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!!!

Prisoners of the Witch-Doctor

Prisoners of the Witch-Doctor!

Part 9 of 12 of Castaways; Captain Justice in Unexplored Africa!

To Part 1

By Murray Roberts

From The Modern Boy magazine, 8 September 1934, No.344, Vol. 14

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

 It needs but a single spark to set the fires of Civil War flaming in the Village of Giants in which Captain Justice & Co. are detained in Unknown Africa. And the capture of Midge and Len provides the spark!

Giants at War!

“OH, bcgorralt! By St. Pathrick, ’tis the very worst day of my life! Justice, is there any way we can rescue young Midge and Len Connor from that blackguard of a witch-doctor?”

Too horrified to bottle-up his harrowing distress, Dr. O’Mally gasped out the question. But for the moment Captain Justice did not reply.

Breathing hard after a breakneck scramble down the eastern cliffs, the famous gentleman adventurer stumbled on through the turmoil and torchlit darkness that filled the village of giants. Justice and his four companions had wandered there since, weaponless, and clad only in their pyjamas, they had been dumped from an aeroplane into this part of unexplored Africa by a scoundrelly Greek named Kuponos.

Everywhere, golden-brown goliaths were rushing about, armed with bows or heavy tridents, while the night resounded to shouts and yells, and the hoarse blaring of horns. Arrows zipped ceaselessly through the air, threatening death every second.

It was a strange and terribly dangerous position in which the white castaways found themselves. All Justice wanted just then was to get under cover and there cudgel his wits as he had never done before. Collaring O’Mally and Professor Flaznagel by the shoulders, he hustled them neck and crop into the shelter of a deserted hut.

“Now take it easy!” he panted. “Get your wind back first. By James, we’re in too tight a corner to go at it like a bull at a gate!”

“But—but Midge! And Len!” wailed O’Mally, his fat face drawn with anxiety. “We can’t stay here! We must do something to save ’em! Faith, the poor lads may have been killed!”

Professor Flaznagel, in scarcely better plight than the stout Irishman, clawed nervously at his straggly white beard.

“I maintain,” he said, in a quavery voice, “that that human fiend is not the type to mete out a swift and merciful death to any victims who fall into his hands! Confound it, it is barely half an hour since Midge and Connor were captured! There may still be a chance of saving them if—”

“If we act promptly!” snapped Justice. ‘'Pull yourself together, O’Mally! I’ve told you we’re going to get the boys back. And, by James, we’ll get the hound who stole them, too!”

Cold wrath glinted in Justice’s steel-grey eyes as he spoke. His lean face, bedewed with sweat, was granite-hard.

"It’s civil war among the giants now—a straight scrap between our friend Buktu and his comrades of the warrior-caste, and that witch-doctor snake with his mob of painted demons!” he snapped. “What caused the feud in the first place, we don’t know or care. Probably the witch-doctor became a bit too keen on human sacrifices or some such brutality for Buktu’s liking. Anyway, it’s clear enough that the two factions have been at loggerheads for some time and our coming here has brought matters to a head. Twice that demon has tried to capture some of us. This time he’s succeeded.

“ But I don’t give two hoots for their tribal squabbles!” he snarled. "By James, no vile savage can monkey about with my friends and get away with it! So now dry up, O'Mally. I want to think!”

Motionless, absorbed in plans of vengeance, the captain stood beside the hut; studying every detail of the witch-doctor’s domain, weighing up all the possibilities of getting inside that grisly lair.

Gaunt and rugged, a gnarled mound of porous rock pitted with blow-holes through which the fumes of sulphur everlastingly streamed, the witch-doctor’s lair loomed black against the stars. An oil-laden stream that wound through the village flowed sluggishly into the heart of the ugly mass, entering it by way of a huge cave that yawned at its base. A boulder-strewn valley, some two hundred yards long, separated the hill from the village, and across this bands of furious warriors were trying to creep through the rocks and conic to grips with their foes.

JUSTICE scowled. His allies, brave as they were, could make little headway against the steady fire down from the dark heights. More warriors were striving to force their way in from the other side of the hill. But they, too, were expending life and energy in vain.

“Useless! They haven’t a chance of breaking through, armed only with spears and bows,” the captain gritted, and took stock of his own weapons.

Which did not take long. He had only one—the flare-pistol that had belonged to an Italian flyer who had crashed months ago, all alone, in this back o’ beyond. The discovery of the wrecked plane on the top of the cliffs had astonished Justice & Co. It had also led indirectly to the capture of Midge and Len by their terrible foes.

With the pistol, Justice still had seven flares left. Also a box of shotgun cartridges, but no shotgun. His teeth met with a sharp click. What chance had he of assaulting such an impregnable fortress with that slender store of ammunition?

“It’s strategy we need now, not brute force,” he muttered. And then, as a sudden inspiration came, he wheeled on the startled professor.

“That incendiary liquid you’ve invented, Flaznagel,” he jerked. “The stuff you set alight to-day, scaring the stuffing out of Buktu’s men—what is it, again?”

