Castaways Vengeance

Castaways' Vengeance!

CAPTAIN JUSTICE in Unexplored Africa!

By Murray Roberts

To part 1.

A serial; part 12 of 12 of The Castaways; from The Modern Boy magazine, Sept. 22, 1934, No. 346 Vol. 14.

Digitized by Doug Frizzle for Stillwoods.Blogspot.Com, November 2014.

 Fighting desperately against overwhelming odds, Captain Justice and his comrades spring a staggering surprise on the villain who marooned them in unknown Cannibal Country!

Besieged by Cannibals!

CRAA-AA-ACK!! Brr-rannngg! Across the sun-dappled waters of Lake N’Gako, the desolate inland sea on the wild border of the French South-East Cameroons, in Africa, rippled the crackle of rifle-fire. The sharp report of a quick-firing gun followed, and a shrill cheer went up.

Jets of flame flickered along both canvas-covered rails of the French river-patrol launch as the sturdy white vessel zigzagged across the centre of the lake, and her whistling bullets tore into the horde of black canoes that circled around her.

Before the echoes died, back from the squat gorilla-like savages in the canoes zipped answering volleys of arrows, and the circle closed in a little tighter. The launch, for all her defiant thunder, was trapped— hopelessly snared on the great lake!

Aboard her were Captain Justice, the Gentleman Adventurer, and his four comrades—Professor Flaznagel, Dr. O’Mally, Len Connor, and Midge.

Cast away in unexplored Africa by Xavier Kuponos, Justice’s bitter enemy, they had fallen in with a race of unknown Giants. Later, with an escort of those huge natives, they had set out on the road back to civilisation—to be attacked by black cannibals just as they had sighted the French launch and clambered aboard.

Already one of the boat’s two white officers and many of the crew were out of the fight, killed or wounded by the deadly shafts. And the black cannibals, fearless as they were fiendish, were gradually hemming the ship in.

“But they haven't got us yet! Screech away, you coal-black sons of mud, and share this amongst you!”

Crack! Midge, the red-haired, ever-chirpy junior member of Captain Justice’s band, uttered a piping cheer as he cuddled down to his rifle and let drive at the steersman of the nearest canoe. The brawny painted cannibal dropped his paddle and collapsed, clutching convulsively at his right arm. A howl of fury from his fellows drew yet another whoop from the snub-nosed marksman.

“Hark at the dicky-birds singing!” he scoffed, winking at the bunch of French askaris—native soldiers—who crouched against the rail beside him. Big, tough, ebony-hued fellows they were, clad in soiled white drill. And they grinned back at Midge wholeheartedly—not because there was anything to grin at, but because it was their nature to do so when a “white boss” winked and spoke to them.

“Birdie him sing fine, little baas!” chuckled one, in broken English, yanking back his rifle-bolt. Midge noticed that two of the askaris, after vainly exploring the loops of their bandoliers, retired from the rail to squat stolidly in the shelter of the deckhouse, with their empty rifles across their knees.

“H’m!” grunted Midge. “Not so good! Bullets running short.”

He squeezed trigger again, then started as the vicious smack of the quickfirer stung his eardrums once more. But that was the last shell! As Midge glanced for’ard, he saw the gun crew leaving the useless weapon, crawling aft in search of a rifle or revolver apiece.

“No, not nearly so blinkin’ good!” Midge wagged his fiery head pensively. “Now that pea-shooter’s packed up the bloomin’ party will get rough, and—Hallo! Sufferin' snakes, if it isn’t Patty O’Mally! What-cheer, sawbones! Polished off all the wounded below?"

The grin returned to his cheeky freckled face as out of the deckhouse lumbered stout, bald-headed Dr. O’Mally, Justice’s Irish second-in-command.

Ignoring Midge’s sarcastic reference to his medical skill, the doctor snorted, picked up a bucket, and emptied the contents all over himself, the water steaming as it ran down his bare shoulders and chest.

“Brr-rr! Faith, I needed that! ’Tis like an oven down in the sickbay!" he grunted, casting bloodshot eyes over the lake. Now that the dreaded quickfirer was silent, the black cannibals were closing in faster. Their canoes skimmed the water in dense flotillas, war-bows twanged, and arrows whined through the air like angry mosquitoes.

“Bedad, ’tis a plaguey tight spot we’re in, right enough!” O’Mally muttered. “How long’ve we been at it now, ye rusty-haired tintack?”

“Close on five hours, I reckon, Irish! Though it seems like five years!" Midge, screwing up his eyes against the glare, looked long and anxiously at the dazzling sky.

“Have you heard anything more from Len about the Flying Cloud?” he asked quietly. “I know he’s in touch with her by wireless—and, moanin’ moggies, what a slice of jam it was to hear that she was still searching for us in British East Africa! But, gummy, if the old airship doesn’t get here soon, we stand a lively chance of handing in our dinner-pails! The rifle ammunition’s running short, and the quickfirer’s declared her innings closed!”

“We haven’t fought our way out of all those jungles an’ mountains just to be eaten by a pack o’ cannibals!" retorted O’Mally. “Gimme that rifle!”

With the light of battle in his eyes, O’Mally snatched Midge’s weapon, wincing as the hot barrel burned his hand.

A high-prowed, thirty-foot canoe, packed with yelling archers, shot past within a hundred yards of the launch. But before the arrows could fly O’Mally fired. There was a screech as the steersman went overboard—then another as the canoe yawed, charging full-tilt into a second war vessel. Both turned over and sank, to the sound of hoarse cheering from the launch.

“Cigars or nuts, doc!” jeered Midge. “Who did you aim at?”

“The beggar I got, ye saucy shrimp!” O’Mally growled, slipping a fresh cartridge into the breech.

“Let me have another before I—Hallo, here’s Justice, safe and sound!”

Captain Justice was looking grim and war-worn. He had volunteered to take charge of the askari riflemen for’ard, after Lieutenant la Salle had been wounded, and since then his comrades had seen little of him.

Now he came hurrying towards them, threading his way calmly through the jabbering black soldiers. He wore a battered pith helmet canted jauntily over one ear, while from the corner of his lips jutted the stump of a cigar, the fifth he had borrowed from Lieutenant de Vissac, the commander of the launch. Quickly he ducked down into cover between Midge and O’Mally, and slapped the Irishman on the shoulder.

“Good shooting, doc! Keep your head down, Midge, you imp!” he jerked. “How’s Lieutenant la Salle, O’Mally?”

“Bad! He’ll fight no more for some months to come, poor lad!” the doctor grunted. “I’ve given him and the rest of the serious casualties a dose of morphine to keep ’em peaceful, but I'll be goin’ down again in a moment. ’Tis a real hot corner we’re in, Justice!”

“Ay! And, by James, it’ll get hotter yet!” was the ominous reply. “We’re down to the last of our ammunition for’ard.”

“Weepin’ willows! So are we, skipper!” exclaimed Midge.

Captain Justice shrugged, and shot a glance over the canvas at the serried lines of canoes, still circling round and creeping closer.

“The yelling scum! By Jove, it looks as though the whole infernal tribe has rallied from every part of the hinterland. We certainly sailed into a trap! Thank heavens the launch was here, or we’d have been scuppered hours ago! But if the Flying Cloud doesn’t arrive soon—”

He shrugged again, his teeth biting deeper into the cigar.

“She’ll come!” repeated O’Mally sturdily. “Where’s Flaznagel?”

“Down in the engine-room, rigging up steam-pipes in ease these swabs get close enough to board us. I suggested it, and De Vissac agreed!” said Justice. “Poor beggar! He’s a brave youngster, but he doesn’t know which way to turn now to save his ship. As the first French commander to penetrate into this howling wilderness, he’s done us a mighty good turn, but—Hallo, that’s him calling me now!”

A Fatal Mistake!

GIVING Midge a last warning to keep under cover, Justice rose in response to a hail from the bridge. As he stole away with head and shoulders bowed low, Len Connor dashed out of the tiny house that served as the wireless cabin, and caught him by the arm.

Len’s face, body, and limbs were streaming with perspiration. His lips and tongue were parched, his eyes glazed with weariness. For the interior of that cabin was reminiscent of the Black Hole of Calcutta, and Len had been stewing in there since the action started. Without ceremony he twisted his leader round, shouting to make himself heard above the mad din of battle.

