21

Tarzan, the Jewels of Opar

by Edgar R. Burroughs

21, TARZAN, THE JEWELS OF OPAR by Edgar R. Burroughs
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The Flight to the Jungle


Sleepless upon his blankets, Albert Werper let his evil
mind dwell upon the charms of the woman in the nearby
tent. He had noted Mohammed Beyd's sudden interest in
the girl, and judging the man by his own standards, had
guessed at the basis of the Arab's sudden change of
attitude toward the prisoner.

And as he let his imaginings run riot they aroused
within him a bestial jealousy of Mohammed Beyd, and a
great fear that the other might encompass his base
designs upon the defenseless girl. By a strange
process of reasoning, Werper, whose designs were
identical with the Arab's, pictured himself as Jane
Clayton's protector, and presently convinced himself
that the attentions which might seem hideous to her
if proffered by Mohammed Beyd, would be welcomed from
Albert Werper.

Her husband was dead, and Werper fancied that he could
replace in the girl's heart the position which had been
vacated by the act of the grim reaper. He could offer
Jane Clayton marriage--a thing which Mohammed Beyd
would not offer, and which the girl would spurn from
him with as deep disgust as she would his unholy lust.

It was not long before the Belgian had succeeded in
convincing himself that the captive not only had every
reason for having conceived sentiments of love for him;
but that she had by various feminine methods
acknowledged her new-born affection.

And then a sudden resolution possessed him. He threw
the blankets from him and rose to his feet. Pulling on
his boots and buckling his cartridge belt and revolver
about his hips he stepped to the flap of his tent and
looked out. There was no sentry before the entrance to
the prisoner's tent! What could it mean? Fate was
indeed playing into his hands.

Stepping outside he passed to the rear of the girl's
tent. There was no sentry there, either! And now,
boldly, he walked to the entrance and stepped within.

Dimly the moonlight illumined the interior. Across the
tent a figure bent above the blankets of a bed. There
was a whispered word, and another figure rose from the
blankets to a sitting position. Slowly Albert Werper's
eyes were becoming accustomed to the half darkness of
the tent. He saw that the figure leaning over the bed
was that of a man, and he guessed at the truth of the
nocturnal visitor's identity.

A sullen, jealous rage enveloped him. He took a step
in the direction of the two. He heard a frightened cry
break from the girl's lips as she recognized the
features of the man above her, and he saw Mohammed Beyd
seize her by the throat and bear her back upon the
blankets.

Cheated passion cast a red blur before the eyes of the
Belgian. No! The man should not have her. She was for
him and him alone. He would not be robbed of his rights.

Quickly he ran across the tent and threw himself upon
the back of Mohammed Beyd. The latter, though
surprised by this sudden and unexpected attack, was not
one to give up without a battle. The Belgian's fingers
were feeling for his throat, but the Arab tore them
away, and rising wheeled upon his adversary. As they
faced each other Werper struck the Arab a heavy blow in
the face, sending him staggering backward. If he had
followed up his advantage he would have had Mohammed
Beyd at his mercy in another moment; but instead he
tugged at his revolver to draw it from its holster, and
Fate ordained that at that particular moment the weapon
should stick in its leather scabbard.

Before he could disengage it, Mohammed Beyd had
recovered himself and was dashing upon him. Again
Werper struck the other in the face, and the Arab
returned the blow. Striking at each other and
ceaselessly attempting to clinch, the two battled
about the small interior of the tent, while the girl,
wide-eyed in terror and astonishment, watched the
duel in frozen silence.

Again and again Werper struggled to draw his weapon.
Mohammed Beyd, anticipating no such opposition to his
base desires, had come to the tent unarmed, except for
a long knife which he now drew as he stood panting
during the first brief rest of the encounter.

"Dog of a Christian," he whispered, "look upon this
knife in the hands of Mohammed Beyd! Look well,
unbeliever, for it is the last thing in life that you
shall see or feel. With it Mohammed Beyd will cut out
your black heart. If you have a God pray to him now--
in a minute more you shall be dead," and with that he
rushed viciously upon the Belgian, his knife raised
high above his head.

Werper was still dragging futilely at his weapon. The
Arab was almost upon him. In desperation the European
waited until Mohammed Beyd was all but against him,
then he threw himself to one side to the floor of the
tent, leaving a leg extended in the path of the Arab.