“A concoction of sulphur and naphtha, distilled from the crude petroleum skimmed from the stream,” explained Flaznagel. “I simply powdered the—”

“Gosh! Never mind the process!” Justice cut in sharply. “All I know is that the stuff is more inflammable than petrol, and that it terrified these big fellows. Tell me quickly—have you brewed much of it? You have? Good! Then I want it all, now! Hurry!”

Puzzled but obedient, Flaznagel rose, and swiftly, hugging cover all the way, the three adventurers hurried to the native guard-hut which the old inventor had appropriated. Within stood a collection of earthenware jars, pots, and other cooking utensils, all commandeered in the same high-handed manner. The Wizard of Science lifted the covers off two large jars, revealing a quantity of pale amber liquid that gave forth acrid, suffocating fumes.

Justice’s face wore a fierce smile as he stared at the dangerous stuff, and he astonished his comrades by shooing them out into the clamorous night once more.

“Fine! Well done, professor! There’s enough there to help scupper every demon in the hill yonder!” he exclaimed. “Now all we want is a canoe!”

Flaznagel and O’Mally gaped at him, thunderstruck.

“A—a what did ye say? Begorrah, have ye gone crazy, Justice?”

“Not at all! But that witch-doctor soon will be—crazy with fright!” Justice snapped grimly. “I tell you I want a canoe—and there are plenty tied up to the river-bank below us. Lively now! Come on, help me haul one up here, and I’ll explain the plan as we—”

But before Justice could outline the daring scheme that had occurred to him, his words were lost in a sudden increase of noise from the village.

Suddenly the yelling and shouting were swamped, blotted out by such a rousing, tremendous fanfare of horns that the castaways rocked back on their heels, dazed and deafened by the ear-splitting din.

What that nerve-shattering interruption meant, Justice & Co. could not guess. They shrank back against the hut, waiting and watching.

Again the discordant instruments brayed hoarsely, swelling out in harsh waves of sound from the torchlit compound in front of the chief’s hut. And—as by magic—all fighting ceased at once.

Both the warring factions obeyed that peremptory summons in a flash. A truce had been called—one that neither side cared to ignore. No more arrows whistled down from the witchdoctor’s lair. The demoniac shrieks and yells gave place to utter stillness.

And that silence, eerie as it was inexplicable to the white men, lasted until:

“By the powers!” breathed O’Mally suddenly. “Look—look, Justice! Bedad, if the old chief himself isn’t buttin’ in at last!” and he raised a shaking hand, pointing across the village.

It was true! Out of the great hut, pacing slowly towards the sulphur-crowned hill, came a small procession of heavily armed bodyguards and older men in long loose gowns. At their head, the oldest yet most impressive of them all, shuffled the Lord of the Giants.

So bowed and shrivelled was the venerable chief that he seemed scarce able to support the weight of his flowing leopard-skin robe. But in his sunken eyes a fiery sparkle of authority glittered, as Justice saw when the torchlight played on the old man’s haggard face. His mouth was compressed to a thin, tight gash beneath a hooked and masterful nose. The sharp tap, tap of his staff on hard ground was the only sound to break the hush.

Fight to the Finish!

REACHING the stream at last the chief halted, with his guards around him. His once-powerful frame stiffened, his back grew straighter. A strangely dominating figure he made, standing there in a pool of ruby light. Slowly he raised his left arm, beckoning imperiously to the defenders of the hill.

Then suddenly his voice rang out, deep and surprisingly strong for one of his years. At first his speech sounded crisp and cold; the speech of a ruler who issues orders and expects immediate obedience. But when no reply, either by word or act, issued from the silent hill, his tones changed swiftly to a menacing snarl.

It was a dramatic scene that Justice watched—an entirely unexpected break in the hostilities. But still the meaning of it all was obscure. Though the chieftain’s talk was Dutch to him, there was something in the patriarch’s forbidding manner and tone that sent an odd thrill through the captain’s heart. And gradually, very gradually, a faint hope stirred within him.

Could it be possible that the incensed chief was demanding the instant release of Midge and Len? The old ruler, if Justice knew anything about natives, looked upon himself as the one master of life and death in that tribe, and such a ruler would react pretty strenuously to any interference with his royal rights! A council of war had been held in the great hut, that was clear enough. Had the witch-doctor, by his turbulence, cruelty, and arrogance, roused his chieftain to action at last?

“By James, I believe the old buffer’s decided to back us up after all!”

Justice’s face was twitching with excitement. Unable to endure the suspense any longer, he nodded abruptly to his comrades and began to sidle forward. But any hopes he entertained of getting closer and trying to read the old chief’s intentions from his expression were speedily dashed. For as he moved, tall Buktu, the warrior-captain, seemed to spring from nowhere and gripped him by the shoulder.

And Buktu obviously was a man torn by strong emotions.

Bitter fury against the sorcerer who had outwitted him, and grief at the loss of the white boys, which he clearly regarded as a blot on his own honour, showed starkly in the Giant’s hotly glowing eyes. That he had been in the thick of the fighting was obvious, too. His muscular body glistened with oily water from the stream. Blood was welling from a ragged furrow across his breast.

And equally plain was it that the bronzed giant had some news for the white men—some message which he tried to convey to them with all his strength and intelligence.

