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Updated: May 16, 2025
Mbonga's warriors were terrified too terrified to leave the seeming security of their huts while they watched the beast-man spring full upon the back of their old chieftain. Mbonga went down with a scream of terror. He was too frightened even to attempt to defend himself. He just lay beneath his antagonist in a paralysis of fear, screaming at the top of his lungs.
As he traveled he reviewed, mentally, his armament the condition of his hunting knife, the number of his arrows, the newness of the gut which strung his bow he hefted the war spear which had once been the pride of some black warrior of Mbonga's tribe. If he met God, Tarzan would be prepared.
No, there was no excuse for it, and they turned back to their feeding, but with an eye upon the ape-man lest he be preparing to suddenly run amuck. As they watched him they saw him swing into a near-by tree and disappear from sight. Then they forgot him, even Teeka. Mbonga's black warriors, sweating beneath their strenuous task, and resting often, made slow progress toward their village.
"Who comes to Bukawai?" queried the voice. "It is Momaya," replied the woman; "Momaya from the village of Mbonga, the chief. "What do you want?" "I want good medicine, better medicine than Mbonga's witch-doctor can make," replied Momaya. "The great, white, jungle god has stolen my Tibo, and I want medicine to bring him back, or to find where he is hidden that I may go and get him."
Tarzan was as anxious to go as D'Arnot, for he longed to see Jane again. It had been hard for him to remain with the Frenchman all these days for that very reason, and that he had unselfishly done so spoke more glowingly of his nobility of character than even did his rescuing the French officer from Mbonga's clutches.
He could feel the wool stiffen upon his pate and a prickly chill run up his spine, as though Death had come and run his cold finger along Mbonga's back. Others heard, too, and saw, from the darkness of their huts bold warriors, hideously painted, grasping heavy war spears in nerveless fingers. Against Numa, the lion, they would have charged fearlessly.
Tarzan half rose and kneeled above the black. He turned Mbonga over and looked him in the face, exposing the man's throat, then he drew his long, keen knife, the knife that John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, had brought from England many years before. He raised it close above Mbonga's neck. The old black whimpered with terror. He pleaded for his life in a tongue which Tarzan could not understand.
In another instant Mbonga's knife would sever one of the victim's ears that would mark the beginning of the end, for very shortly after only a writhing mass of mutilated flesh would remain. There would still be life in it, but death then would be the only charity it craved. The stake stood forty feet from the nearest tree. Tarzan coiled his rope.
Altogether she was very beautiful in her own estimation and even in the estimation of the men of Mbonga's tribe, though she was of another people a trophy of war seized in her maidenhood by one of Mbonga's fighting men. Her child was a boy of ten, lithe, straight and, for a black, handsome. Tarzan looked upon the two from the concealing foliage of a near-by bush.
Many times had Tarzan seen Mbonga's black raiding parties return from the northward with prisoners, and always were the same scenes enacted about that grim stake, beneath the flaring light of many fires. He knew, too, that they seldom lost much time before consummating the fiendish purpose of their captures. He doubted that he would arrive in time to do more than avenge. On he sped.
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