The trick succeeded. Mohammed Beyd, carried on by the
momentum of his charge, stumbled over the projecting
obstacle and crashed to the ground. Instantly he was
up again and wheeling to renew the battle; but Werper
was on foot ahead of him, and now his revolver,
loosened from its holster, flashed in his hand.

The Arab dove headfirst to grapple with him, there was
a sharp report, a lurid gleam of flame in the darkness,
and Mohammed Beyd rolled over and over upon the floor
to come to a final rest beside the bed of the woman he
had sought to dishonor.

Almost immediately following the report came the sound
of excited voices in the camp without. Men were
calling back and forth to one another asking the
meaning of the shot. Werper could hear them running
hither and thither, investigating.

Jane Clayton had risen to her feet as the Arab died,
and now she came forward with outstretched hands toward
Werper.

"How can I ever thank you, my friend?" she asked.
"And to think that only today I had almost believed the
infamous story which this beast told me of your perfidy
and of your past. Forgive me, M. Frecoult. I might
have known that a white man and a gentleman could be
naught else than the protector of a woman of his own
race amid the dangers of this savage land."

Werper's hands dropped limply at his sides. He stood
looking at the girl; but he could find no words to
reply to her. Her innocent arraignment of his true
purposes was unanswerable.

Outside, the Arabs were searching for the author of
the disturbing shot. The two sentries who had been
relieved and sent to their blankets by Mohammed Beyd
were the first to suggest going to the tent of the
prisoner. It occurred to them that possibly the woman
had successfully defended herself against their leader.

Werper heard the men approaching. To be apprehended as
the slayer of Mohammed Beyd would be equivalent to a
sentence of immediate death. The fierce and brutal
raiders would tear to pieces a Christian who had dared
spill the blood of their leader. He must find some
excuse to delay the finding of Mohammed Beyd's dead
body.

Returning his revolver to its holster, he walked
quickly to the entrance of the tent. Parting the flaps
he stepped out and confronted the men, who were rapidly
approaching. Somehow he found within him the necessary
bravado to force a smile to his lips, as he held up his
hand to bar their farther progress.

"The woman resisted," he said, "and Mohammed Beyd was
forced to shoot her. She is not dead--only slightly
wounded. You may go back to your blankets. Mohammed
Beyd and I will look after the prisoner;" then he
turned and re-entered the tent, and the raiders,
satisfied by this explanation, gladly returned to their
broken slumbers.

As he again faced Jane Clayton, Werper found himself
animated by quite different intentions than those which
had lured him from his blankets but a few minutes
before. The excitement of his encounter with Mohammed
Beyd, as well as the dangers which he now faced at the
hands of the raiders when morning must inevitably
reveal the truth of what had occurred in the tent of
the prisoner that night, had naturally cooled the hot
passion which had dominated him when he entered the
tent.

But another and stronger force was exerting itself in
the girl's favor. However low a man may sink, honor
and chivalry, has he ever possessed them, are never
entirely eradicated from his character, and though
Albert Werper had long since ceased to evidence the
slightest claim to either the one or the other, the
spontaneous acknowledgment of them which the girl's
speech had presumed had reawakened them both within
him.

For the first time he realized the almost hopeless and
frightful position of the fair captive, and the depths
of ignominy to which he had sunk, that had made it
possible for him, a well-born, European gentleman, to
have entertained even for a moment the part that he had
taken in the ruin of her home, happiness, and herself.

Too much of baseness already lay at the threshold of
his conscience for him ever to hope entirely to redeem
himself; but in the first, sudden burst of contrition
the man conceived an honest intention to undo, in so
far as lay within his power, the evil that his criminal
avarice had brought upon this sweet and unoffending
woman.

As he stood apparently listening to the retreating
footsteps--Jane Clayton approached him.

"What are we to do now?" she asked. "Morning will
bring discovery of this," and she pointed to the still
body of Mohammed Beyd. "They will kill you when they
find him."

For a time Werper did not reply, then he turned
suddenly toward the woman.

"I have a plan," he cried. "It will require nerve and
courage on your part; but you have already shown that
you possess both. Can you endure still more?"

"I can endure anything," she replied with a brave
smile, "that may offer us even a slight chance for
escape."

