1

Tarzan, the Jewels of Opar

by Edgar R. Burroughs

1, TARZAN, THE JEWELS OF OPAR by Edgar R. Burroughs
An eText from LiteratureClassics.com.

Please see the eText readme for important copyright information (available from the options menu above if you are browsing online or as a separate file in the archive if you are browsing offline.)



Belgian and Arab


Lieutenant Albert Werper had only the prestige of the name
he had dishonored to thank for his narrow escape from
being cashiered. At first he had been humbly thankful,
too, that they had sent him to this Godforsaken Congo post
instead of court-martialing him, as he had so justly deserved;
but now six months of the monotony, the frightful isolation and
the loneliness had wrought a change. The young man brooded
continually over his fate. His days were filled with morbid
self-pity, which eventually engendered in his weak and
vacillating mind a hatred for those who had sent him here--
for the very men he had at first inwardly thanked for saving him
from the ignominy of degradation.

He regretted the gay life of Brussels as he never had
regretted the sins which had snatched him from that
gayest of capitals, and as the days passed he came to
center his resentment upon the representative in Congo
land of the authority which had exiled him--his captain
and immediate superior.

This officer was a cold, taciturn man, inspiring little
love in those directly beneath him, yet respected and
feared by the black soldiers of his little command.

Werper was accustomed to sit for hours glaring at his
superior as the two sat upon the veranda of their
common quarters, smoking their evening cigarets in a
silence which neither seemed desirous of breaking.
The senseless hatred of the lieutenant grew at last into a
form of mania. The captain's natural taciturnity he
distorted into a studied attempt to insult him because
of his past shortcomings. He imagined that his
superior held him in contempt, and so he chafed and
fumed inwardly until one evening his madness became
suddenly homicidal. He fingered the butt of the
revolver at his hip, his eyes narrowed and his brows
contracted. At last he spoke.

"You have insulted me for the last time!" he cried,
springing to his feet. "I am an officer and a
gentleman, and I shall put up with it no longer without
an accounting from you, you pig."

The captain, an expression of surprise upon his
features, turned toward his junior. He had seen men
before with the jungle madness upon them--the madness
of solitude and unrestrained brooding, and perhaps a
touch of fever.

He rose and extended his hand to lay it upon the
other's shoulder. Quiet words of counsel were upon his
lips; but they were never spoken. Werper construed his
superior's action into an attempt to close with him.
His revolver was on a level with the captain's heart,
and the latter had taken but a step when Werper pulled
the trigger. Without a moan the man sank to the rough
planking of the veranda, and as he fell the mists that
had clouded Werper's brain lifted, so that he saw
himself and the deed that he had done in the same light
that those who must judge him would see them.

He heard excited exclamations from the quarters of the
soldiers and he heard men running in his direction.
They would seize him, and if they didn't kill him they
would take him down the Congo to a point where a
properly ordered military tribunal would do so just as
effectively, though in a more regular manner.

Werper had no desire to die. Never before had he so
yearned for life as in this moment that he had so
effectively forfeited his right to live. The men were
nearing him. What was he to do? He glanced about as
though searching for the tangible form of a legitimate
excuse for his crime; but he could find only the body
of the man he had so causelessly shot down.

In despair, he turned and fled from the oncoming
soldiery. Across the compound he ran, his revolver
still clutched tightly in his hand. At the gates a
sentry halted him. Werper did not pause to parley or
to exert the influence of his commission--he merely
raised his weapon and shot down the innocent black. A
moment later the fugitive had torn open the gates and
vanished into the blackness of the jungle, but not
before he had transferred the rifle and ammunition
belts of the dead sentry to his own person.

All that night Werper fled farther and farther into the
heart of the wilderness. Now and again the voice of a
lion brought him to a listening halt; but with cocked
and ready rifle he pushed ahead again, more fearful of
the human huntsmen in his rear than of the wild
carnivora ahead.

Dawn came at last, but still the man plodded on.
All sense of hunger and fatigue were lost in the terrors
of contemplated capture. He could think only of escape.
He dared not pause to rest or eat until there was no
further danger from pursuit, and so he staggered on
until at last he fell and could rise no more. How long
he had fled he did not know, or try to know. When he
could flee no longer the knowledge that he had reached
his limit was hidden from him in the unconsciousness of
utter exhaustion.

And thus it was that Achmet Zek, the Arab, found him.
Achmet's followers were for running a spear through the
body of their hereditary enemy; but Achmet would have
it otherwise. First he would question the Belgian.
It were easier to question a man first and kill him
afterward, than kill him first and then question him.

So he had Lieutenant Albert Werper carried to his own
tent, and there slaves administered wine and food in
small quantities until at last the prisoner regained
consciousness. As he opened his eyes he saw the faces
of strange black men about him, and just outside the
tent the figure of an Arab. Nowhere was the uniform of
his soldiers to be seen.

The Arab turned and seeing the open eyes of the
prisoner upon him, entered the tent.

"I am Achmet Zek," he announced. "Who are you, and
what were you doing in my country? Where are your
soldiers?"

