The Return of Tarzan by Edgar Rice Burroughs (i love reading txt) 📖

and he was not sorry that chance had played into his hands thus favorably to relieve him of the petty tortures of the tribe. Shortly after this he was taken to a goatskin tent upon the upper side of the DOUAR. There he was fed, and then, securely bound, was left lying on a piece of native carpet, alone in the tent.

He could see a guard sitting before the door of his frail prison, but when he attempted to force the stout bonds that held him he realized that any extra precaution on the part of his captors was quite unnecessary; not even his giant muscles could part those numerous strands.

Just before dusk several men approached the tent where he lay, and entered it. All were in Arab dress, but presently one of the number advanced to Tarzan’s side, and as he let the folds of cloth that had hidden the lower half of his face fall away the ape-man saw the malevolent features of Nikolas Rokoff. There was a nasty smile on the bearded lips. “Ah, Monsieur Tarzan,” he said, “this is indeed a pleasure. But why do you not rise and greet your guest?” Then, with an ugly oath, “Get up, you dog!” and, drawing back his booted foot, he kicked Tarzan heavily in the side. “And here is another, and another, and another,” he continued, as he kicked Tarzan about the face and side. “One for each of the injuries you have done me.”

The ape-man made no reply—he did not even deign to look upon the Russian again after the first glance of recognition. Finally the sheik, who had been standing a mute and frowning witness of the cowardly attack, intervened.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Kill him if you will, but I will see no brave man subjected to such indignities in my presence. I have half a mind to turn him loose, that I may see how long you would kick him then.”

This threat put a sudden end to Rokoff’s brutality, for he had no craving to see Tarzan loosed from his bonds while he was within reach of those powerful hands.

“Very well,” he replied to the Arab; “I shall kill him presently.”

“Not within the precincts of my DOUAR,” returned the sheik. “When he leaves here he leaves alive. What you do with him in the desert is none of my concern, but I shall not have the blood of a Frenchman on the hands of my tribe on account of another man’s quarrel—they would send soldiers here and kill many of my people, and burn our tents and drive away our flocks.”

“As you say,” growled Rokoff. “I’ll take him out into the desert below the DOUAR, and dispatch him.”

“You will take him a day’s ride from my country,” said the sheik, firmly, “and some of my children shall follow you to see that you do not disobey me—otherwise there may be two dead Frenchmen in the desert.”

Rokoff shrugged. “Then I shall have to wait until the morrow—it is already dark.”

“As you will,” said the sheik. “But by an hour after dawn you must be gone from my DOUAR. I have little liking for unbelievers, and none at all for a coward.”

Rokoff would have made some kind of retort, but he checked himself, for he realized that it would require but little excuse for the old man to turn upon him. Together they left the tent. At the door Rokoff could not resist the temptation to turn and fling a parting taunt at Tarzan. “Sleep well, monsieur,” he said, “and do not forget to pray well, for when you die tomorrow it will be in such agony that you will be unable to pray for blaspheming.”

No one had bothered to bring Tarzan either food or water since noon, and consequently he suffered considerably from thirst. He wondered if it would be worth while to ask his guard for water, but after making two or three requests without receiving any response, he decided that it would not.

Far up in the mountains he heard a lion roar. How much safer one was, he soliloquized, in the haunts of wild beasts than in the haunts of men. Never in all his jungle life had he been more relentlessly tracked down than in the past few months of his experience among civilized men. Never had he been any nearer death.

Again the lion roared. It sounded a little nearer. Tarzan felt the old, wild impulse to reply with the challenge of his kind. His kind? He had almost forgotten that he was a man and not an ape. He tugged at his bonds. God, if he could but get them near those strong teeth of his. He felt a wild wave of madness sweep over him as his efforts to regain his liberty met with failure.

Numa was roaring almost continually now. It was quite evident that he was coming down into the desert to hunt. It was the roar of a hungry lion. Tarzan envied him, for he was free. No one would tie him with ropes and slaughter him like a sheep. It was that which galled the ape-man. He did not fear to die, no—it was the humiliation of defeat before death, without even a chance to battle for his life.

It must be near midnight, thought Tarzan. He had several hours to live. Possibly he would yet find a way to take Rokoff with him on the long journey. He could hear the savage lord of the desert quite close by now. Possibly he sought his meat from among the penned animals within the DOUAR.

For a long time silence reigned, then Tarzan’s trained ears caught the sound of a stealthily moving body. It came from the side of the tent nearest the mountains—the back. Nearer and nearer it came. He waited, listening intently, for it to pass. For a time there was silence without, such a terrible silence that Tarzan was surprised that he did not hear the breathing of the animal he felt sure must be crouching close to the back wall of his tent.