"You must simulate death," he explained, "while I carry
you from the camp. I will explain to the sentries that
Mohammed Beyd has ordered me to take your body into the
jungle. This seemingly unnecessary act I shall explain
upon the grounds that Mohammed Beyd had conceived a
violent passion for you and that he so regretted the
act by which he had become your slayer that he could
not endure the silent reproach of your lifeless body."

The girl held up her hand to stop. A smile touched her
lips.

"Are you quite mad?" she asked. "Do you imagine that
the sentries will credit any such ridiculous tale?"

"You do not know them," he replied. "Beneath their
rough exteriors, despite their calloused and criminal
natures, there exists in each a well-defined strain of
romantic emotionalism--you will find it among such as
these throughout the world. It is romance which lures
men to lead wild lives of outlawry and crime. The ruse
will succeed--never fear."

Jane Clayton shrugged. "We can but try it--and then
what?"

"I shall hide you in the jungle," continued the
Belgian, "coming for you alone and with two horses in
the morning."

"But how will you explain Mohammed Beyd's death?" she
asked. "It will be discovered before ever you can
escape the camp in the morning."

"I shall not explain it," replied Werper. "Mohammed
Beyd shall explain it himself--we must leave that to
him. Are you ready for the venture?"

"Yes."

"But wait, I must get you a weapon and ammunition,"
and Werper walked quickly from the tent.

Very shortly he returned with an extra revolver and
ammunition belt strapped about his waist.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Quite ready," replied the girl.

"Then come and throw yourself limply across my left
shoulder," and Werper knelt to receive her.

"There," he said, as he rose to his feet. "Now, let
your arms, your legs and your head hang limply.
Remember that you are dead."

A moment later the man walked out into the camp, the
body of the woman across his shoulder.

A thorn boma had been thrown up about the camp, to
discourage the bolder of the hungry carnivora. A
couple of sentries paced to and fro in the light of a
fire which they kept burning brightly. The nearer of
these looked up in surprise as he saw Werper approaching.

"Who are you?" he cried. "What have you there?"

Werper raised the hood of his burnoose that the fellow
might see his face.

"This is the body of the woman," he explained.
"Mohammed Beyd has asked me to take it into the jungle,
for he cannot bear to look upon the face of her whom he
loved, and whom necessity compelled him to slay. He
suffers greatly--he is inconsolable. It was with
difficulty that I prevented him taking his own life."

Across the speaker's shoulder, limp and frightened, the
girl waited for the Arab's reply. He would laugh at
this preposterous story; of that she was sure. In an
instant he would unmask the deception that M. Frecoult
was attempting to practice upon him, and they would
both be lost. She tried to plan how best she might aid
her would-be rescuer in the fight which must most
certainly follow within a moment or two.

Then she heard the voice of the Arab as he replied to
M. Frecoult.

"Are you going alone, or do you wish me to awaken
someone to accompany you?" he asked, and his tone
denoted not the least surprise that Mohammed Beyd had
suddenly discovered such remarkably sensitive
characteristics.

"I shall go alone," replied Werper, and he passed on
and out through the narrow opening in the boma, by
which the sentry stood.

A moment later he had entered among the boles of the
trees with his burden, and when safely hidden from the
sentry's view lowered the girl to her feet, with a low,
"sh-sh," when she would have spoken.

Then he led her a little farther into the forest,
halted beneath a large tree with spreading branches,
buckled a cartridge belt and revolver about her waist,
and assisted her to clamber into the lower branches.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, "as soon as I can elude them,
I will return for you. Be brave, Lady Greystoke--we
may yet escape."

"Thank you," she replied in a low tone. "You have been
very kind, and very brave."

Werper did not reply, and the darkness of the night hid
the scarlet flush of shame which swept upward across
his face. Quickly he turned and made his way back to
camp. The sentry, from his post, saw him enter his own
tent; but he did not see him crawl under the canvas at
the rear and sneak cautiously to the tent which the
prisoner had occupied, where now lay the dead body of
Mohammed Beyd.

Raising the lower edge of the rear wall, Werper crept
within and approached the corpse. Without an instant's
hesitation he seized the dead wrists and dragged the
body upon its back to the point where he had just
entered. On hands and knees he backed out as he had
come in, drawing the corpse after him. Once outside
the Belgian crept to the side of the tent and surveyed
as much of the camp as lay within his vision--no one
was watching.