“Captain! The Flying Cloud!” he cried; and Justice’s lips tightened as he listened to the rest of the young wireless operator’s message concerning the great airship. He nodded coolly, however, snapped an order that sent Len lurching back into the cabin, and carried on.

Up on the low bridge, beneath an arrow-riddled awning, Lieutenant de Vissac, the tall, angular commander, drooped limply over the wheel, glaring out across the shimmering waters at his frenzied attackers. As Justice sprang up the ladder and saluted him, the young Frenchman surveyed him for a moment with haggard eyes.

“It grows hot!” he muttered, licking his lips. “Captain, have you no news? You assured me that your famous airship was hastening to our aid, but——”

Justice eyed him narrowly. The young officer, he could see, was becoming distinctly rattled.

“When we first got in touch with the Flying Cloud, lieutenant,” he said quietly, “she was farther off than you gave us to understand. Seventeen hundred miles, in fact. And it took time to get hold of her.”

“Ye-es, captain. Our wireless, I know, is not good, and M’sieur Connor, he has done marvels! But—”

Then Captain Justice smiled—a smile that suddenly stiffened De Vissac’s backbone and sent renewed hope surging through his heart.

“Mr. Connor is still doing marvels,” Justice drawled. “Lieutenant, I have the honour to inform you that the Flying Cloud will be here in under the hour!”

But if Justice expected De Vissac to share in what was undoubtedly a triumph of wireless telegraphy and terrific flying-speed, he was disappointed.

“An hour, you say—an hour?” Lieutenant de Vissac’s shoulders sagged again. So far from encouraging him, the news seemed to come as the final blow to his hopes.

“An hour!” he repeated thickly. “But, captain, we cannot possibly last an hour! We have no shells, and but a few rounds of ammunition left! Regard these black cannibals! See how they creep in on us! Ignorant dogs that they are, they are beginning to realise that we are helpless now! An hour—bah! Why not a thousand hours? It will be all the same!”

“Rot!” Captain Justice dropped his formal politeness and descended to some good, plain Navy talk. “By, James, that’s no way for a sailor to talk!” he snapped aggressively. “Listen, De Vissac! My comrades and I have managed to survive all these months in the wilderness, and no cannibal rats are going to trample on us now! Besides, I didn’t say an hour. I said under the hour! And, by James, sir, we’ll hold these beggars off until then, and wring their black necks afterwards!

“Now, look, lieutenant,” he continued persuasively. “Don’t worry! Pull yourself together! I’m an older man than you, and I’ve been in tighter corners. Save your ammunition by ordering your men to cease volley firing. Tell ’em to snipe the cannibal steersmen instead. And, meanwhile, keep the launch zigzagging as she is!”

“What you say about saving bullets is right, captain—I will give the order!” snapped De Vissac, and he did so. “But for me—bah, I am sick of the zigzag, and I am sick of waiting! If we have few bullets, we still have one 'big' weapon—the launch itself! I will put on all speed and ram these vile canoes to—what you say?—to blazes!”

Justice snatched the cigar from his mouth.

"Do nothing of the kind, man!” he cried sharply. “Don’t you sec that by continually altering course and swerving you’re keeping these demons guessing—as well as giving them a shifting target to aim at?”

Justice made a vehement gesture. “In any case,” he went on rapidly, “your vessel isn’t powerful enough to ram through all the canoes out there. All you’ll do is to ram two or three, perhaps, and get your bows all cluttered up with wreckage. Then the rest of the swabs will board us while you’re trying to barge your way clear! You might as well shove the launch’s nose into the nearest bank and be done with it !”

All this twisting and dodging irked Lieutenant de Vissac sorely. It was as acid to his pride to be harried and hunted by a pack of cannibals, and he had stood it long enough. Drawing himself erect, the angry and worried officer looked Justice squarely in the eye.

"Captain Justice, I am a French officer—not a cur to be hounded by black cannibals!" he said shortly. "My tactics are my own responsibility. I would remind you that I am the commander of this vessel!”

“I see!” Justice forced himself to swallow the snub, realising De Vissac’s desperate state of mind. Nevertheless, he did not expose himself to another by continuing the fruitless argument.

“Quite true, lieutenant. I beg your pardon!” he said evenly, and saluted. “Very well, then! If you need me, I’ll be among the men for’ard.

“Brave young idiot!” he murmured to himself as, next instant, he went hot-foot down the ladder. “Pray Heaven the Flying Cloud gets here on time! We’re in for it now!” Amidships, lying flat on the deck, huddled old N’Urru and a score of his fellow Giants—all that remained of the escort that had guided Justice & Co. out of the vast, unexplored mountain-country. Dazed and deafened by hours of incessant firing, the tawny-skinned goliaths lay motionless, gripping their terrible, three-pronged spears and glaring savagely at the foe.

But their dark brown eyes softened as Justice clapped N’Urru on the shoulder and flicked the veteran's glittering trident.

"Cheer up, boys! You're going to get a chance to use these soon!" he said. And though the Giants did not understand his words, Justice’s expression was enough.

INSTANTLY their handsome faces lighted up with the joy of battle. And as their deep war-cry thundered across the waters the French launch gathered speed. Lieutenant de Vissac’s ramming operations had commenced!

“Gummy!” grunted Midge, as the launch trembled to the violent throb of the engine and swung round sharply on the nearest flotilla of canoes. “What’s this game?”

Risking arrows at every stride, the reckless youngster ran forward to where Captain Justice knelt among the askaris.

“Skipper,” he panted, “what’s the stunt now? Surely De Vissac isn’t going to try to ram these slippery beauties? Has he gone scats?” Justice turned his head.

“That’s no way to talk about your commander,” he said curtly. “As for you, my son, get below out of it! We’re in for some work—too warm for a hop-o’-my-thumb like you!”

“Oh!” Midge screwed up his freckled face. “Oh yeah?” he murmured. And, aware that Justice was watching him, he ducked down into the deckhouse—and out the other side!

"N'Urru, old cockalorum," he said severely, as he wriggled in cautiously among the wondering Giants, "we're going to ram some canoes—if we can catch ’em! And when we’ve rammed a few and can’t move for wreckage, we’re goin’ to have umpteen billion big black beggars piling over the rails to chop us into small bits. Ain’t life grand? Wow, hold your hat on! Here we go!”

Suddenly there sounded a raucous blare from the siren. The launch swerved again as De Vissac spun the wheel, and, with sparks flying from its single funnel, it bore down swiftly on the enemy. The foremost canoe swung aside in the nick of time, and a dozen spears came whizzing over among the askaris along the starboard rail. But the next three canoes were unlucky!

Crash! At headlong speed the French vessel smashed into the first—smashed into it and over it. Havoc and confusion followed.

Into the air whirled splinters and fragments of riven planking, while yells of rage and alarm rang out from the other blacks. But the launch quivered. From stem to stern it shuddered under the grinding impact, recovering just in time to catch the second canoe.

In vain the third strove to escape. The gunboat, lurching on, rammed its prow half-way through the doomed craft—and then stuck fast!

With the partially sundered canoe dragging under her bow, her screws and rudder fouled by drifting wreckage, the launch stopped dead. She began to roll and toss uneasily, like some snared creature struggling to win free but lacking the strength to do so.

Again the siren bawled; bells clanged, and water churned under the stern. But before the frantic De Vissac could back out of the mess, the cannibals rallied.

One bloodcurdling yell of glee shrieked across the lake. The blacks had sized up the situation in the blink of an eye. Their elusive prey was caught in a trap of her own making! Like sharks swarming to the kill, the canoes skimmed through the water, converging upon her from all quarters.

“And that’s that!”

Captain Justice, his heard bristling, cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth, cocked a cold eye up at the bridge.

"Stand to it now, my braves!” he roared in French to the askaris around him, and scarcely had he spoken when the leading canoes bumped alongside.

For a nightmare second Justice had a glimpse of rolling eyeballs and hideous painted faces upturned to his. Then the fight for the launch began!

Out of the Skies!

COVERED by a shower of arrows, over the rail poured the black cannibals, to be met and flung back by a bristling hedge of bayonets. Shots cracked viciously. Steel clashed against copper and iron, men grappled with each other and went down, fighting like furies.

But more and more canoes were racing to the attack. More and more frenzied warriors slashed and hacked their way aboard as fast as their friends were hurled off.

At the first onset, Midge had been brushed aside as N’Urru and the Giants sprang up and surged to the rail. Breathlessly the boy scrambled to his feet, but was promptly flattened again as Dr. O'Mally erupted into the open and went careering down the sloping deck, brandishing a ten-inch spanner.

