern detective of civilization, yet several of these threw
themselves into the search--the bones of some are already
bleaching beneath the African sun upon the silent sands of
the Sahara.

Two Swedes, Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn, after three years of
following false leads at last gave up the search far to the south
of the Sahara to turn their attention to the more profitable
business of ivory poaching. In a great district they were already
known for their relentless cruelty and their greed for ivory.
The natives feared and hated them. The European governments in
whose possessions they worked had long sought them; but,
working their way slowly out of the north they had learned many
things in the no-man's-land south of the Sahara which gave them
immunity from capture through easy avenues of escape that were
unknown to those who pursued them. Their raids were sudden
and swift. They seized ivory and retreated into the trackless
wastes of the north before the guardians of the territory they
raped could be made aware of their presence. Relentlessly they
slaughtered elephants themselves as well as stealing ivory from
the natives. Their following consisted of a hundred or more
renegade Arabs and Negro slaves--a fierce, relentless band of
cut-throats. Remember them--Carl Jenssen and Sven Malbihn,
yellow-bearded, Swedish giants--for you will meet them later.


In the heart of the jungle, hidden away upon the banks of a
small unexplored tributary of a large river that empties into the
Atlantic not so far from the equator, lay a small, heavily
palisaded village. Twenty palm-thatched, beehive huts sheltered
its black population, while a half-dozen goat skin tents in the
center of the clearing housed the score of Arabs who found shelter
here while, by trading and raiding, they collected the cargoes which
their ships of the desert bore northward twice each year to the
market of Timbuktu.

Playing before one of the Arab tents was a little girl of ten--a
black-haired, black-eyed little girl who, with her nut-brown skin
and graceful carriage looked every inch a daughter of the desert.
Her little fingers were busily engaged in fashioning a skirt of
grasses for a much-disheveled doll which a kindly disposed slave
had made for her a year or two before. The head of the doll was
rudely chipped from ivory, while the body was a rat skin stuffed
with grass. The arms and legs were bits of wood, perforated at
one end and sewn to the rat skin torso. The doll was quite
hideous and altogether disreputable and soiled, but Meriem
thought it the most beautiful and adorable thing in the whole
world, which is not so strange in view of the fact that it was
the only object within that world upon which she might bestow
her confidence and her love.

Everyone else with whom Meriem came in contact was, almost
without exception, either indifferent to her or cruel. There was,
for example, the old black hag who looked after her, Mabunu--
toothless, filthy and ill tempered. She lost no opportunity
to cuff the little girl, or even inflict minor tortures upon her,
such as pinching, or, as she had twice done, searing the tender
flesh with hot coals. And there was The Sheik, her father.
She feared him more than she did Mabunu. He often scolded her
for nothing, quite habitually terminating his tirades by cruelly
beating her, until her little body was black and blue.

But when she was alone she was happy, playing with Geeka, or
decking her hair with wild flowers, or making ropes of grasses.
She was always busy and always singing--when they left her alone.
No amount of cruelty appeared sufficient to crush the innate
happiness and sweetness from her full little heart. Only when
The Sheik was near was she quiet and subdued. Him she feared
with a fear that was at times almost hysterical terror. She feared
the gloomy jungle too--the cruel jungle that surrounded the little
village with chattering monkeys and screaming birds by day and the
roaring and coughing and moaning of the carnivora by night.
Yes, she feared the jungle; but so much more did she fear The Sheik
that many times it was in her childish head to run away, out into
the terrible jungle forever rather than longer to face the ever
present terror of her father.

As she sat there this day before The Sheik's goatskin tent,
fashioning a skirt of grasses for Geeka, The Sheik appeared
suddenly approaching. Instantly the look of happiness faded
from the child's face. She shrunk aside in an attempt to scramble
from the path of the leathern-faced old Arab; but she was not
quick enough. With a brutal kick the man sent her sprawling
upon her face, where she lay quite still, tearless but trembling.
Then, with an oath at her, the man passed into the tent. The old,
black hag shook with appreciative laughter, disclosing an occasional
and lonesome yellow fang.

When she was sure The Sheik had gone, the little girl crawled
to the shady side of the tent, where she lay quite still, hugging
Geeka close to her breast, her little form racked at long intervals
with choking sobs. She dared not cry aloud, since that would
have brought The Sheik upon her again. The anguish in her little
heart was not alone the anguish of physical pain; but that
infinitely more pathetic anguish--of love denied a childish heart
that yearns for love.

Little Meriem could scarce recall any other existence than that
of the stern cruelty of The Sheik and Mabunu. Dimly, in the
back of her childish memory there lurked a blurred recollection
of a gentle mother; but Meriem was not sure but that even this
was but a dream picture induced by her own desire for the caresses
she never received, but which she lavished upon the much loved Geeka.
Never was such a spoiled child as Geeka. Its little mother,
far from fashioning her own conduct after the example set her by
her father and nurse, went to the extreme of indulgence. Geeka was
kissed a thousand times a day. There was play in which Geeka was
naughty; but the little mother never punished. Instead, she
caressed and fondled; her attitude influenced solely by her own
pathetic desire for love.

Now, as she pressed Geeka close to her, her sobs lessened
gradually, until she was able to control her voice, and pour
out her misery into the ivory ear of her only confidante.