There! It is moving again. Closer it creeps. Tarzan turns his head in the direction of the sound. It is very dark within the tent. Slowly the back rises from the ground, forced up by the head and shoulders of a body that looks all black in the semidarkness. Beyond is a faint glimpse of the dimly starlit desert. A grim smile plays about Tarzan’s lips. At least Rokoff will be cheated. How mad he will be! And death will be more merciful than he could have hoped for at the hands of the Russian.

Now the back of the tent drops into place, and all is darkness again—whatever it is is inside the tent with him. He hears it creeping close to him—now it is beside him. He closes his eyes and waits for the mighty paw. Upon his upturned face falls the gentle touch of a soft hand groping in the dark, and then a girl’s voice in a scarcely audible whisper pronounces his name.

“Yes, it is I,” he whispers in reply. “But in the name of Heaven who are you?”

“The Ouled-Nail of Sisi Aissa,” came the answer. While she spoke Tarzan could feel her working about his bonds. Occasionally the cold steel of a knife touched his flesh. A moment later he was free.

“Come!” she whispered.

On hands and knees he followed her out of the tent by the way she had come. She continued crawling thus flat to the ground until she reached a little patch of shrub. There she halted until he gained her side. For a moment he looked at her before he spoke.

“I cannot understand,” he said at last. “Why are you here? How did you know that I was a prisoner in that tent? How does it happen that it is you who have saved me?”

She smiled. “I have come a long way tonight,” she said, “and we have a long way to go before we shall be out of danger. Come; I shall tell you all about as we go.”

Together they rose and set off across the desert in the direction of the mountains.

“I was not quite sure that I should ever reach you,” she said at last. “EL ADREA is abroad tonight, and after I left the horses I think he winded me and was following—I was terribly frightened.”

“What a brave girl,” he said. “And you ran all that risk for a stranger—an alien—an unbeliever?”

She drew herself up very proudly.

“I am the daughter of the Sheik Kabour ben Saden,” she answered. “I should be no fit daughter of his if I would not risk my life to save that of the man who saved mine while he yet thought that I was but a common Ouled-Nail.”

“Nevertheless,” he insisted, “you are a very brave girl. But how did you know that I was a prisoner back there?”

“Achmet-din-Taieb, who is my cousin on my father’s side, was visiting some friends who belong to the tribe that captured you. He was at the DOUAR when you were brought in. When he reached home he was telling us about the big Frenchman who had been captured by Ali-ben-Ahmed for another Frenchman who wished to kill him. From the description I knew that it must be you. My father was away. I tried to persuade some of the men to come and save you, but they would not do it, saying: `Let the unbelievers kill one another if they wish. It is none of our affair, and if we go and interfere with Ali-ben-Ahmed’s plans we shall only stir up a fight with our own people.’

“So when it was dark I came alone, riding one horse and leading another for you. They are tethered not far from here. By morning we shall be within my father’s DOUAR. He should be there himself by now—then let them come and try to take Kadour ben Saden’s friend.”

For a few moments they walked on in silence.

“We should be near the horses,” she said. “It is strange that I do not see them here.”

Then a moment later she stopped, with a little cry of consternation.

“They are gone!” she exclaimed. “It is here that I tethered them.”

Tarzan stooped to examine the ground. He found that a large shrub had been torn up by the roots. Then he found something else. There was a wry smile on his face as he rose and turned toward the girl.

“EL ADREA has been here. From the signs, though, I rather think that his prey escaped him. With a little start they would be safe enough from him in the open.”

There was nothing to do but continue on foot. The way led them across a low spur of the mountains, but the girl knew the trail as well as she did her mother’s face. They walked in easy, swinging strides, Tarzan keeping a hand’s breadth behind the girl’s shoulder, that she might set the pace, and thus be less fatigued. As they walked they talked, occasionally stopping to listen for sounds of pursuit.

It was now a beautiful, moonlit night. The air was crisp and invigorating. Behind them lay the interminable vista of the desert, dotted here and there with an occasional oasis. The date palms of the little fertile spot they had just left, and the circle of goatskin tents, stood out in sharp relief against the yellow sand—a phantom paradise upon a phantom sea. Before them rose the grim and silent mountains. Tarzan’s blood leaped in his veins. This was life! He looked down upon the girl beside him—a daughter of the desert walking across the face of a dead world with a son of the jungle. He smiled at