By this time the launch was rocking and tilting over dangerously as the number of invaders increased. And suddenly the askaris in the stern broke under the pressure, reeling back before the invaders.

Back they were forced, fighting with the courage of despair. The yelling and shouting rose higher. For a few dread moments the fate of the launch trembled in the balance. Then high above the din rose O’Mally’s wild Irish whoop.

Simultaneously, he, with N’Urru and his herculean figliting-men, charged down into the stern, sweeping the triumphant raiders overside again in one glorious irresistible rush. At the same time, Captain Justice and his party launched a rousing counterattack that cleared the foredeck.

Thus, for a brief space, the hard-pressed defenders won a breather for themselves. And during that respite, Professor Flaznagel took a hand in the game.

Coolly, almost disdainfully, the lanky old scientist emerged from the engine-room, dragging a length of flexible steel tubing behind him. His hand went swiftly to the brass nozzle on the tubing, and the next instant:

“Hurrah! Attaboy, Flapwoggle! How d'ye like your eggs boiled, blackies!” shrilled Midge, as with a hissing roar, a jet of scalding white steam shot out from Flaznagel’s tubing, straight on the target. In a flash, a mob of determined raiders clambering over the port rail seemed to vanish into thin air before the deadly blast.

“Oh, good man, professor!”

Captain Justice, gripping a revolver by the barrel, came sliding down the slippery deck, ducking as a spear whizzed overhead.

“Keep the hose playing, Flaznagel!” he jerked, grabbing the disobedient Midge by the arm. “That’s our best weapon now as long as the steam lasts! De Vissac—Oh, great Scott!”

Justice, shooting a glance aloft, stiffened. Then, dragging Midge along helter-skelter, he tore up on to the bridge. Lieutenant de Vissac lay there slumped beside the wheel, with a javelin buried in his thigh.

“No, no! Leave it—do not trouble about me!” gasped the wounded commander, as Justice bent over him. “It is not serious—yet! I am paid out for being a fool!” A spasm of pain contorted his face. “You were correct, captain,” he whispered. “It is the finish, yes?”

“It will be—when the Flying Cloud gets here!” gritted Justice. “Try to take it easy, De Vissac! By James, we’ve still got a kick or two left! Shall I take charge?”

“I thank you!” The Frenchman grasped his hand feebly. Then, in response to a sharp question, he shook his head. “No, there is no chance of breaking clear now. We have no steam left! Your friend, he is using it all —very fast. I think it will not last—A-ah!”

His voice broke in a groan of dismay as Professor Flaznagel’s “weapon” suddenly gave vent to a gurgling splutter. The steam petered out in curling wisps.

Fiercely the cannibal warriors rallied, rushing the port rail again as Flaznagel beat a hasty retreat. De Vissac sighed and collapsed. Captain Justice, commander of a French river-patrol in action, drew a deep, rasping breath.

“Backs to the wall now!” he muttered; and whirled, with hands cupped to his mouth. “O’Mally! Get your fellows back to the deckhouse! Make a stand there! Midge, you stay here—do what you can for the lieutenant. If you poke your red head into danger again, my lad, I’ll smack it!” And Justice was down the bridge-ladder in one flying leap, running on to rally his own squad on the foredeck.

“Skipper!”

As the captain sped past, Len, wildly excited, suddenly darted out of the wireless cabin, a message trembling on his lips. But justice neither saw nor heard him. A spear plunked into the deck between the youngster’s legs, tripping him headlong. And before he could recover from the heavy toss, Justice was up for’ard, plunging into the thick of the scrimmage again.

And a terrible scrimmage it was—a roaring, raging melee, with no quarter asked or given.

SAFE now from burning lead or blistering steam, the blacks came swarming in from all sides, skipping across the banked canoes, hurling themselves at the rolling launch. They poured over the stem and over the bows. Others scrambled over both rails, agile as tigers and as ferocious.

It was the final onslaught, with the maddened attackers gaining ground every minute. Even Justice had to admit to himself that the end was now in sight!

Weary defenders, outnumbered and outweighted, could withstand the savage assaults no longer. And still there was no sign of the Flying Cloud. With bayonet and rifle-butt Justice fought like a demon on the foredeck, while O’Mally more than held his own among the fighting-men aft. But in spite of gallant leadership, askaris and Giants gradually began to falter. Slowly but surely both squads were being pressed backwards, and hemmed in, when—          

Br-ooo-ooom! In the moment of victory, defeat swept down upon the blacks in a terrifying, overwhelming wave of sound!

Out of a clear sky, something fell—something long, sleek, and slender, something that landed squarely among a huge raft of canoes, banked gunwale to gunwale. Then it burst, and seemed to rock the whole universe with its devastating thunder!

All fighting aboard the launch ceased, because hardly a man there, black, brown, or white, remained on his feet within the next few seconds of terror.

The terrific explosion, appalling as it was unexpected, smote them like a giant fist. Just for an instant, cannibals and native soldiers froze in attitudes of suspended animation, then men of both sides went down in heaps as the launch heaved and rolled in the wash of leaping billows.

Away to starboard, a mighty pillar of water and debris was rising high into the air, dissolving in seething foam and spray.

“The Flying Cloud!” Midge yelled—a yell that nearly cracked his throat—as he looked overhead.

Len, who had received his last signal from the dirigible some ten minutes back, grinned weakly, clutched at his aching head, and slumped to the deck again with a thud.

From the cannibals arose the low, gurgling wail of men rendered witless by ghastly fear. The battle was forgotten! With eyes bulging and limbs shaking as with palsy, the stupefied savages gazed aloft at the great shining monster that had materialised so uncannily out of nowhere, and dropped a bomb on their canoes.

Silvery-blue, the beautiful airship hung motionless against the gleaming sky, the strangest, most dreadful sight they ever had beheld. Then majestically it sank lower under spinning helicopters. A staccato rattle of machine-guns spraying the outlying canoes shattered the stillness.

“The Flying Cloud! She's here! Come on! One last drive!”

Tossing up his rifle, Justice let out a hoarse shout as he charged. And though his askaris were scarcely less bewildered than the foe, they followed him instinctively, venting their joy in delirious howls. But there was no need to drive the blacks away now. Their brute courage had snapped.

Faster than ever they had come aboard, the fear-crazed cannibals fled, hurtling over the rails, diving into the swirling waters, or fighting each other like rats in a mad scramble for the boats. The weapons of the defenders, aided by a few more machine-gun bursts from above, sped them on their frantic way. The launch was saved. The surface of Lake N’Gako became dotted with hard-driven canoes, black bobbing heads, and floating wreckage.

AND then, at the height of the confusion, the Flying Cloud came to rest two hundred feet above the launch, casting a protective shadow over the stricken boat. Meanwhile, Captain Justice & Co. had gathered on the bridge, worn out, dishevelled, dripping with perspiration.

Justice had sustained an ugly cut across one cheekbone and another down his forearm; O’Mally’s brawny left arm hung limp as the result of a knobkerry stroke; and Flaznagel was almost overcome by heat and excitement.

But no one cared. It was good to feast their eyes on their splendid airship again after all these months of separation, good to see the familiar observation-cage dropping steadily down from the open hatch. And suddenly, as Justice’s own standard, the big black flag with its white “J,” broke out from the after-deck railing, the five castaways lifted their husky voices in a cheer.

“Sufferin’ cats!” exclaimed the exultant Midge. "Is she a sight for sore eyes, or isn’t she? I’d sooner look at her than at a ten-course banquet—and goodness knows I could chew O’Mally’s right leg this minute.”

“Good boys—good boys! I knew they’d get here!” said Justice, deeply moved. Then, remembering that he was in command of the launch, the celebrated adventurer pulled himself together.

Beckoning to a grinning askari sergeant in tattered uniform, Justice ordered the man to collect a squad and bring the wounded aft.

“More work for you, I’m afraid, doc—more work for us all as soon as we get hold of some first-aid kit!” he growled, and turned to see how N’Urru and the Giants were getting on. A surprise awaited him.

For N’Urru and company had seen enough and heard enough of white men’s fighting methods. They were on their way back home!

Of the thirty giant natives who had started out into the wilderness only fourteen were left, and already these had collared one of the abandoned canoes. Fifty yards from the launch they stopped paddling in answer to Justice’s hail, and old N’Urru rose from the stern, lifting his arm high in a last salute. Then broad backs gleamed again as they swung to and fro in the sunshine. Without pause for rest, without any more delay whatever, fourteen Giant heroes were off on the long journey back to their secret land.

