21
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.
