Tarzan and the Ant Men. Edgar Rice Burroughs

smiled a satisfied smile and crawled back into his hole to play with his diamonds.

      Khamis the witch doctor was not in his hut when Uhha his daughter, faint from fright, crawled into the dim ulterior. Nor were his wives. With their children, the latter were in the fields beyond the palisade, where Uhha should have been. And so it was that the girl had time for thought before she saw any of them again, with the result that she recalled distinctly, what she had almost forgotten in the first frenzy of fear, that the river devil had impressed upon her that she must reveal to no one the thing that he had told her.

      And she had been upon the point of telling her father all! What dire calamity then would have befallen her? She trembled at the very suggestion of a fate so awful that she could not even imagine it How close a call she had had! But what was she to do?

      She lay huddled upon a mat of woven grasses, racking her poor, savage little brain for a solution of the immense problem that confronted her—the first problem that had ever entered her young life other than the constantly recurring one of how most easily to evade her share of the drudgery of the fields. Presently she sat suddenly erect, galvanized into statuesque rigidity by a thought engendered by the recollection of one of the river devil’s remarks. Why had it not occurred to her before? Very plainly he had said, and he had repeated it, that if he were released he would know that he had at least one friend in the village of Obebe, and that whoever released him would live to a great age and have every thing he wished for; but after a few minutes of thought Uhha drooped again. How was she, a little girl, to compass the liberation of the river devil alone?

      “How, baba,” she asked her father, when he had returned to the hut, later in the day, “does the river devil destroy those who harm him?”

      “As the fish in the river, so are the ways of the river devil—without number,” replied Khamis. “He might send the fish from the river and the game from the jungle and cause our crops to die. Then we should starve. He might bring the fire out of the sky at night and strike dead all the people of Obebe.”

      “And you think he may do these things to us, baba?”

      “He will not harm Khamis, who saved him from the death that Obebe would have inflicted,” replied the witch doctor.

      Uhha recalled that the river devil had complained that Khamis had not brought him good food nor beer, but she said nothing about that, although she realized that her father was far from being so high in the good graces of the river devil as he seemed to think he was. Instead, she took another tack.

      “How can he escape,” she asked, “while the collar is about his neck—who will remove it for him?”

      “No one can remove it but Obebe, who carries in his pouch the bit of brass that makes the collar open,” replied Khamis; “but the river devil needs no help, for when the time comes that he wishes to be free he has but to become a snake and crawl forth from the iron band about his neck. Where are you going, Uhha?”

      “I am going to visit the daughter of Obebe,” she called back over her shoulder.

      The chief’s daughter was grinding maize, as Uhha should have been doing. She looked up and smiled as the daughter of the witch doctor approached.

      “Make no noise, Uhha,” she cautioned, “for Obebe, my father, sleeps within.” She nodded toward the hut. The visitor sat down and the two girls chatted in low tones. They spoke of their ornaments, their coiffures, of the young men of the village, and often, when they spoke of these, they giggled. Their conversation was not unlike that which might pass between two young girls of any race or clime. As they talked, Uhha’s eyes often wandered toward the entrance to Obebe’s hut and many times her brows were contracted in much deeper thought than their idle passages warranted.

      “Where,” she demanded suddenly, “is the armlet of copper wire that your fathers brother gave you at the beginning of the last moon?”

      Obebe’s daughter shrugged. “He took it back from me,” she replied, “and give it to the sister of his youngest wife.”

      Uhha appeared crestfallen. Could it be that she had coveted the copper bracelet? Her eyes closely scrutinized the person of her friend. Her brows almost met, so deeply was she thinking Suddenly her face brightened.

      “The necklace of many beads that your father took from the body of the warrior captured for the last feast!” she exclaimed. “You have not lost it?”

      “No,” replied her friend. “It is in the house of my father. When I grind maize it gets in my way and so I laid it aside.”

      “May I see it?” asked Uhha. “I will fetch it.”

      “No, you will awaken Obebe and he will be very angry,” said the chiefs daughter.

      “I will not awaken him,” replied Uhha, and started to crawl toward the hut’s entrance.

      Her friend tried to dissuade her. “I will fetch it as soon as baba has awakened,” she told Uhha, but Uhha paid no attention to her and presently was crawling cautiously into the interior of the hut. Once within she waited silently until her eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Against the opposite wall of the hut Obebe lay sprawled upon a sleeping mat. He snored lustily. Uhha crept toward him. Her stealth was the stealth of Sheeta the leopard. Her heart was beating like the tom-tom when the dance is at its height. She feared that its noise and her rapid breathing would awaken the old chief, of whom she was as terrified as of the river devil; but Obebe snored on.

      Uhha came close to him. Her eyes were accustomed now to the half-light of the hut’s interior. At Obebe’s side and half beneath his body she saw the chiefs pouch. Cautiously she reached forth a trembling hand and laid hold upon it. She tried to draw it from beneath Obebe’s weight. The sleeper stirred uneasily and Uhha drew back, terrified. Obebe changed his position and Uhha thought that he had awakened. Had she not been frozen with horror she would have rushed into headlong flight, but fortunately for her she could not move, and presently she heard Obebe resume his interrupted snoring; but her nerve was gone and she thought now only of escaping from the hut without being detected. She cast a last frightened glance at the chief to reassure herself that he still slept. Her eyes fell upon the pouch. Obebe had turned away from it and it now lay within her reach, free from the weight of his body.

      She reached for it only to withdraw her hand suddenly. She turned away. Her heart was in her mouth. She swayed dizzily and then she thought of the river devil and of the possibilities for horrid death that lay within his power. Once more she reached for the pouch and this time she picked it up. Hurriedly opening it she examined the contents. The brass key was there. She recognized it because it was the only thing the purpose of which she was not familiar with. The collar, chain and key had been taken from an Arab slave raider that Obebe had killed and eaten and as some of the old men of Obebe’s village had worn similar bonds in the past, there was no difficulty in adapting it to its intended purpose when occasion demanded.

      Uhha hastily closed the pouch and replaced it at Obebe’s side. Then, clutching the key in a clammy palm, she crawled hurriedly toward the doorway.

      That night, after the cooking fires had died to embers and been covered with earth and the people of Obebe had withdrawn into their huts, Esteban Miranda heard a stealthy movement at the entrance to his kennel. He listened intently. Someone was creeping into the interior—someone or something.

      “Who is it?” demanded the Spaniard in a voice that he tried hard to keep from trembling.

      “Hush!” responded the intruder in soft tones. “It is I, Uhha, the daughter of Khamis the witch doctor. I have come to set you free that you may know that you have a good friend in the village of Obebe and will, therefore, not destroy us.”

      Miranda smiled. His suggestion had borne fruit more quickly than he had dared to hope, and evidently the girl had obeyed his injunction to keep silent. In that matter he had reasoned wrongly, but of what moment that, since his sole aim in life— freedom—was to be accomplished. He had cautioned the girl to silence believing this the surest way to disseminate the word he had wished spread through the village, where, he was positive,