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Volume 5615
Part Forty-One
N. C. Wyeth: Return of Tarzan - 26 interior b/w headpieces by St. John (debut)J. Allen St. John: Beasts of Tarzan - wraparound DJ, FP, many b/w line interiors
Woodrow Edgar Nichols, Jr.

Part Forty-One
Woodrow Edgar Nichols, Jr.

All threads of time are trending on the Ugambi River. Tarzan is hot on Jane’s trail, which has ended in a dugout canoe on the banks of the Ugambi. Rokoff too has followed her trail and has caught up with her just as she was casting off. But the rope that had moored the canoe to a tree is still trailing in the water as she begins her journey downstream. And her old abuser has spied its movement in the water and has raced to get hold of its end before Jane can make her escape sound. Who or what can save her? And so we join our players.

XV: Down the Ugambi

Halfway between the Ugambi and the village of the Waganwazam, Tarzan came upon the pack moving slowly along his old spoor. Mugambi could scarce believe that the trail of the Russian and the mate of his savage master had passed so close to that of the pack.

It seemed incredible that two human beings should have come so close them without them having been detected by some of the marvelously keen and alert beasts; but Tarzan pointed out the spoor of the two he trailed, and at certain points the black could see that the man and the woman must have been in hiding as the pack passed them, watching every move of the ferocious creatures.

It had been apparent to Tarzan from the first that Jane and Rokoff were not travelling together. The spoor showed distinctly that the young woman had been a considerable distance ahead of the Russian at first, though the farther the ape-man continued along the trail the more obvious it became that the man was rapidly overhauling his quarry.

At first there had been the spoor of wild beasts over the footprints of Jane Clayton, while upon the top of all Rokoff’s spoor showed that he had passed over the trail after the animals had left their records upon the ground. But later there were fewer and fewer animal imprints occurring between those of Jane’s and the Russian’s feet, until as he approached the river the ape-man became aware that Rokoff could not have been more than a few hundred yards behind the girl.

That’s what I like about ERB. Sure, he could just have told us that Tarzan carefully explored the spoor and came to a certain deduction, but instead ERB spells out exactly how Tarzan read the spoor. ERB attempted to pass along as much woodcraft as he personally knew to his children, usually when horseback riding with them in the Santa Monica Mountains.
He felt they must be close ahead of him now, and, with a little thrill of expectation, he leaped rapidly forward ahead of the pack. Swinging swiftly through the trees, he came out upon the river-bank at the very point at which Rokoff had overhauled Jane as she endeavored to launch the cumbersome dugout.

In the mud along the bank the ape-man saw the footprints of the two he sought, but there was neither boat nor people there when he arrived, nor, at first glance, any sign of their whereabouts.

It was plain that they had shoved off a native canoe and embarked upon the bosom of the stream, and as the ape-man’s eye ran swiftly down the course of the river beneath the shadows of the overarching trees he saw in the distance, just as it rounded a bend that shut it off from his view, a drifting dugout in the stern of which was the figure of a man.

Just as the pack came in sight of the river they saw their agile leader racing down the river’s bank, leaping from hummock to hummock of the swampy ground that spread between them and a little promontory which rose just where the river curved inward from their sight.

To follow him it was necessary for the heavy, cumbersome apes to make a wide detour, and Sheeta, too, who hated water. Mugambi followed after them as rapidly as he could in the wake of the great white master.

A half-hour of rapid travelling across the swampy neck of land and over the rising promontory brought Tarzan, by a short cut, to the inward bend of the winding river, and there before him upon the bosom of the stream he saw the dugout, and in its stern Nikolas Rokoff.

Jane was not with the Russian.

You see what ERB is doing here, right? As far as the reader knows, there was only one dugout canoe back at its mooring. Thus one automatically jumps to the conclusion that something horrible has happened to Jane. But what? The reader has no choice other than turning the pages to find out. This is called “building suspense.”
At sight of his enemy the broad scar upon the ape-man’s brow burned scarlet, and there rose to his lips the hideous, bestial challenge of the bull-ape.

Rokoff shuddered as the weird and terrible alarm fell upon his ears. Cowering in the bottom of the boat, his teeth chattering in terror, he watched the man he feared above all other creatures upon the face of the earth as he ran quickly to the edge of the river.

Even though the Russian knew that he was safe from his enemy, the very sight of him threw him into a frenzy of trembling cowardice, which became frantic hysteria as he saw the white giant dive fearlessly into the forbidding waters of the tropical river.

With steady, powerful strokes the ape-man forged out into the stream toward the drifting dugout. Now Rokoff seized one of the paddles lying in the bottom of the craft, and, with terrorwide eyes still glued upon the living death that pursued him, struck out madly in an effort to augment the speed of the unwieldy canoe.

And from the opposite bank a sinister ripple, unseen by either man, moving steadily toward the half-naked swimmer.

