Seeing the real Tarzan, Esteban Miranda turned and fled to the jungle. Horror gripped his heart as he, in his blind fear, crashed forward with no purpose. He did not know which direction he was going. His only thought was to get as far away as possible from the monkey man, and so he randomly pushed forward, clearing his way through the dense thorn bushes that tore and scratched his skin until he left a bloodline behind him every step of the way. On the banks of the river, the thorns reached out, as they had been several times before, to the precious panther hoof, on which he hung almost as stubbornly as from life itself. But this time the thorns didn’t loosen their grip, and as he struggled to tear the hoist off of them, he happened to glance back in the direction he had come from. He heard a large carcass moving rapidly through the thicket toward him, and moments later he saw the glare of two shimmering, yellow-green spots of flame predicting destruction. Releasing a suffocated outburst of horror, the Spaniard detached his hand from the panther’s hoof, turned and dived into the stream.
Just as the dark water closed above his head, he reached the collision of Jad-bal and the shore and watched the rings expanding in the water film, indicating the place of the disappearance of his prey; for Esteban, who was an energetic swimmer, boldly made an effort toward the other bank of the stream, staying carefully beneath the surface.
For a moment he stared like a gold lion into the river fairway, then turned and sniffed the hoist that the Spaniard had to leave behind, and snatching it into his mouthpiece tore it off the restraining thorns and carried it back to lower it to its master’s feet.
When the Spaniard finally needed air to get to the surface of the water, he rose in the middle of a messy cluster of leaves and twigs. For a moment he thought he was a gone man, so tightly he was stuck in the twisting branches, but still got strained upward, and when his head appeared above the water among the leaves, he found himself rising beneath a completely fallen tree that slid downward in the middle of the stream. With considerable effort, he managed to rail himself above the twigs and reach the trunk with scattered legs, and so he drifted somewhat safely downstream.
He sighed deeply in relief, noticing how relatively easily he had avoided the monkey man’s legitimate revenge. Admittedly, he lamented the loss of the panther skin when its map guided him to the place of gold, but he still had a much larger treasure, and when he thought about it, his hands greedily caressed the diamond bag attached to the lumbar spine. But even though he possessed this infinite wealth in diamonds, his greedy soul still returned to the gold bars to the waterfall.
– Owaza gets them, – he snarled to himself. – I never trusted that black dog, and when he ran away from me, I knew quite well what he was planning.
All night, Esteban Miranda drifted down the trunk of a fallen tree, seeing no sign of life, until shortly afterwards in the morning she came to a native village on the coast.
It was Obebe’s cannibal village, and seeing the strange white giant drifting down a tree trunk, the young woman who spotted her raised a loud cry until the entire village crowd lined the coast, watching her pass by.
“It’s some foreign god,” he shouted.
“It’s a power elf,” the pop man explained. “He’s my friend. Now we’re really getting a lot of fish if you give one of every ten of your requests to me.”
“It’s not a power elf,” the deep voice of cannibal Obebe roared. “You’re getting old,” he said to the popper, “and at last your skill has been bad magic. Now you’re telling me that Obebe’s biggest enemy is the power elf. It’s Monkey Tarzan. Obebe knows him well.” And indeed, every cannibal chief in the neighborhood knew Monkey Tarzan well, feared and hated him, for so relentlessly the ape had waged war against them.
“He’s Monkey Tarzan,” Obebe repeated, “and is in dire straits.
Maybe we now have a chance to capture him.”
He summoned his warrior around him, and soon jogged half a hundred sinewy young men parallel to the river down the path. For a mile, they followed the leisurely flagged tree that carried Esteban Miranda until it finally, in one bend of the river, fell into the outer perimeter of a slowly moving vortex and drifted under the branches of trees growing over the water near the shore.
Stiffened, cold-tempered and hungry, Esteban gladly greeted the opportunity to leave his ship and get ashore. So he laboriously dragged himself into the branches of a tree that provided him with a temporary haven of refuge, and crawling on its trunk landed on the ground, unaware that half a hundred cannibal warriors were hiding in the grass around him.
Leaning against the tree trunk, the Spaniard rested for a moment. He felt the diamonds and found them safe.
“I’m a son of happiness after all!” he cried out with his voice, and almost at the same time fifty Negroes arose near him and fled against him. So sudden was the attack, so surprising was the superiority that the Spaniard did not gather to defend himself against them, so he was defeated and tightly bound almost before he could tell what had happened to him.