“And may the saints protect ’em all the way!” muttered O’Mally, in a tremulous voice. “ ’Tis some marvellous tales they’ll have to tell Chief Buktu and the rest of the boys when they get back home. What men they are, Justice. And, faith, what friends they’ve been to us!”

Justice nodded sombrely.

“The best ever!” he cried—and wheeled hastily as a well-known voice greeted him from above:

“Captain, aho-oy!”

With a slight jar, the Flying Cloud’s observation-cage, swaying at the end of a cable, landed on the afterdeck, the door slid open, and John Rigg, attended by Aircraftman Baker, sprang out. His eyes widened at sight of the five torn and gory scarecrows limping eagerly towards him, and then he, too, ran forward with both hands outstretched. Followed a tumultuous spell of cheers, laughter, numbing handclasps, and back-slappings; while Midge literally hurled himself upon Baker’s massive bosom.

“What, the old Tiny!” he carolled, pounding his staring friend in the ribs. “How are you, you poor weak invalid?”

Aircraftman Baker, burliest and toughest of all the Flying Cloud’s crew, did not answer. He could not. Humbly he reached out for Midge’s hand.

“You, you big ape!” squawked the diminutive youngster as the tremendous palm engulfed his and nearly pulped it. Then Aircraftman Baker found his tongue in a wholehearted roar that floated up to the Flying Cloud—a roar that told the anxious men there that Captain Justice & Co. were safe.

Squaring the Account!

TWO hours later the castaways were not only safe, but comfortably seated in the sunny dining-saloon of the Flying Cloud, their wounds dressed, and pangs of hunger appeased. Warm baths and cold showers, good food, and freshly laundered linen had worked wonders already. It was a grand reunion.

Once again Captain Justice was his old spruce self, immaculate in white drill, his beard trimmed to a dapper point, and one of his own special cigars perfuming the air. Only the deep hollows under his eyes and the strip of plaster across his cheek bore witness to recent harrowing experiences.

A smile of content crinkled his keen brown face as he surveyed the crowd of silent men who had forgathered in the saloon to listen to his brief but enthralling story.

“And that’s how it went, my lads,” Justice said, after a short pause. “It was a bad time for us all—and I wouldn’t go through it again for untold gold! But I want to say here and now that the professor, Dr. O’Mally, Connor, and that red-haired scallawag yonder with his mouth full of pineapple stuck it out like heroes. And, as you’ve seen, we’ve managed to pull through in the end, thanks to the Giants—”

“And you!” Dr. O’Mally interrupted suddenly. The portly Irishman rose and solemnly lifted his glass.

“Gentlemen, before we go further, ’tis meself has the honour to propose a toast!” he cried. “A toast to Captain Justice—the only man who could go empty-handed into a howlin’ wilderness and come out to lead his own bunch o’ wild fighting men to victory! Come on, ye spalpeens!”

“Captain Justice!” was the shout that rang joyously through the saloon when the doctor finished.

A deep flush of pleasure dyed the captain’s cheeks as he raised his own glass in acknowledgement.

“Thank you, men—and thank you for the way you rushed to our aid,” he said quietly. “But now to work! First, how are the wounded, O’Mally?”

“Och, fair to middling,” replied the doctor, preparing for another visit to the sick-bay. “La Salle’s still sleeping, and De Vissac’s suffering chiefly from loss of blood and exhaustion. But never fear! Begorrah, I’m looking after them all right!”

“Right, carry on, doctor,” said Justice. “Now, Mr. Rigg, I want you to send a squad below and put that Frenchman into trim once more. We’ll have to stand by, too, until she and her crew are safe. Connor has wirelessed the news to French headquarters, so I expect they’ll rush an air-squadron out to relieve us. In any case,” he added dryly, “I doubt if we’ll have any more trouble from those black villains now!”

“Very good, sir!” John Rigg stood up. As he did so, a subtle change came over his face, as though some icy wind had stiffened the muscles.

“Talking of villains, captain,” he burst out fiercely, “what about this Greek villain, Xavier Kuponos—the cur who dumped you five into the wilds without a weapon between you? What are we going to do about him? Isn’t the brute to pay for all this?”

“Most decidedly he will pay!” Professor Flaznagel declared emphatically, amid a chorus of growls and threats. “The miscreant not only kidnapped and exposed me to a great deal of inconvenience and danger, but, confound him, he has seriously interfered with my work! Justice, I insist that this rascal be punished without delay!”

Captain Justice inspected the glowing tip of his cigar. It was a full minute before he replied.

“We shall attend to the matter,” he drawled then, “just as soon as we have discovered the gentleman’s whereabouts. In due course, my friends, Monsieur Xavier Kuponos is going to wish with all his heart that he had never been born.”

ON a starlit night, three weeks after the battle of Lake N’Gako, Xavier Kuponos sat in camp near the headwaters of a little lost river in the depths of Abyssinia. He was smoking his after supper cigarette, musing on life, and finding it good.

Outlawed from all the “white” countries in Africa, the Greek slaver and gun-runner nevertheless felt that he was sitting pretty—very pretty indeed. He had with him at this moment three score of his heftiest Ethiopian raiders, and a large mule-train of smuggled arms and ammunition—American weapons that would fetch their weight in gold nuggets when delivered to a certain troublesome brigand-chief on the morrow.

Last, but not least, he had squared accounts with the only man who had ever laid him by the heels—Captain Justice!

Not once during the past three months had the wily Greek heard so much as a rumour concerning the fate of Captain Justice & Co. As far as Xavier Kuponos knew, the jungle had swallowed his enemies without trace. He was safe from Captain Justice—safe from suspicion, too.

“Which is very good, I think,” decided Xavier Kuponos, baring his teeth in a slow smile as he rolled another cigarette. He was still smiling when an airship’s observation-cage dropped out of the night and landed neatly in the circle of watch-fires.

Kuponos’ Ethiopian ruffians were bold men. But they were not nearly bold enough to stand up to the sudden warning rattle of machine-guns from the skies, or the soundless arrival of that weird object in their midst. One petrified stare they took at the cage, then took to their heels. By the time Xavier Kuponos recovered from his own stupor of surprise, he found himself all alone save for a trim, dapper man in white.

This intruder, as the paralysed Greek presently observed, wore a torpedo-shaped beard cocked at a truculent angle, and a most unpleasant smile. Kuponos scarcely noticed the revolver that was gripped firmly in a strong brown hand. His eyes, glassy with fear, were riveted to the intruder’s hawk-like face.

“Justice—Captain Justice!” he choked.

“Back from the jungle, Kuponos!” came the level voice in reply, and Xavier Kuponos saw red. Blindly he sprang to his feet and rushed at the man he feared and hated worse than anyone in Africa.

Captain Justice took one quick pace forward and hit him.

When next he regained his senses, the most notorious outlaw south of Suez was a prisoner on board the Flying Cloud. With bleary eyes half-open, Kuponos gazed around—to find four other “ghosts” regarding him impassively. He groaned, and Captain Justice himself stepped forward to offer him a glass of water.

“Oh, you—you hound!” Kuponos gasped, his olive-lined face convulsed. “Justice! All of you—alive! You fiends, you can’t be human! How—how—”

“How did we trace you?” Justice said coolly. “That wasn’t difficult, my friend. You left a pretty wide trail for men who can hunt, and I’ve had plenty of hunters at work. As to how we escaped the death you sent us to, that’s a different matter. It’s a long story, Kuponos, and I don’t propose to repeat it again.

“Well, Kuponos, your game is up! You sent my friends and me into a villainous hole, and now it’s your turn. Professor Flaznagel here has need of as much molybdenum for his work as he can obtain, and we own one of the loneliest quarries in South America. You’re going there—to stay—and to work. If you value your skin, you’ll not attempt to escape!”

Xavier Kuponos panted. There were flecks of foam on his lips as he screeched:

“Hang you, you can’t do it! Take me back to Khartoum—hand me over to the police! I demand a fair trial!”

“You’ve had it! Kuponos, you were tried and sentenced three months ago!” Justice cut in icily. "And thank your lucky stars we did not decide to pay you back in your own coin and maroon you, foodless and weaponless, in the jungle.

“As it is, you’ll be in no danger and sure of your food so long as you work. And my men will see to that!” he added grimly. He strode to the telephone as Xavier Kuponos broke down and wept.