Tarzan had reached the stern of the craft at last. One hand upstretched grasped the gunwale. Rokoff sat frozen with fear, unable to move a hand or foot, his eyes riveted upon the face of his Nemesis.

Then a sudden commotion in the water behind the swimmer caught his attention. He saw the ripple, and he knew what caused it.

Wow, talk about the Devil’s Luck! One gets the feeling that one is watching a Hannibal Lecter movie, where the intimation that he is Satan incarnate is always present every time he escapes God’s justice. However, Lecter had the charm that Rokoff’s character sadly lacks.
At the same instant Tarzan felt mighty jaws close upon his right leg. He tried to struggle free and raise himself over the side of the boat. His efforts would have succeeded had not this unexpected interruption galvanized the malign brain of the Russian into instant action with its sudden promise of deliverance and revenge.

Like a venomous snake the man leaped toward the stern of the boat, and with a single swift blow struck Tarzan across the head with the heavy paddle. The ape-man’s fingers slipped from their hold upon the gunwale.

There was a short struggle at the surface, and then a swirl of waters, a little eddy, and a burst of bubbles soon smoothed out by the flowing current marked for the instant the spot where Tarzan of the Apes, Lord of the Jungle, disappeared from the sight of men beneath the gloomy waters of the dark and forbidding Ugambi.

Weak from terror, Rokoff sank shuddering into the bottom of the dugout. For a moment he could not realize the good fortune that had befallen him – all that he could see was the figure of a silent, struggling white man disappearing beneath the surface of the river to unthinkable death in the slimy mud of the bottom.

Slowly all that it meant to him filtered into the mind of the Russian, and then a cruel smile of relief and triumph touched his lips; but it was short-lived, for just as he was congratulating himself that he was now comparatively safe to proceed upon his way to the coast unmolested, a mighty pandemonium rose from the river-bank close by.

As his eyes sought the authors of the frightful sound he saw standing upon the shore, glaring at him with hate-filled eyes, a devil-faced panther surrounded by the hideous apes of Akut, and in the forefront of them a giant black warrior who shook his fist at him, threatening him with terrible death.

The nightmare of that flight down the Ugambi with the hideous horde racing after him by day and by night, now abreast of him, now lost in the mazes of the jungle to appear again upon his trail grim, relentless, and terrible, reduced the Russian from a strong and robust man to an emaciated, white-haired, fear-gibbering thing or ever the bay and ocean broke upon his hopeless vision.

Past populous villages he had fled. Time and again warriors had put out in their canoes to intercept him, but each time the hideous horde had swept into view to send the terrified natives shrieking back to the shore to lose themselves in the jungle.

Nowhere in his flight had he seen aught of Jane Clayton. Not once had his eyes rested upon her since that moment at the river’s brim his hand had closed upon the rope attached to the bow of her dugout and he had believed her safely in his power again, only to be thwarted an instant later as the girl snatched up a heavy express rifle from the bottom of the craft and levelled it full at his breast.

Quickly he had dropped the rope then and seen her float away beyond his reach, but a moment later he had been racing up-stream toward a little tributary in the mouth of which was hidden the canoe in which he and his party had come thus far upon their journey in pursuit of the girl and Anderssen.

What had become of her?

Well, at least the reader now knows that Jane is comparatively safe – comparatively since the last word we have of her being safe is from Rokoff’s last view of her heading down river in the dugout. But still, we know that she received no harm from Rokoff. His Devil’s Luck still held out though at the time since Jane refrained from taking his life once she had him in her sights.
There seemed little doubt in the Russian’s mind, however, but she had been captured by warriors from of one the several villages she would have been compelled to pass on her way down to the sea. Well, he was at least rid of most of his human enemies.

But at that he would gladly have had them all back in the land of the living could he thus have been freed from the menace of the frightful creatures who pursued him with awful relentlessness, screaming and growling at him every time they came within sight of him. The one thing that filled him with the greatest terror was the panther – the flaming-eyed, devil-faced panther whose grinning jaws gaped wide at him by day, and whose fiery orbs gleamed wickedly out across the water from the Cimmerian blackness of the jungle nights.

The sight of the mouth of the Ugambi filled Rokoff with renewed hope, for there, upon the yellow waters of the bay, floated the Kincaid at anchor. He had sent the little steamer away to coal while he had gone up the river, leaving Paulvitch in charge of her, and he could have cried aloud in his relief as he saw that she had returned in time to save him.

Frantically he alternately paddled furiously toward her and rose to his feet waving his paddle and crying aloud in an attempt to attract the attention of those on board. But loud as he screamed his cries awakened no answering challenge from the deck of the silent craft.

Upon the shore behind him a hurried backward glance revealed the presence of the snarling pack. Even now, he thought, these manlike devils might yet find a way to reach him even upon the deck of the steamer unless there were those there to repel them with firearms.