Achmet Zek! Werper's eyes went wide, and his heart
sank. He was in the clutches of the most notorious of
cut-throats--a hater of all Europeans, especially those
who wore the uniform of Belgium. For years the
military forces of Belgian Congo had waged a fruitless
war upon this man and his followers--a war in which
quarter had never been asked nor expected by either
side.

But presently in the very hatred of the man for
Belgians, Werper saw a faint ray of hope for himself.
He, too, was an outcast and an outlaw. So far, at
least, they possessed a common interest, and Werper
decided to play upon it for all that it might yield.

"I have heard of you," he replied, "and was searching
for you. My people have turned against me. I hate
them. Even now their soldiers are searching for me,
to kill me. I knew that you would protect me from them,
for you, too, hate them. In return I will take service
with you. I am a trained soldier. I can fight, and
your enemies are my enemies."

Achmet Zek eyed the European in silence. In his mind
he revolved many thoughts, chief among which was that
the unbeliever lied. Of course there was the chance
that he did not lie, and if he told the truth then his
proposition was one well worthy of consideration, since
fighting men were never over plentiful--especially
white men with the training and knowledge of military
matters that a European officer must possess.

Achmet Zek scowled and Werper's heart sank; but Werper
did not know Achmet Zek, who was quite apt to scowl
where another would smile, and smile where another
would scowl.

"And if you have lied to me," said Achmet Zek, "I will
kill you at any time. What return, other than your
life, do you expect for your services?"

"My keep only, at first," replied Werper. "Later, if I
am worth more, we can easily reach an understanding."
Werper's only desire at the moment was to preserve his
life. And so the agreement was reached and Lieutenant
Albert Werper became a member of the ivory and slave
raiding band of the notorious Achmet Zek.

For months the renegade Belgian rode with the savage
raider. He fought with a savage abandon, and a vicious
cruelty fully equal to that of his fellow desperadoes.
Achmet Zek watched his recruit with eagle eye, and with
a growing satisfaction which finally found expression
in a greater confidence in the man, and resulted in an
increased independence of action for Werper.

Achmet Zek took the Belgian into his confidence to a
great extent, and at last unfolded to him a pet scheme
which the Arab had long fostered, but which he never
had found an opportunity to effect. With the aid of a
European, however, the thing might be easily
accomplished. He sounded Werper.

"You have heard of the man men call Tarzan?" he asked.

Werper nodded. "I have heard of him; but I do not know
him."

"But for him we might carry on our 'trading' in safety
and with great profit," continued the Arab. "For years
he has fought us, driving us from the richest part of
the country, harassing us, and arming the natives that
they may repel us when we come to 'trade.' He is very
rich. If we could find some way to make him pay us
many pieces of gold we should not only be avenged upon
him; but repaid for much that he has prevented us from
winning from the natives under his protection."

Werper withdrew a cigaret from a jeweled case and
lighted it.

"And you have a plan to make him pay?" he asked.

"He has a wife," replied Achmet Zek, "whom men say is
very beautiful. She would bring a great price farther
north, if we found it too difficult to collect ransom
money from this Tarzan."

Werper bent his head in thought. Achmet Zek stood
awaiting his reply. What good remained in Albert
Werper revolted at the thought of selling a white woman
into the slavery and degradation of a Moslem harem.
He looked up at Achmet Zek. He saw the Arab's eyes
narrow, and he guessed that the other had sensed his
antagonism to the plan. What would it mean to Werper to
refuse? His life lay in the hands of this semi-barbarian,
who esteemed the life of an unbeliever less
highly than that of a dog. Werper loved life. What
was this woman to him, anyway? She was a European,
doubtless, a member of organized society. He was an
outcast. The hand of every white man was against him.
She was his natural enemy, and if he refused to lend
himself to her undoing, Achmet Zek would have him
killed.

"You hesitate," murmured the Arab.

"I was but weighing the chances of success," lied
Werper, "and my reward. As a European I can gain
admittance to their home and table. You have no other
with you who could do so much. The risk will be great.
I should be well paid, Achmet Zek."

A smile of relief passed over the raider's face.

"Well said, Werper," and Achmet Zek slapped his
lieutenant upon the shoulder. "You should be well paid
and you shall. Now let us sit together and plan how
best the thing may be done," and the two men squatted
upon a soft rug beneath the faded silks of Achmet's
once gorgeous tent, and talked together in low voices
well into the night. Both were tall and bearded, and
the exposure to sun and wind had given an almost Arab
hue to the European's complexion. In every detail of
dress, too, he copied the fashions of his chief, so
that outwardly he was as much an Arab as the other.
It was late when he arose and retired to his own tent.

The following day Werper spent in overhauling his
Belgian uniform, removing from it every vestige of
evidence that might indicate its military purposes.
From a heterogeneous collection of loot, Achmet Zek
procured a pith helmet and a European saddle, and from
his black slaves and followers a party of porters,
askaris and tent boys to make up a modest safari for a
big game hunter. At the head of this party Werper set
out from camp.