"Geeka loves Meriem," she whispered. "Why does The Sheik,
my father, not love me, too? Am I so naughty? I try to
be good; but I never know why he strikes me, so I cannot tell
what I have done which displeases him. Just now he kicked me
and hurt me so, Geeka; but I was only sitting before the tent
making a skirt for you. That must be wicked, or he would not
have kicked me for it. But why is it wicked, Geeka? Oh dear!
I do not know, I do not know. I wish, Geeka, that I were dead.
Yesterday the hunters brought in the body of El Adrea.
El Adrea was quite dead. No more will he slink silently
upon his unsuspecting prey. No more will his great head and
his maned shoulders strike terror to the hearts of the grass
eaters at the drinking ford by night. No more will his
thundering roar shake the ground. El Adrea is dead.
They beat his body terribly when it was brought into the village;
but El Adrea did not mind. He did not feel the blows, for he
was dead. When I am dead, Geeka, neither shall I feel the blows
of Mabunu, or the kicks of The Sheik, my father. Then shall I
be happy. Oh, Geeka, how I wish that I were dead!"

If Geeka contemplated a remonstrance it was cut short by sounds
of altercation beyond the village gates. Meriem listened.
With the curiosity of childhood she would have liked to have run
down there and learn what it was that caused the men to talk
so loudly. Others of the village were already trooping in the
direction of the noise. But Meriem did not dare. The Sheik would
be there, doubtless, and if he saw her it would be but another
opportunity to abuse her, so Meriem lay still and listened.

Presently she heard the crowd moving up the street toward
The Sheik's tent. Cautiously she stuck her little head around
the edge of the tent. She could not resist the temptation,
for the sameness of the village life was monotonous, and she
craved diversion. What she saw was two strangers--white men.
They were alone, but as they approached she learned from the
talk of the natives that surrounded them that they possessed a
considerable following that was camped outside the village.
They were coming to palaver with The Sheik.

The old Arab met them at the entrance to his tent. His eyes
narrowed wickedly when they had appraised the newcomers.
They stopped before him, exchanging greetings. They had come
to trade for ivory they said. The Sheik grunted. He had no ivory.
Meriem gasped. She knew that in a near-by hut the great tusks
were piled almost to the roof. She poked her little head further
forward to get a better view of the strangers. How white their skins!
How yellow their great beards!

Suddenly one of them turned his eyes in her direction. She tried
to dodge back out of sight, for she feared all men; but he saw her.
Meriem noticed the look of almost shocked surprise that crossed
his face. The Sheik saw it too, and guessed the cause of it.

"I have no ivory," he repeated. "I do not wish to trade. Go away.
Go now."

He stepped from his tent and almost pushed the strangers
about in the direction of the gates. They demurred, and then
The Sheik threatened. It would have been suicide to have
disobeyed, so the two men turned and left the village, making
their way immediately to their own camp.

The Sheik returned to his tent; but he did not enter it. Instead he
walked to the side where little Meriem lay close to the goat skin
wall, very frightened. The Sheik stooped and clutched her by
the arm. Viciously he jerked her to her feet, dragged her to
the entrance of the tent, and shoved her viciously within.
Following her he again seized her, beating her ruthlessly.

"Stay within!" he growled. "Never let the strangers see thy face.
Next time you show yourself to strangers I shall kill you!"

With a final vicious cuff he knocked the child into a far corner
of the tent, where she lay stifling her moans, while The Sheik
paced to and fro muttering to himself. At the entrance sat Mabunu,
muttering and chuckling.

In the camp of the strangers one was speaking rapidly to the other.

"There is no doubt of it, Malbihn," he was saying. "Not the
slightest; but why the old scoundrel hasn't claimed the reward
long since is what puzzles me."

"There are some things dearer to an Arab, Jenssen, than
money," returned the first speaker--"revenge is one of them."

"Anyhow it will not harm to try the power of gold," replied Jenssen.

Malbihn shrugged.

"Not on The Sheik," he said. "We might try it on one of his
people; but The Sheik will not part with his revenge for gold.
To offer it to him would only confirm his suspicions that we must
have awakened when we were talking to him before his tent. If we
got away with our lives, then, we should be fortunate."

"Well, try bribery, then," assented Jenssen.

But bribery failed--grewsomely. The tool they selected after
a stay of several days in their camp outside the village was a
tall, old headman of The Sheik's native contingent. He fell to
the lure of the shining metal, for he had lived upon the coast
and knew the power of gold. He promised to bring them what they
craved, late that night.

Immediately after dark the two white men commenced to make
arrangements to break camp. By midnight all was prepared.
The porters lay beside their loads, ready to swing them
aloft at a moment's notice. The armed askaris loitered
between the balance of the safari and the Arab village,
ready to form a rear guard for the retreat that was to begin
the moment that the head man brought that which the white
masters awaited.

Presently there came the sound of footsteps along the path from
the village. Instantly the askaris and the whites were on
the alert. More than a single man was approaching. Jenssen stepped
forward and challenged the newcomers in a low whisper.

"Who comes?" he queried.

"Mbeeda," came the reply.

Mbeeda was the name of the traitorous head man. Jenssen was
satisfied, though he wondered why Mbeeda had brought others
with him. Presently he understood. The thing they fetched
lay upon a litter borne by two men. Jenssen cursed beneath
his breath. Could the fool be bringing them a corpse?
They had paid for a living prize!

The bearers came to a halt before the white men.

"This has your gold purchased," said one of the two. They set
the litter down, turned and vanished into the darkness toward
the village. Malbihn looked at Jenssen, a crooked smile twisting
his lips. The thing upon the litter was covered with a piece of cloth.

"Well?" queried the latter. "Raise the covering and see what
you have bought. Much money shall we realize on a corpse--
especially after the six months beneath the burning sun that will
be consumed in carrying it to its destination!"

"The fool should have known that we desired her alive,"
grumbled Malbihn, grasping a corner of the cloth and jerking
the cover from the thing that lay upon the litter.

At sight of what lay beneath both men stepped back--
involuntary oaths upon their lips--for there before them
lay the dead body of Mbeeda, the faithless head man.

Five minutes later the safari of Jenssen and Malbihn
was forcing its way rapidly toward the west, nervous askaris
guarding the rear from the attack they momentarily expected.