“Main-deck, there! Quartermaster? Steady on your course. Full speed for Justice Island!” the captain ordered. Then he turned, took a last glance at the prisoner, and swept his satisfied comrades from the cabin.

The African venture was finished at last. With effortless power, the Flying Cloud increased her speed, soaring across the Dark Continent, homeward bound!

And in due course, in the sultry climate of South America, Monsieur Xavier Kuponos did wish, with all his heart, first that he had never tackled Captain Justice & Co., secondly that he had never been born! For Xavier Kuponos had to work—hard, very hard—in those lonely quarries!

The End!

A NEW SERIES of CAPTAIN JUSTICE stories starts in Next Saturday's GREAT FREE GIFT issue of MODERN BOY—uncanny and gloriously thrilling!!!

Trial by Combat

 Trial By Combat!

The Castaways, Part 8 of 12

For Part 1 HERE

By Murray Roberts

From The Modern Boy magazine, #342, Vol. 14, 25 August 1934.

Digitized by Doug Frizzle, November 2014,
Stillwoods.Blogspot.Com

Who is the best Fighting Man in Unexplored Africa? On the answer to that depend the lives of CAPTAIN JUSTICE and his Comrades—castaways in the village of the Golden Giants!

A Council of War!

“WEEPIN’ willows, this is an absolute thriller! Go it! Go it, ye cripples! Go it, both sides—and I’ll challenge the winner!”

Young Midge’s freckled face was aglow beneath the limp rush-hat he wore jammed down on his fiery head. His eyes shone, his snub nose twitched, his shrill voice sounded even shriller than usual. He squirmed and wriggled, and made such a first-class nuisance of himself that Dr. O’Mally, Captain Justice’s second-in-command, raised a large and podgy hand and clapped it over the excited youngster's mouth.

“Och, put a sock in it, ye pest! ’Tis wrestling we’re watchin’, not listening to your footlin’ gab! Ye’ll challenge the winner, indeed! What at—eating?”

“Stow it, the pair of you!” exclaimed Len Connor, all his attention centred on the stirring scene before him. “Trust you two to wrangle when—Ah, now you’ve got him!” he exclaimed, elbowing Midge aside in his enthusiasm. “Go on—into him—you’ve got him. Oh, well done!"

Len shouted, and Midge and O’Mally joined in. Next instant their cheers were drowned by a sudden roar of deeper voices that wakened the echoes among the surrounding cliffs.

Jammed shoulder to shoulder, the three members of that adventurous band known as Captain Justice & Co. formed part of a large and noisy throng of copper-hued spectators, drawn up in a circle in the village of the Golden Giants, as Midge called them—strange, stalwart men of an unknown race who inhabited the wild African mountains into which the castaway five had wandered. And within the circle, two superbly built wrestlers were making the dust fly in a friendly but gruelling bout.

Lithe, quick-footed, and strong as panthers, the two splendid athletes had been wrestling without pause for the past fifteen minutes, while their huge fellow-tribesmen shouted themselves hoarse. Wrestling, obviously, was the favourite sport among these strapping fighting-men—all-in wrestling, with no holds barred!

Six days Justice & Co., who had been dumped into this unexplored part of wild Africa, out of an aeroplane, without food or weapons, and clad only in their pyjamas, by a scoundrelly Greek named Kuponos, had now spent in the Giants’ village; and every morning, soon after sun-up, they had watched the young warriors of the tribe do their best to tear each other apart, bout following bout, until the heat put a stop to such strenuous exercise.

From the very first, Captain Justice & Co. had taken a keen interest in the lusty proceedings. Only Professor Flaznagel, the celebrated scientist and inventor, the fifth member of the party, preferred to amuse himself in other ways, for the professor’s mind soared above such affairs as wrestling. At the moment he was carrying out experiments in one of the huts—experiments likely to bode ill for their enemies!

“Best bout of the week so far,” muttered Len, a sound judge of any form of athletics. “Pity the skipper’s missed this one,” the youngster added, for on this particular morning Captain Justice had absented himself from the bouts for some reason. “Wonder where he is?”

Then, carried away by a fresh surge of excitement, Len promptly forgot his leader as one of the wrestlers, after a narrow escape from a fall, wriggled loose and skipped out of range.

For a moment or two both the antagonists paused, hands held low, fingers curling and uncurling. They eyed each other grimly, the early Sunlight gilding their shining, golden-brown figures as they swayed and sidestepped, sparring for an opening. Then, quick as thought, the taller, with an old knife scar seaming his brow, dived in again, his long arms coiling themselves round the other’s loins.

Thud: There sounded the dull impact of muscular bodies; a whirl of iron-hard limbs—a sudden sharp shout. By a terrific wrench, the scarred wrestler heaved his opponent bodily into the air, held him there for an instant, then threw him to the ground with vim and enthusiasm. Over and over rolled the fallen man, recovering at last and striving gallantly to rise. But he was beaten. Even as he struggled to his knees, a spasm of pain puckered his aquiline face. He clutched suddenly at his right elbow, and sank down, again, shaking his head in token of surrender.

“And that’s that!” breathed Len, as the spectators shouted, and the winner threw out his mighty chest and laughed. “Unscientific, but dashed effective. Hallo, though! Come on, doc—that johnny’s hurt!”

“An’ faith, so would you be if someone dumped you like a sack o’ coals!” grunted O’Mally, as, followed by wondering glances, the stout, baldheaded Irishman shoved his way into the ring and knelt beside the loser. “Ah, dislocated elbow, is it? Bad luck, me boy, but ye fought well! Be aisy, now, I’ll soon set ye to rights!”     .

A mist of pain blurred the beaten Giant’s eyes, but with the patient fortitude so typical of his breed, he submitted to the doctor’s ministrations. O’Mally grasped his thick wrist and slid the other hand up the young man’s crooked arm. Then, with a deft jerk and twist, he clicked the dislocated joint back into its socket, and clapped the injured warrior jovially on the shoulder.

“There ye are, my son! But no more wrestlin’ for you this week.” The Irishman chuckled, and a deep grunt of approval burst from the on-looking Giants as the wrestler rose, massaging the elbow and twiddling his fingers. He smiled gravely at O’Mally; returned the doctor’s genial pat with a force that made O’Mally buckle at the knees, then stalked off out of the ring towards his hut. Instantly two more young fire-eaters stepped forth to combat. Dr. O’Mally returned hastily to his place.

“Good old sawbones! ’Nother patient for the panel,” grinned Midge, as the doctor wedged in beside him. “That’s the third joker you’ve patched up so far. You'll be building up quite a practice among the Giants if you—Hallo! Here’s the skipper back at last!”

Captain Justice, with the huge form of Buktu, the chief of the Giant warriors, towering behind him, had suddenly appeared among the natives on the other side of the ring. Without a word, the captain jerked a thumb sideways and strode away again.

In response to the signal, Midge, Len, and O’Mally quitted the circle and hastened, full of curiosity, to join their leader.

“Sorry to drag you away from the fun, lads! But I want to talk to you—Council of War! Come on over to our hut.”

Justice snapped out the words briskly when the others halted around him. There was a frown on the famous Gentleman Adventurer’s shrewd, tanned face as, with tall Buktu bringing up the rear, he led the way to the mud-and-wattle hut which the castaways occupied under the western rampart of the village.

Justice’s Challenge!

“ANYTHING wrong, sir?” asked Len anxiously, as soon as the party had settled themselves down in the shade.

Justice shook his head slowly.

“Nothing very wrong — nothing exactly right!” was the reply; and for a time the captain remained silent, gazing at the scene with pensive eyes.

From where he sat, the kraal of the Golden Giants, nestling in its upland hollow, was spread out before him; a natural fortress—fit background for its warlike inhabitants.

To his right stood the guard-huts, extending the length of the rocky rampart which overlooked the hill that ran down to the turbulent river. On the parapet itself, sentries, armed with bows and three-pronged spears, kept watch over the tumbled country beyond, ever on the look-out for their terrible tribal foes, the cannibal blacks.

Still another line of sentries paced the nearer bank of the narrow, oily brook that cut the village in twain. But these guards kept their eyes glued to the lofty, reddish-brown hill that blocked the southern end of the hollow—a gnarled mass of rock, pitted by yawning caves and holes, whence spiralled the filmy spurts of sulphur fumes. Captain Justice’s lips tightened as he stared at the “burning” hill.