“Ahah, Apinain Tarzan, I finally got hold of you,” spoke the man-eater Obebe lustfully; but Esteban understood not a word of it, and therefore could answer nothing. He spoke to Obebe in English, but the latter did not understand that language.
Only from that was Esteba known that she had been taken prisoner and that she had been dragged back inland. When they reached the village of Obeb, there was great joy among the women, the children, and the warriors who remained at home. But the pop man shook his head, broke his mouth, and uttered horrible prophecies.
“You have captured the elf of the stream,” he assured. “Now we no longer get fish, and soon the devastating disease will befall the people of Obeb, killing the villagers like flies.” But Obebe just laughed at the popper, for when he was an old man and a mighty king, he had amassed much wisdom, and as wisdom accumulated, a tendency arises in man to doubt various things of religion.
“I just laugh now, Obebe,” said the pop man, “but you don’t largely laugh. Wait, you’ll see.”
“When I have my own hands killed Apinain Tarzan, then I’ll only laugh at least,” replied the chief, “and when I sotureineni I have been eating his heart and flesh, so I do not sitt we are no longer afraid of anything mesmerized.”
“Wait,” exclaimed the popper in anger, “so yes you still see.”
They then took the tightly bound Spaniard and threw him into a dirty shack, through the doorway of which he saw how the women of the village lit up the cooking whites and set up the dams for the evening’s banquet. Cold sweat curled on Esteban Miranda’s forehead as she watched these horrible preparations, the significance of which she could not misinterpret, as they were accompanied by movements and gazes as the villagers pointed to the hut where she was creeping.
The afternoon was almost over, and the Spaniard felt able to read the hours of his remaining life, perhaps with two fingers of one hand; but then there was a series of whistling cries from the side of the river that interrupted the silence of the jungle and frightened the villagers to be alert, so that in the blink of an eye they later plunged like madmen towards those outbursts of terror. But they came too late, getting to the river only to see how a big crocodile dragged the woman under the water.
“Uh, Obebe, didn’t I tell you that?” asked the pop man, viciously rejoicing. “Vetehinen has already begun to take revenge on your people.”
The ignorant villagers, who had fallen into superstition, glanced fearfully from the popper to his master. Obebe frowned. “It’s Monkey Tarzan,” he claimed.
“It’s the elf of the stream that has embraced the character of Tarzan the Monkey,” the intimate pop man.
“Let’s see,” Obebe replied. “If he is the elf of the stream, he will be able to break free from our shackles. If he is the Tarzan of the Apes, he will not be able to do that. If he is the elf of the stream, one day. So we will keep him to see and get a testimony whether he is the Tarzan of the Apes or the Elf of the stream. ”
“How do we get that testimony?” asked the pop man.
“It’s very simple,” Obebe replied. “If one morning we find that he has gone his way, then we know him to be watery, and because we have not harmed him but fed him well while he was here in his village, he will favor us; and we will not be bored. But if he cannot to flee, we will know him as Tarzan of the Monkey, if he dies a natural death. So if he does not go his way, we will keep him until his death, and then we will know that he is indeed Tarzan of the Monkey. ”
“But what if he doesn’t die?” asked the pop man, scratching his woolly head.
“Then,” Obebe exclaimed triumphantly, “we know you’re right and that he really is a power elf.”
Obebe left and told the women to take the food to the Spaniard, but the popper still stood in the middle of the alley where Obebe had left him, still scratching his woolen hair thoughtfully.
Thus, Esteban Miranda, the owner of an unprecedented, fabulous diamond treasure, was sentenced to life imprisonment in the cannibal village of Obeb.
As he crawled in the hut, his treacherous ally Owaza had seen the stream from the other shore, opposite the place where he and Esteban had hidden the gold bars, Tarzan and his wazires arriving in search of gold but leaving again. And the next morning Owaza came from a nearby village with fifty men he washed, dug gold, and set out to transport it to the coast.
That night, Owaza camped next to a small village of a smaller chief. The master had few warriors. That old man summoned Owaza inside his enclosure, entertaining him with food and the natives’ beer, while the chief’s people roamed the Owaza’s men, asking them countless questions until the truth was revealed and the chief heard that Owaza’s carriers were carrying a large stock of yellow gold.
After getting full confidence, the chief became very uneasy, but finally a smile flashed on his face as he interviewed the half-intoxicated Owaza.