Returning to the body, he lifted it to his shoulder,
and risking all on a quick sally, ran swiftly across
the narrow opening which separated the prisoner's tent
from that of the dead man. Behind the silken wall he
halted and lowered his burden to the ground, and there
he remained motionless for several minutes, listening.

Satisfied, at last, that no one had seen him, he
stooped and raised the bottom of the tent wall, backed
in and dragged the thing that had been Mohammed Beyd
after him. To the sleeping rugs of the dead raider he
drew the corpse, then he fumbled about in the darkness
until he had found Mohammed Beyd's revolver. With the
weapon in his hand he returned to the side of the dead
man, kneeled beside the bedding, and inserted his right
hand with the weapon beneath the rugs, piled a number
of thicknesses of the closely woven fabric over and
about the revolver with his left hand. Then he pulled
the trigger, and at the same time he coughed.

The muffled report could not have been heard above the
sound of his cough by one directly outside the tent.
Werper was satisfied. A grim smile touched his lips as
he withdrew the weapon from the rugs and placed it
carefully in the right hand of the dead man, fixing
three of the fingers around the grip and the index
finger inside the trigger guard.

A moment longer he tarried to rearrange the disordered
rugs, and then he left as he had entered, fastening
down the rear wall of the tent as it had been before he
had raised it.

Going to the tent of the prisoner he removed there also
the evidence that someone might have come or gone
beneath the rear wall. Then he returned to his own
tent, entered, fastened down the canvas, and crawled
into his blankets.

The following morning he was awakened by the excited
voice of Mohammed Beyd's slave calling to him at the
entrance of his tent.

"Quick! Quick!" cried the black in a frightened tone.
"Come! Mohammed Beyd is dead in his tent--dead by his
own hand."

Werper sat up quickly in his blankets at the first
alarm, a startled expression upon his countenance; but
at the last words of the black a sigh of relief escaped
his lips and a slight smile replaced the tense lines
upon his face.

"I come," he called to the slave, and drawing on his
boots, rose and went out of his tent.

Excited Arabs and blacks were running from all parts of
the camp toward the silken tent of Mohammed Beyd, and
when Werper entered he found a number of the raiders
crowded about the corpse, now cold and stiff.

Shouldering his way among them, the Belgian halted
beside the dead body of the raider. He looked down in
silence for a moment upon the still face, then he
wheeled upon the Arabs.

"Who has done this thing?" he cried. His tone was both
menacing and accusing. "Who has murdered Mohammed Beyd?"

A sudden chorus of voices arose in tumultuous protest.

"Mohammed Beyd was not murdered," they cried. "He died
by his own hand. This, and Allah, are our witnesses,"
and they pointed to a revolver in the dead man's hand.

For a time Werper pretended to be skeptical; but at
last permitted himself to be convinced that Mohammed
Beyd had indeed killed himself in remorse for the death
of the white woman he had, all unknown to his
followers, loved so devotedly.

Werper himself wrapped the blankets of the dead man
about the corpse, taking care to fold inward the
scorched and bullet-torn fabric that had muffled the
report of the weapon he had fired the night before.
Then six husky blacks carried the body out into the
clearing where the camp stood, and deposited it in a
shallow grave. As the loose earth fell upon the silent
form beneath the tell-tale blankets, Albert Werper
heaved another sigh of relief--his plan had worked out
even better than he had dared hope.

With Achmet Zek and Mohammed Beyd both dead, the
raiders were without a leader, and after a brief
conference they decided to return into the north on
visits to the various tribes to which they belonged,
Werper, after learning the direction they intended
taking, announced that for his part, he was going east
to the coast, and as they knew of nothing he possessed
which any of them coveted, they signified their
willingness that he should go his way.

As they rode off, he sat his horse in the center of the
clearing watching them disappear one by one into the
jungle, and thanked his God that he had at last escaped
their villainous clutches.

When he could no longer hear any sound of them, he
turned to the right and rode into the forest toward the
tree where he had hidden Lady Greystoke, and drawing
rein beneath it, called up in a gay and hopeful voice a
pleasant, "Good morning!"

There was no reply, and though his eyes searched the
thick foliage above him, he could see no sign of the
girl. Dismounting, he quickly climbed into the tree,
where he could obtain a view of all its branches. The
tree was empty--Jane Clayton had vanished during the
silent watches of the jungle night.