Anjani the Mighty. John Russell Fearn

      Rita, afraid to move, stared fixedly at the two giant white men in the starlight. The mêlée going on in the half-destroyed camp no longer interested her; even the explosion of guns did not startle her. Her whole interest at the moment was centred on the outcome of this meeting of the twins, the first time they had ever locked in combat.

      The moment his knife was snatched from him, Anjani bent forward suddenly, flinging Tocoto’s huge body over his head and crashing him to the ground. Then they were at each other’s throats, muscles straining to the limit, each striving desperately to crush the life out of the other.

      Rita watched for a moment or two, wincing at the thuds of fists on bone and flesh—then she remembered her revolver and dragged it from its holster. Twisting round so that she was flat on her face, her firing elbow supported on the ground, she waited for an opportunity—only it never came. Before she could fire a warrior came out of the darkness, tore the gun from her hand, and whirled her to her feet.

      She fought frantically to free herself from the black, steel-strong body, but without avail.

      “Anjani!” she screamed, as a black hand strove to smother her mouth. “Anj—”

      Anjani heaved, goaded by her cries. He whipped up a blinding uppercut that took his twin clean on the nose and pulped blood out of it. A terrific right to the jaw followed, and another piston blow into the stomach. Without realising it, he had given three punches that Joe Louis might have envied. Tocoto gulped and slewed round drunkenly—and in those seconds Anjani tore free of him and hurtled to the warrior bearing Rita away.

      The warrior had to drop the girl to battle with his enemy, but he hardly stood a chance. His head exploded in sparks as a fist crashed into his eye. Another blow flayed a deep cut across his cheek, a third swung him clean off his feet and dropped him six yards away, dazed and helpless. Anjani picked up the warrior’s spear, swung it round, then found himself borne to the ground by six warriors in a sudden vengeful rush. There was just nothing he could do against superior numbers, and he had to submit as he was bound tightly with thongs about the wrists and ankles. In dumb fury he watched Rita being similarly pinioned, and he growled in animal fury as she was flung unceremoniously beside him.

      Tocoto came up in the starlight, rubbing his blood-smeared nose with the back of his hand. With a simple call he withdrew the rest of his warriors from the camp, leaving behind many dead and mortally injured white men, and the scattered survivors of the Untani, far too battered to fight any more.

      “If you doubt, Anjani, who is lord of jungle, you now know,” Tocoto said, in the tribal tongue. “Tocoto lord because I have jewel of Akada. The drums have told all the tribes that I am Tocoto the Mighty.”

      “Not while I live,” Anjani snarled back.

      “Anjani and white woman soon die,” Tocoto retorted. “Die as sacrifices to the Banwui tribe—Tocoto’s tribe! Mantamiza cheated once, but not again. Tribal god demands vengeance, and shall have it. Tocoto watch what you do and gather tribes to aid him. When time was ripe, Tocoto struck—and destroyed those who help you. Only one lord of jungle, Anjani, and that is Tocoto the Mighty.”

      Rita, not understanding the jargon, looked from one to the other in the tropical starlight, trying vainly to gather what was going to happen. She found out quickly enough when a warrior, at Tocoto’s command, picked her up like a child and slung her over his shoulder. Four more warriors lifted Anjani’s great body between them, then the victorious tribesmen began marching with Tocoto at their head.

      Just what had been left behind at the camp neither Anjani nor Rita knew. Certainly few who could be of help. The score of Untani warriors had been sadly depleted, and the white men had all but been wiped out. For Anjani and Rita, the journey on which they were carried seemed endless, and filled with torture. The only liberty Tocoto permitted in the few halts which were made were for the rope-thongs to be loosened a little and food and water, in meagre supply provided—but in the main it was a jolting journey on the shoulders of the warriors, through the desert first, then in the midst of the jungle with its myriad dangers and saturating heat.

      It was a trip that took nearly a week, and at the end of it Rita was more dead than alive. Anjani was blond-bearded and grim, his daily shave with his hunting knife having been prevented. At the journey’s end, Rita looked with bleared eyes at the stockade gateway of the Banwui tribe’s village with the hideous effigy of Mantamiza, the tribal god, rearing at its far end amidst the mud-huts. She licked her parched lips and gave Anjani a hopeless look.

      He was not looking at her, or the village; instead, he was viewing the sky where it peeped through the lofty treetops. The air was leaden with heat and stiflingly still. Yet the sun was not shining. There was a leaden yellow haze over the blueness.

      Anjani did not say what thought had crossed his mind, but Rita fancied she saw the ghost of a smile amidst his magnificent yellow beard and moustache; then her arms were seized again, and she was bundled forward across the dusty centre of the village, and finally into a mud-hut. Anjani was flung after her and the wood and raffia door closed. But outside it remained the shadows of three natives on guard.

      “Won’t they even give us water?” Rita whispered, her tongue nearly too swollen to permit of speech.

      “I doubt it,” Anjani muttered. “They have no reason to be merciful, since they mean to burn us to death at nightfall. It would not be sensible to make the victim comfortable, would it?”

      Rita did not answer. Half-sobbing, she flung herself down on the filthy dry grass of the hut. Anjani crouched and looked at her. Her once trim white costume was torn to shreds with thorns and undergrowth. Scratched white flesh showed here and there, and her blonde hair was an unkempt tangle.

      Anjani reached down, cupped a huge arm underneath her shoulders, then raised her. Her head lolled against his broad chest.

      “Do not give in too soon, little one,” he murmured. “There may yet be a chance.”

      “Such as?” Rita asked hopelessly.

      “We shall see. Anjani, jungle-wise, can read signs that may come to pass. Tocoto is master because he has a jewel, but if natives are superstitious in one thing, then they are in another. I shall try my last trick tonight.…”

      Rita did not answer. She was too bone-weary and thirsty to even think.

      “Tocoto must have kept close track of me and gathered tribes to aid him,” Anjani mused presently. “It is only to be expected. There will never be room for both of us in the jungle.”

      Rita was hardly listening. Finally she took refuge in sleep, still with her head on Anjani’s shoulder. He remained motionless lest he disturb her. As he had expected, no water or nourishment was brought, and the guards remained outside the doorway. Once or twice Anjani speculated on the possibilities of attacking them, and then changed his mind. Single-handed, nimble, and powerful as he was, he could probably have made his escape, but not with Rita to look after as well. So he licked his parched lips and waited—and waited.

      Towards the close of the hot, sultry afternoon, preparations began for the festival of nightfall. Anjani could see part of the proceedings through a crack in the ancient wall of the hut, and they followed the usual pattern. Two stakes set near to the ever-growing pile of brushwood, the effigy of Mantamiza near at hand, and, behind it, a tall stump on which reposed something dull red and faceted. It was not particularly big, and Anjani recognised it as the jewel of Akada, set in a place of honour.

      Rita awoke at nightfall, her voice failing her through lack of water. She remained in Anjani’s grasp, staring dully through the crack in the wall and listening to the gathering rumble of the drums. The way she felt, she did not particularly care if she did die. Thirst was fast killing her in any case.

      Night itself seemed to come sooner than usual with heavy lowering clouds. The air remained motionless, so that not a leaf stirred, and the maddening beat of the drums was carried with reverberating echoes. Outside the warriors were dancing. Directly underneath the jewel of Akada and Mantamiza, Tocoto was seated in a rush chair, surveying the proceedings, a grim-faced white giant amidst