For within its tunnelled depths lurked the fanatical witch-doctor of the Giants and his savage myrmidons, bitter enemies of the castaways and of Buktu and his fellow-warriors.

Four nights ago the tyrannical sorcerer and his clan—a tribe within a tribe—had made a vicious attempt to slay Midge and seize the other white strangers. They had met with crushing defeat, thanks chiefly to Captain Justice and Professor Flaznagel, and since then none had dared venture out of the cave-riddled fastness. Nevertheless, Buktu and his fighting-men were taking no more chances against such a wily and treacherous foe, who had long threatened to plunge the tribe into civil war.

But the presence of those guards along the brook gave Captain Justice small satisfaction.

“My lads, we’ve got to get out of here!” he said. “If the chance comes along, I’d like to wring that confounded witch-doctor’s neck before we go. But what we must concentrate on is getting out of this country with all speed. We want to get back to civilisation—or where we can get in touch with our friends. And, also, there is Xavier Kuponos, the scoundrel who caused all our troubles. I mean to square up with that Greek slaver one day, if I have to comb all Africa for him!"

Thus Captain Justice spoke at last, his voice grim and determined. The others, however, exchanged dubious glances.

“Gummy, that’s some programme, skipper!” retorted Midge, with a wry grin. “Here we are lost in the wilds of unknown Africa. We don’t know the road in or the way out. We haven’t any weapons or two-penn’orth of gear. And old Buck sitting there seems so dashed fond of us he won’t let us out of his sight!”

“No, it isn’t easy, Midge,” Captain Justice agreed. “All the same, it’s got to be done. As for being lost—well, for all we know, we may be reasonably near some outpost of civilisation. It’s improbable, but not impossible. Anything is possible in Africa. And that’s what I want to talk about now!

“I haven’t the foggiest idea of the location of these mountains," he went on. “I’ve travelled and flown over most of Africa, but I’m quite positive I’ve never been near this region before. We’ve seen no traces of any other white men, and it’s clear that we’re the first whites the Giants have ever met.

“As against that, we’ve had precious few chances to explore; and the Giants keep themselves severely to themselves. So what it all comes to is this: How can we be sure that no white settlements exist on, say, the other side of these mountains?

“From the climate, and so on, I’m hazarding the guess that we’re somewhere in or pretty near the Congo. And the professor agrees with me. Well, the Congo is a mighty big stretch of land, but plenty of white men are interested in it. The Belgians, French, Portuguese, and our own people, for instance—any one of them might have a trading-post much closer to us right now than we imagine.”

“My hat, I never thought of that, sir!" Len admitted. “You’re right— this land is so well guarded by jungle and mountain, so bally steep and rugged, that we’ve just sort of sat down and assumed we’re lost! By jingo,” exclaimed the youngster hopefully, “do you honestly think we might be within reasonable reach of some white man’s post?”

“How can I honestly think that?” Justice replied. “No, lad; I merely say that the slim chance exists—that we might possibly find a post, if only we could explore for one. And that,” he added, in sudden exasperation, “is the snag! We can’t explore. Buktu won’t let us!”

Irritably he snapped his fingers towards the frowning cliffs that formed the eastern wall of the hollow.

“On top there—that’s the best and highest point for a good look-see around this country!” he continued. “But will Buktu let me climb? Not he! This morning I pointed to the crest and made signs that I’d like to clamber up there, but he simply shook his head. It’s not that he’s afraid we’ll escape—he just doesn’t want me to go up!”

Justice flicked a quick, searching glance at the great chief warrior, who sat watching the castaways with quiet, intelligent eyes.

‘‘If you ask me, friend Buktu’s a trifle uneasy about those cliffs,” the captain said slowly. “There’s something up there that’s put the wind up him and the rest of the tribe!”

The comrades stared at the cliff-tops, the haunt of small brown goats, and wondered what on earth a warrior like Buktu could be nervous of up there.

“Jumpin’ jam-jars, this sounds a bit queer, skipper! Can’t you think of some way to persuade old Buck to let us go?” ventured Midge, and quivered with fresh excitement as Captain Justice nodded thought-fully.

“Ay, I’ve thought of something,” he replied, his gaze travelling on to the centre of the village, where the wrestling bouts were still in full swing. “It may not work, but I’ve got to take the risk, for I shan’t rest until I’ve seen what’s on the other side of those cliffs! So what I’m going to do,” he said, turning to his mystified companions again, “is to astonish the natives first!

“D’you remember what I said the other night—that it’s up to us, as white men, to boss these fellows, big as they are? Well, that’s what I’m aiming at still.

“We’ve already shown this tribe, warriors and witch-doctors, that we’re not quite the helpless castaways they took us for. The old professor, for one, has got them all scared with his 'magic,’ and now Buktu and the rest regard him as a bigger and more dreadful magician than the local witch-doctor. As for myself—well, you saw how the warriors answered when I called on ’em to charge and chase those painted demons back to their dens the other night.

“Well, Buktu’s lot were afraid of that tricky witch-doctor, weren’t they? But when we proved that we were men worth following they forgot to be afraid—and followed. Now they’re afraid of something on those cliff-tops. So I’m going to seize another opportunity to prove again that we’re worth following, and this time, by James, they’re going to follow me up the cliffs!

“It’s simply a question of playing on the minds of native fighting-men,” the captain went on, with a whimsical grin. “And the only way I know to impress a crowd of fighting-men, brown, white, or red, is to prove to ’em that you’re the best fighter of the lot! And that’s what I’m going to try to do now!”

In silence, Midge, O’Mally, and Len gazed at their famous leader, noting the little smile that hovered about his lips, the twinkle in his eyes. These were signs that the comrades knew of old—harbingers of some reckless, breath-taking feat to be tackled regardless of odds. Midge regarded his leader earnestly.

“But, captain,” cried the anxious youngster, “what are you going to do?”

“Come and see!” said Captain Justice calmly, and rose to his feet.

With the aid of native razors and the soap the clean-shaven Giants used, Justice had regained some of his former spruceness, which not even the patched and stained garments he wore could mar. His eyes were clear, the hollows of his tanned cheeks had filled out. There was a buoyant spring in his step as he strode across the village towards the throng of wrestlers.

His comrades trailed after him with the stately Buktu beside them.

“Bedad, I don’t like this!” O’Mally grumbled. “When Justice is on the warpath, as he is now, St. Patrick alone knows what’ll happen! ’Tis all very well tryin’ to impress a bunch o’ natives, but how on earth is he going to prove himself a better fighting-man than all those copper-coloured Carneras?”

Without a look to right or left, the captain joined the crowd of onlookers around the wrestlers, and, as it happened, a bout ended just as he arrived. Ere the next pair could sally forth, Captain Justice strode into the ring.

Silence descended immediately. The Giants frowned, laid their fingertips across their mouths, and stared, obviously wondering what the strange white man meant to do. Justice’s comrades, suddenly realising their leader’s intentions, stood petrified with horror and amazement.

“Oh, begorrah, the crazy spalpeen!” O’Mally gasped. “Bedad, I do believe he’s going to—” But before the doctor could finish, Captain Justice carried on.

With keen, cool eyes, he had sized up the Giants around him. And now, calm as ever, he strolled across to the biggest man, smiled up at him cheerfully, then slapped the warrior on his swelling chest. A startled shout arose. For that, among the Giants, was the customary challenge to combat!

Bossing the Show!

INTO the ring darted the captain’s companions, with Buktu in the lead. The chief warrior grasped Justice's arm, shaking him excitedly as, in his own guttural tongue, he uttered what was plainly meant as a warning not to be a reckless fool. It was quite apparent that the massive Hercules that Justice had challenged was the most powerful wrestler in the tribe.

“Justice! You’re demented!” O’Mally spluttered. “Ye can’t wrestle against that big horse! Begorrah, he’ll snap your neck in the first—”

With a quick movement, Captain Justice freed his arm from Buktu’s grasp and turned to the Irishman and gave him a dig in the ribs.

“Don’t worry, doc. You know I’ve handled tougher specimens than this!” he whispered. “And remember, it’s all part of the programme. We’re out to astonish the natives!” In that, Captain Justice had succeeded already. The Giants were more than astonished—they were torn between speechless amazement and admiration for the bold white man who dared tackle, their finest wrestler.