What could have happened to those he had left upon the Kincaid? Where was Paulvitch? Could it be that the vessel was deserted, and that, after all, he was doomed to be overtaken by the terrible fate that he had been flying from through all those hideous days and nights? He shivered as might one upon whose brow death had already laid his clammy finger.

Yet he did not cease to paddle frantically toward the steamer, and at last, after what seemed an eternity, the bow of the dugout bumped against the timbers of the Kincaid. Over the ship’s side hung a monkey-ladder, but as the Russian grasped it to ascend to the deck he heard a warning challenge from above, and, looking up, gazed into the cold, relentless muzzle of a rifle.

It’s time now for another flashback detail about that moment that Jane had Rokoff dead to rights with her rifle while he grasped the end of the mooring rope. Chronology always comes second in good story telling.
After Jane Clayton, with rifle levelled at the breast of Rokoff, had succeeded in holding him off until the dugout in which she had taken refuge had drifted out upon the bosom of the Ugambi beyond the man’s reach, she had lost no time in paddling to the swiftest sweep of the channel, nor did she for long days and weary nights cease to hold her craft to the most rapidly moving part of the river, except when during the hottest hours of the day she had been wont to drift as the current would take her, lying prone in the bottom of the canoe, her face sheltered from the sun with a great palm leaf.

Thus only did she gain rest upon the voyage; at other times she continuously sought to augment the movement of the craft by wielding the heavy paddle.

Rokoff, on the other hand, had used little or no intelligence in his flight along the Ugambi, so that more often than not his craft had drifted in the slow-going eddies, for he habitually hugged farthest from that along which the hideous horde pursued and menaced him.

ERB is complimenting Jane’s competency in commandeering her water craft, demonstrating that she is more qualified for jungle survival than Rokoff. But we have to give Rokoff some credit, for we have no idea of how he would have otherwise steered his vessel if it weren’t for the bloodthirsty animal army in pursuit of his head. However, Jane’s true grit comes out strong in her dealings with the crew of the Kincaid.
Thus it was that, though he had put out upon the river but a short time subsequent to the girl, yet she had reached the bay fully two hours ahead ahead of him. When she had first seen the anchored ship upon the quiet water, Jane Clayton’s heart had beat fast with hope and thanksgiving, but as she drew closer to the craft and saw that it was the Kincaid, her pleasure gave place to the gravest misgivings.

It was too late, however, to turn back, for the current that carried her toward the ship was much too strong for her muscles. She could not have forced the heavy dugout upstream against it, and all that was left her was to attempt either to make the shore without being seen by those upon the deck of the Kincaid, or to throw herself upon their mercy – otherwise she must be swept out to sea.

She knew that the shore held little hope of life for her, as she had no knowledge of the friendly Mosula village to which Anderssen had taken her through the darkness of the night of their escape from the Kincaid.

With Rokoff away from the steamer it might be possible that by offering those in charge a large reward they could be induced to carry her to the nearest civilized port. It was worth risking – if she would make the steamer at all.

The current was bearing her swiftly down the river, and she found that only by dint of the utmost exertion could she direct the awkward craft toward the vicinity of the Kincaid. Having reached the decision to board the steamer, she now looked to it for aid, but to her surprise the decks appeared to be empty and she saw no sign of life aboard the ship.

The dugout was drawing closer and closer to the bow of the vessel, and yet no hail came over the side from any lookout aboard. In a moment more, Jane realized, she would be swept beyond the steamer, and then, unless they lowered a boat to rescue her, she would be carried far out to sea by the current and the swift ebb tide that was running.

The young woman called loudly for assistance, but there was no reply other than the shrill scream of some savage beast upon the jungle-shrouded shore. Frantically Jane wielded the paddle in an effort to carry her craft close alongside the steamer.

For a moment it seemed as if she should miss her goal by but a few feet, but at the last moment the canoe swung close beneath the steamer’s bow and Jane barely managed to grasp the anchor chain.

Heroically she clung to the heavy iron links, almost dragged from the canoe by the strain of the current upon her craft. Beyond her she saw a monkey-ladder dangling over the steamer’s side. To release her hold upon the chain and chance clambering to the ladder as her canoe was swept beneath it seemed beyond the pale of possibility, yet to remain clinging to the anchor chain appeared equally as futile.

Finally her glance chanced to fall upon the rope in the bow of the dugout, and, making one of this fast to the chain, she succeeded in drifting the canoe slowly down until it lay directly beneath the ladder. A moment later, her rifle slung about her shoulders, she had clambered safely to the deserted deck.

I imagined this scene cinematically, with a full orchestra playing stirring suspense music in the background, much the way ERB likely imagined it in the beginning. We must remember that the silent cinema was a huge social force at the time ERB penned this story. I also try to imagine how one would capture the essence of this scene in a screenplay.

