Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar
By Edgar Rice Burroughs
1
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.