Dazed, trembling with anxiety on their leader’s behalf, O’Mally, Midge, and Len allowed themselves to be ushered back to their places. The ring was cleared. Justice stepped back, smiling; his smiling opponent swaggered in after him.

The trial by combat—Justice’s new and daring attempt to prove himself the best fighting-man there—was on!

For a few moments, amid breathless silence, both wrestlers circled warily, each weighing the other up.

Justice had stripped off his thin pyjama jacket, revealing muscles and sinews strong and supple as steel coils, as he swung his arms to and fro, and crouched slightly. Bareheaded, barefooted, he looked the picture of an athlete—a man toughened by years of adventure and hardship.

And yet the captain seemed little more than a stripling against his huge opponent.

Six feet eight in height, the Giant towered a full head and shoulders above Captain Justice, outweighing him by several stones. Midge closed his eyes as the native wrestler grinned, hunched his shoulders forward, and advanced upon the captain like a bull-mastiff about to flatten a cheeky terrier. But an instant later the boy’s eyes popped open again and remained fixed. For Captain Justice was the first to attack.

Which was surprise number one for the Giants!

Justice suddenly ducked in under the great arms extended to crush him, and hurtled on—diving low in a flying tackle that brought the Giant down with a rousing thump. There was a gasp, a shout, a yell as the white man pounced again fiercely, forcing his opponent’s head down in a snappy shoulder-lock. With a desperate heave, however, the Giant bucked him off, shooting him head over heels into the dust. Both gladiators rolled over, then sprang, cat-like, to their feet and faced each other, with chests heaving, hands held low and ready.

But Justice had secured the first fall—and the Giant had lost his smile already. He looked shocked, bewildered, angry. The strength of Justice’s grip, the white man’s tigerish speed, had blunted his self-confidence badly. Scowling, he lashed out vigorously, his massive fist sweeping through the air in a blow that should have knocked the captain senseless. Missing by a foot or more, the native snorted and bored in, seeking to squeeze his elusive foe in a bear-like hug.

But Captain Justice was not there. Again he swayed one way and sidestepped the other, catching his ponderous attacker off balance. And then, since blows as well as wrestling-holds seemed permissible among the Giants, he ducked like lightning and planted his elbow with force and precision deep in the man’s solar plexus.

A sharp grunt forced itself from the native’s lips. Then the captain gave him the other elbow, and, skipping out of reach, left his antagonist gasping, wobbling at the knees.

This was no time for love-taps or orthodox wrestling. Justice had to prove to these warlike Goliaths that he was better than their best—and it had to be done quickly! The Giant opposed to him was powerful and clever, and Justice could not afford to risk a long bout against a man of such strength.

So, giving his groggy opponent no chance to recover from those jabs in the wind, in he dived once more, banging the native wrestler down a second time with his devastating low-tackle and body-slam. Dust swirled, brawny men shouted their amazement. Midge cheered himself hoarse. The entire ring closed in, watching spellbound, while the two champions writhed, twisted, and rolled on the ground.

Again Justice tried for the crippling shoulder-lock—again he was tossed into the air. The antagonists leapt up together, dodging, ducking, clutching at each other’s arms. But the battered and bewildered Giant was all at sea now. He grew wilder, more reckless, and clumsy every minute. Casting caution to the winds, he suddenly uttered a growl of wrath, sprang forward in a terrific heap—and hurled himself at Justice like a madman.

“Gosh!” Len caught his breath. In a flash, just as the plunging Giant landed on top of him. Justice twisted his body round, low and to the right. His arms streaked up: his hands locked themselves round the native’s neck; he arched his back and heaved. Then he fell abruptly to his knees—and the champion of the Giants sailed on.

Full-tilt, the Giant was hurled into the air, shooting high over Justice’s shoulders. And his own wild rush lent him added impetus. There was a swirl of golden-brown arms and legs—a heavy thwack. Landing head-first on the ground, the Giant rolled over, relaxed, and sprawled limply—victim of one of the most shattering ju-jutsu throws ever practised.

The trial by combat was ended! Such an uproar arose then in the village of the Giants as to put all previous outbursts in the shade. After the first few seconds of stunned silence, Buktu and his henchmen gave a long-drawn yell that deafened the lean white conqueror, making him start back with narrowed, apprehensive eyes.

Just for that moment, the captain feared that he had gone too far—that, by defeating their champion so easily, he had aroused the Giants to wrath. In another moment, however, he saw that his fears were groundless. It was admiration, not anger, that blazed in the dark eyes of those tall warriors as they closed in on him.

In that heart-throbbing second of triumph Justice knew that his plan to establish himself as a worthy leader among the Giants had succeeded.

Natural athletes, worshippers of physical prowess, the fighting-men clustered round him, raising their right arms in salute, deafening him again with their deep-chested laughter and shouts of homage. A garland of dark green wax-like leaves was suddenly thrown over his shoulders, by Buktu himself. The next instant Dr. O’Mally forced his way through the press, with Midge and Lon wriggling after him.

“Captain Justice, ’tis a broth of a boy ye are, entirely!” roared the delighted Irishman, squeezing his leader’s hand numb. “By the beard of St. Patrick, ye threw that big elephant around as though he was a bag o’ feathers!”

“And you’ve got ’em now, skipper,” Midge whispered. “Look at ’em! Hark at ’em! Snakes and ladders, you’re IT as far as old Buck is concerned! Strike while the iron’s hot if you want to shin up those cliffs.” Midge was right. The Giants, after this latest display, were ready to follow him as they had followed him four nights ago when, by sheer force of personality, he had changed them from a rabble into a squad of dashing fighters. But he had to strike while the iron was hot if he wanted the chance to explore beyond the confines of the village.

Having wiped the dust and perspiration from his eyes, the captain strode across to his fallen antagonist. That humbled Giant was sitting up, shaking his head dazedly. But he summoned up a faint smile as Justice stooped and smacked him genially on the back.

That done, the shrewd white leader turned, darted a significant glance at his comrades, and walked off without another word, heading for the eastern cliffs.

At once, O’Mally, Len, and Midge hurried after him. It was a move that stilled all tumult in a second.

Giant figures grew taut; feathered heads were raised; dark brown eyes widened. Buktu stretched out a hand, but Justice, looking him straight in the face, pointed to the cliffs. The tall warrior fell back, dismay in every line of his handsome countenance. Yet he made no further attempt to check them. And Captain Justice & Co. walked on.

“Don’t look back! Take it for granted that we’re bossing the show—expecting them to follow! This is the crucial moment, lads! Either our bluff succeeds now, or it fails!”

Captain Justice whispered his orders after fifty yards had been covered in dead silence. But curiosity gained the upper hand of Midge. He had to look back, or burst! He looked back at last—and hugged himself with glee.

The Giants were following. The castaways’ bluff was a winner!

A Staggering Discovery!

LED by Buktu, a party of sombre-faced warriors were slouching forth from the village, slowly, reluctantly, like men drawn into some venture against their will. Buktu’s face was dark with worry: his feet dragged. Clearly he guessed the captain’s object, and disliked it with all his heart. But equally clear was it that the chief warrior felt too ashamed to desert such a masterful leader.

Head erect, shoulders square, the Gentleman Adventurer marched on unfalteringly to the base of the cliffs. Then he turned, eyeing the uneasy Giants coolly. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers in a single commanding gesture.

It was enough!

From every man there came a deep grunt of submission. They shed their unwillingness, and ran towards Justice like hounds at the call of the huntsman. Buktu, once having made up his mind, acted with characteristic promptness. Of his own accord he sent a score of picked men racing back for their weapons, and by the time these returned he had guided Justice & Co. to the most accessible part of the cliffs.

It was, as Midge declared, “a triumph of bluff over beef.” A few minutes later the difficult ascent commenced.

To Len and Midge, however, that climb proved far easier than it looked. For no sooner had Buktu given the word than bronzed arms whisked both youngsters off their feet. Seated astride the shoulders of their “porters,” they were carried aloft, with nothing to do save hold on tightly while the natives clambered actively up the rugged walls and along precarious goat-tracks that wound across the higher levels.

Similar assistance was offered to Captain Justice. But, with a smile, he waved the outstretched hands aside and went up alone.

Dr. O’Mally, not to be outdone, doggedly followed, sweating copiously, but putting his tremendous strength to good account. The best part of a long, hot hour it took them to reach the summit by easy stages. But for Justice & Co., at least, the effort was worth while.