At first we see Jane coursing her way down the Ugambi, then gaining sight of the Kincaid in the mouth of the bay. Then somehow we would have to show the audience the motion and speed of the current – likely from having Jane making nervous glances back and forth from the ship to the current, perhaps a close-up or two showing her fear and another to show her calculating. Then the moment of truth as she approaches the Kincaid and some flashes of the agony and strain of steering toward the bow, the desperate clutching for the anchor chain. A quick close up on the rope in the bow of the canoe – and so on and so forth. I think you get the idea if you’ve seen enough adventure movies.

I’m sure I witnessed many scenes like this in black and white grade B movies and serials from the thirties and forties. Even though the motion pictures were silent in 1914, they were often accompanied by a pianist or small orchestra inside the theater. As Jane gains the deck, we must remember how she must have looked – dirty, bedraggled, her clothes in tatters, but with a heavy game rifle about her shoulders, ready to kill if necessary. So far in Jane’s existence, as far as I can remember, she has never killed any one – yet.

Her first task was to explore the ship, and this she did, her rifle ready for instant use should she meet with any human menace aboard the Kincaid. She was not long in discovering the cause of the apparently deserted condition of the steamer, for in the forecastle she found the sailors, who had evidently been left to guard the ship, deep in drunken slumber.

With a shudder of disgust she clambered above, and to the best of her ability closed and made fast the hatch above the heads of the sleeping guard. Next she sought the galley and food, and, having appeased her hunger, she took her place on deck, determined that none should board the Kincaid without first having agreed to her demands.

For an hour or so nothing appeared upon the surface of the river to cause her alarm, but then, about a bend upstream, she saw a canoe appear in which sat a single figure. It had not proceeded far in her direction before she recognized the occupant as Rokoff, and when the fellow attempted to board he found a rifle staring him in the face.

When the Russian discovered who it was that repelled his advance he became furious, cursing and threatening in a most horrible manner; but, finding that these tactics failed to frighten or move the girl, he at last fell to pleading and promising.

Jane had but a single reply for every proposition, and that was nothing would ever persuade her to permit Rokoff upon the same vessel with her. That she would put her threats into action and shoot him should he persist in his endeavor to board the ship he was convinced.

That is good, for many women have found out that pointing a loaded gun at a burgler or home intruder can be a harrowing experience, for most women have little experience handling guns and because of their natural motherly instincts and societal expectations, are more reluctant to harm another person. In most cases, knowing this and counting on it, the intruder simply makes a rush and seizes the gun out of the hands of the woman and shoots her with it instead. This is most likely to happen if the woman doesn’t change the safety switch to the off position. Of course, this happens to men as well, but you know the stereotype of which I speak.

As we have seen in the news recently, desperate unarmed men will also try to seize a firearm from an armed police officer – so one would assume it’s best to shoot first and ask questions later. In ERB’s time, killing was almost always left up to the men as their duty, and women that killed were not held as in high esteeem as mild-mannered women.

So, there must have been something about the look in her eye and the way she levelled the rifle at him that made Rokoff have no doubts that Jane would shoot him dead on the spot. After all, he had been the indirect cause of her old fiancé’s death, not to count his boast that he had tossed Tarzan overboard on the ocean liner, and finally the fact that he had caused the death of a baby that he believed was hers – not to mention that fact that he had kidnapped the three of them, left her husband stranded alone on Jungle Island, and had tried to rape her at least two different times, during the last of which he had given her a good beating. So, Jane, I must ask you politely: Why haven’t you shot the bastard yet? Is it the old Devil’s Luck again?

So, as there was no other alternative, the great coward dropped back into his dugout and, at imminent risk of being swept to sea, finally succeeded in making the shore far down the bay and upon the opposite side from that on which the horde of beasts stood snarling and roaring.

Jane Clayton knew that the fellow could not alone and unaided bring his heavy craft back upstream to the Kincaid, and so she had no further fear of an attack by him. The hideous crew upon the shore she thought she recognized as the same that had passed her in the jungle far up the Ugambi several days before, for it seemed quite beyond reason that there should be more than one such a strangely assorted pack; but what had brought them down-stream to the mouth of the river she could not imagine.

Toward the day’s close the girl was suddenly alarmed by the shouting of the Russian from the opposite bank of the stream, and a moment later, following the direction of his gaze, she was terrified to see a ship’s boat approaching from upstream, in which, she felt assured, there could only be only members of the Kincaid’s missing crew – only heartless ruffians and enemies.

But for Tarzan, the gang’s almost all here. Does he still live? His hideous crew certainly is still loyal to him – from their point of view, loyal to the death. But we all know deep inside our hearts that the ape-man still lives. The only true question is who is going to kill Rokoff? Can’t you just wait to see who it is? Next time.


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