“You have a lot of gold with you,” said the old chief, “and it’s very heavy. It’s hard to get your husband to carry ingots all the way to the coast.”
“Yes,” admitted Owaza, “but I will pay them a good salary.”
“If they didn’t have to carry it so far from their home, wouldn’t you have to pay them as much?” asked the chief.
“No,” said Owaza, “but I can’t get any closer to getting rid of it.”
“I know a place two day trips away where you can place it,” the old chief replied.
“Where then?” Owaza asked. “And who here inland to buy gold?”
“There’s a white man, by the way, who gives you a little paper ticket about it, and when you take that paper to the coast, you get the full price of your gold.”
“Who is that white man,” Owaza asked, “and where does he live?”
“He’s my friend,” the chief said, “and if you want, I’ll take you to him tomorrow so you can take all the gold with you and get that little piece of paper.”
“Good,” crocheted Owaza, “and then I only have to pay the plaintiffs a small sum.”
The plaintiffs became very happy when they heard the next day that they did not need the sky for that long journey to the coast, for the seduction of their wages was not enough to overcome their reluctance to go on such a long hike and fear of being so far from their homes. So pleased, they set out on a two-day journey northeast. And Owazak was happy, as was the old chief, who himself accompanied him, though Owaza had no idea why the latter rejoiced in it.
They had traveled for nearly two days when the chief sent one of his own men in advance to take the word.
“He’s going to let my friend know,” he said, “so that he’ll meet us and take us to his village.” And when a small caravan a few hours later dived out of the jungle onto a vast, grassy plateau, a short distance away they saw a large group of warriors rapidly approaching. Owaza stopped.
“Who are those?” he asked.
“My friend the warriors,” replied the chief, “and he’s involved himself. See?” and he pointed to the person at the forefront of the Negroes approaching jogging, the spears and white feathers flickering in the sunshine.
“They arrive with military intentions and not as men of peace,” Owaza crocheted fearfully.
“It’s up to you, Owaza,” the chief replied.
“I don’t understand,” Owaza said.
“Yes, you’ll understand in a few minutes, because there’s a friend here.”
As the warriors got closer, Owaza saw a giant white in front of them — the white he thought was Esteban, so cunningly to reject as an ally. He turned to the chief. “You haven’t let me down,” he exclaimed.
“Wait,” said the old chief; “Nothing belonging to you is taken from you.”
“Gold is not his,” Owaza exclaimed. “He stole it,” and he pointed to Tarzan, who had approached and stopped in front of him, but who, without the slightest concern of him, turned to the chief.
“Your airu arrived,” he said to the elderly man, “bringing your message, and Tarzan and his wazire have come to see what we can do for our old friend.”
The chief smiled. “Your messenger came to me, O Tarzan, and two days later this man and his plaintiffs came, carrying gold bars to the coast. I told him I had a good friend who would buy them, giving him a small piece of paper, but of course only if gold belonged to Owaza. ”
The monkey smiled. “You did well, my friend,” he said. “Gold doesn’t belong to
“It doesn’t belong to you either,” Owaza snapped. “You are not the Tarzan of the Monkey. I know you. You came with four white men and that white woman to steal gold from the land of Tarzan, and then you stole it from your own comrades.”
The chief and the wazirs laughed. The monkey smiled at his characteristic slow smile.
“The other was a traitor, Owaza,” he said, “but I ‘m Apinain Tarzan, and I thank you for it, that you bring gold for me. Come on,” he continued, “this is only a two hour trip to my home”, and the monkey man forced Owazan to command their plaintiffs transport the gold bars to Greystoke Farm. There Tarzan fed the plaintiffs and paid them, and the next morning he sent them to his homeland and Owazan with them, but not without a precious gift, while warning the Negro never to return to the monkey territory again.
When they had all left, and Tarzan, Jane, and Korak stood on the porch of the villa, with Jad-bal-laya at their feet, the monkey wrapped his arms around his spouse’s neck.
“I must withdraw my word that Opar’s gold was not supposed to be for me, for you will see before you a new property that has been brought from the treasure vault of Opar without any effort on my part.”
“As long as now only someone brings the diamond back,” Jane laughed.
“There is no hope for that,” Tarzan said. “They are undoubtedly at the bottom of the Ugogo stream,” but far along Ugogo, a cannibal in the village of Obebe crawled in the dirt of Esteban Miranda’s assigned shack, his eyes a gluttonous property that could never be exploited, having to suffer Obebu’s stubbornness and superstition.