All safe, they gained the flattened crest at last, and the whole party flung themselves down to rest in the shade of some rocks. When Justice regained his breath and rose eagerly to his feet again, a smile of keen satisfaction flitted across his face.

From that lofty eminence, the wilder land beyond the Land of Giants stretched out before him like a wonderful panorama.

To the north and south, in far-flung array, rose the main chain of mountain-peaks, shining blue and gold in the sunshine, flinging up their spear-head crests as if to challenge the sky. The “burning” hill, the witchdoctor’s domain, reared its sulphur-clouded head on their left; and beyond that tumbled a high wasteland of riven rock, of steep gullies and fuming holes—a stark and sinister scar on the face of the country, left there by some titanic convulsion of Nature in ages past.

Two hundred yards from where the party stood, the narrow cliff-top ended in jagged palisades of rock, overlooking a deep ravine. But ahead the ground sloped gradually down into the mouth of a superb valley. For league upon league it ran northwards between mountains and wastelands, disappearing at length into the shimmering blue mists of distance. The river wound through it like an enormous silver-blue serpent, swollen by the rapid streams that babbled down the slopes.

At that moment, Captain Justice would have given all he possessed for a pair of binoculars or even an ancient telescope.

“By James, what a highway to the north that river makes! Wonder where the valley leads out to? Wish I’d made Flaznagel come up here,” he was murmuring to himself , when suddenly Len touched his arm.

“Look over there, skipper—what d’you make of that?” the youngster muttered. Justice, gazing in the direction to which he pointed, knitted his brows.

Between two of the gaunt palisades on the eastern brink of the cliffs towered a lofty cairn of loosely piled rocks—a rugged, strangely impressive monument. Obviously it was the work of human hands, and Justice guessed that it marked the last resting-place of some unfortunate who had met his end up here. Was this the reason for the Giants’ dislike of the uplands?

To test this theory, Justice took a few paces towards the cairn—an action that plunged his allies into fresh dismay at once. Buktu stepped in front of him, shaking his head vehemently; and then, as if to distract the captain’s attention, he jerked his trident savagely in the direction of the witchdoctor’s hill. Wheeling quickly. Justice saw a group of hideously painted figures standing motionless in the mouth of a high cave, watching the explorers intently.

Ignoring the sorcerer's men, but taking a last glance at the lonely cairn. Captain Justice led the way down the slope, picking his way carefully over the rough ground. The nearer the castaways approached to the valley entrance, the more perturbed became Buktu and company. They lagged behind, growling at each other, glaring at their distant enemies. Justice’s eyes were very alert as he changed direction suddenly.

“Steer farther over, lads—behind these rocks,” he said quietly. “There’s something mysterious up here, and I fancy we’re pretty near it, judging from Buktu’s face. In any case, we’re not risking an arrow from those jokers yonder, so—”

And then he stopped, and his voice trailed away in a hoarse, choked cry.

Captain Justice, staring blankly down the hillside, became rigid as a ramrod. O’Mally let out a wild howl and rubbed his eyes. Len’s jaw dropped, his arms slackened. Midge collapsed as suddenly as if his legs had given way.

In stricken silence, all four remained gazing down.

For at the base of the slope, a torn and twisted mass of steel, wood, and rotting fabric, sprawled the wreckage of a once-powerful aeroplane!

“A plane! By James, I—I just can’t believe it!” .

Barely had Captain Justice been so completely jolted out of his customary calm. Heedless of rocks or pitfalls, he raced down the slope. But the wreckage was there! It existed! Fighting for breath. Justice & Co. gathered round it, while Buktu and his men huddled in a bunch on the hilltop, watching their white friends with bulging eyes.

“A plane!” repeated Justice, and stepped closer to the shattered fuselage.

Originally the machine had been a large, single-seater monoplane, with a closed cockpit—a long-distance flyer, with twin auxiliary tanks installed in the tiny cabin. Now it was just a splintered wreck. The pilot, it seemed, had pancaked, tearing off the undercarriage, and after that the machine had struck a rock and turned over. The right wing jutted stiffly into the air; the left had been smashed to matchwood. Like a stricken bird, the plane lay on its side, every inch of it coated with layers of thick white dust.

“And the pilot?" whispered Midge.

Justice looked at the lad, then pointed silently to the strange cairn on the hill.

His comrades bowed their heads without a word.

Here, at last, the mystery of the uplands was solved. Len coughed, clearing his husky throat.

“No wonder Buktu’s crowd avoided this place!” he muttered. “Look at ’em now—windy as cats! I suppose they saw the crash, heard the awful din, too, and I’ll bet they’ve never been closer than they are now to the wreckage! Can’t blame ’em, either. They must have thought the end of the world had come when a great machine like this came smashing out of the sky! And then, I suppose, the poor chap who was in it managed to live long enough to drag himself up to the top, and the Giants buried him there. I wonder who he was?”

Justice stared at the right wing and fuselage. But weeks—possibly months—of tropic weather had rotted the fabric and paintwork, nearly obliterating the identification-marks.

“Well the poor beggar’s beyond our help now, I’m afraid!” he murmured grimly. “Come on! Let’s have a look round. Better hurry, too! This sun is getting too strong.”

GINGERLY the captain clambered on to the wreck, wincing every time he came into contact with hot metalwork. Midge followed, and succeeded in squeezing himself into the crumpled cockpit, half-suffocated by heat and dust. Meanwhile, Len, his hands protected by the sleeves of his pyjama-coat, took a look at what was left of the engine.

“Ah!”

Captain Justice, crawling about under the debris, uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as suddenly his fingers closed on a leather-covered notebook. It was the luckless airman’s “log," and it was written in Italian. Hastily the captain backed out to decipher the faint, hastily scrawled notes, while Midge delved deeper into the cockpit.

The first thing the youngster found was a shotgun, the butt smashed and the breech mechanism ruined. A strong, padded box containing cartridges, however, had survived the crash, as had the flyer’s binoculars, except that a lens had been chipped. Midge seized them eagerly—they were a great find! And even better was the heavy flare-pistol, secured by clips to the side of the cockpit, and still intact.

With those prizes Midge wriggled out into the open again, to find Captain Justice and O’Mally poring over the airman's log. The captain’s face was grave as he nodded to Midge.

 “Discovered the flyer’s identity!” he announced briefly. “Solved another mystery, too! The poor chap was Captain Pagolo Leoni, of the Italian Air Force—one of the two picked flyers who set out to cross from Tripoli into Italian Somaliland about nine months back. They flew into a summer storm somewhere over Nigeria, and were separated. Leoni’s comrade, got through. Nothing was ever heard of the captain again until now.”

Thoughtfully he closed the notebook, his eyes resting on the desolate cairn again.

Then he turned and ducked under the wreckage again. For several minutes he was busy there, and when he reappeared some bulky object bulged under his jacket. The others looked at him inquiringly. He merely gestured towards the hill.

“We can’t stay here any longer; it’s time to get out of the sun,” the captain said.

Slowly the castaways toiled back up the slope again, to the great relief of Buktu and the other Giants. They tramped on until their steps brought them to the foot of the cairn.

Then, inspired by the same thought, they stood to attention and saluted— a last simple tribute to a brave man.

“A gallant flyer!” murmured Captain Justice.

He turned on his heel and walked away, the wonder-stricken Giants trailing dumbly behind him.

Justice’s chief desire at the moment was to consult professor Flaznagel with all speed, for the crowded events of the morning had raised his hopes of winning back to civilisation. His position among the Giants was assured. All that remained now was to strengthen his influence over them—to persuade them to guide the castaways out of the wilderness, or, at least, to supply them with food and a canoe.

As for the astounding discovery of Captain Leoni’s plane, that was the triumph of a successful morning. The flare-pistol Midge had found constituted a weapon at last—clumsy, perhaps, but highly effective in the right hands—while the binoculars were worth their weight in gold. There were other gadgets, too, that Justice had seen, and vowed to use when the time was ripe.

Last of all, a thorough examination of the brave Italian’s log might well supply the clue as to the castaways’ own whereabouts.

Thus, as he made his way across the cliffs, preparatory to descending into the village once more, Captain Justice had plenty to think about—and to wonder, incidentally, what sort of deep experiments Professor Flaznagel was carrying out in solitude!

The results of the old professor’s experiments are going to be absolutely devastating—red-hot and explosive! White Man’s Magic that knocks the Witch-doctor’s Magic into a cocked hat!!! A Captain Justice story that Murray Roberts has jolly good cause to be proud of!!!
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