Thus, while the chief continued to shout wrathfully at the still-silent hill, Buktu’s expressive eyes, hands, and shoulders were busy, striving to overcome the barrier of language. He pointed to his chief and to the hill; he whispered vehemently and stamped about, beating his wounded chest when the adventurers only stared and shook their heads uncomprehendingly. In the end, a last effort to drive his meaning home, he whipped out his heavy sword.

Then, with the point, he drew in the dust a crude but perfectly recognisable sketch of five white men in curious garb standing together, of whom one was very short and stocky, and another tall and straight. Justice Sc Co: tumbled to it at last.

“Och, St. Patrick be praised!”

O’Mally nearly broke down with relief and hope then, as he pumped away at Buktu’s hand.

“Sure, I’ve got it, Justice—all five of us are to be together again!” he crowed. “It must mean that Midge and Len are still alive! That darling old scarecrow yonder is orderin’ the scouts to send ’em back at once, bless his ugly old mug! Wirroo!”

“Wait! Haul your wind a moment, doc!”

Justice, delighted as he was to find that his optimism had not proved groundless, nevertheless held up a warning hand.

“We’d better wait till the boys are out of trouble before waving any banners!” he said quietly. “You’re right—the old chief seems to be doing his best to get them back. But, even so, he himself may slaughter the whole lot of us afterwards for being the cause of so much trouble! And in. any case those mutinous clogs on the hill don’t answer. Ha! Now what the dickens is going to happen?”

The captain broke off sharply. He went forward a stride or two, and some instinct made him reach quickly for the flare-pistol tucked into the waistcord of his ragged pyjamas. Still no reply came from the rebellious fanatics—nor were there any signs of Midge and Len. And the Lord of the Giants had suddenly lost all patience.

Goaded into a white-hot passion by the disobedience of the witch-doctor and his crew, the old chief shook his staff viciously at the hill. Then he wheeled, shouting an order. Instantly his guards doubled back, returning with rough-hewn planks which they laid across the stream. Out of the corner of his eye, Justice saw Buktu make a quick gesture of warning and protest.

“Great Scott! The old gamecock’s risking something now!” the captain muttered uneasily, and with that he broke into a run. Buktu sprinted beside him. Before either could interfere, however, the leopard-robed old chief brandished his staff, growling like some thwarted old bear.

Then, all alone, royally confident that no man there dare harm him, the lord of the tribe, he stalked threateningly towards the rebel domain, and simultaneously the witch-doctor’s answer whistled venomously through the air.

“Oh, great heavens! The cowardly scum!” Justice shouted, leaping forward. He and Buktu raced for the bridge together—in vain. They were too late! The damage was done!

From what part of the dark hill that fatal arrow was fired none could tell, but a gleaming shaft zipped into the blaze of torchlight, speeding straight to the mark. Helplessly the gallant old chief threw up his arms, reeling' back on the edge of the planks as the captain and Buktu dashed to his aid. Then, dropping his staff, lie buckled at waist and knees, and fell.

And the new-found hopes of Justice & Co. fell with him.

The witch-doctor had answered; the truce was over. For what seemed an age then a stunned silence reigned—an anguished pause, during which white men and brown stood rooted to the ground. Half incredulously they stared at the empty “bridge,” at ripples spreading sluggishly across the stream. And then:

"Come on! Give it to ’em, lads— hot and strong!” Justice yelled.

Swift as light the pistol in Justice’s hand jerked up. A hissing flare tore through the air, struck the hillside, and exploded in a crimson blaze. Shrieks of pain went up, and in the glare painted figures were revealed, writhing on the slopes or scampering pell-mell to cover. At the same time such a mighty roar of wrath arose as seemed to shake the skies.

For both sides, then, it was a fight to the finish. The cowardly assassination of the old chief did it. The witch-doctor’s men, their backs to the wall, rallied desperately. Buktu and his fighting-men went crazy.

Burning to get their hands on the foe, guards and warriors charged shoulder to shoulder across the stream, only to be met at once by a storm of arrows from their foes. Men stumbled, went down in heaps, or ducked involuntarily under a withering fire that lasted until Justice fired another flare into the hill. Again the crimson blaze burst, creating havoc and confusion among the fanatics. Then, and only then, were Buktu and the valiant O’Mally able to plunge into the water on a grim errand of mercy.

“Hurry! Get him behind the hut!” snapped Justice, and raised his gun again as Giant and Irishman scrambled out with their limp burden, the old chief. To cover the retreat he fired a third flare, while all along the bank of the stream bowstrings twanged and thrummed. Ten seconds later O’Mally and Buktu were safe under shelter. Gently they laid the old man down as Justice came sprinting back.

“O’Mally! Is he—”

The doctor, pulling aside the chief’s drenched robe, nodded soberly.

“Ay! The treacherous jackals got him through the heart!” he muttered. “The poor brave, crazy old fellah, bedad, he took on too big a contract that time! Justice, that witch-doctor is going all out to make himself master o’ the tribe this night, I’m thinking. And Midge and Len are still prisoners!”

“But not for long!” Justice’s voice was like a steel blade that pricked the others to action once more. O’Mally nodded, thrusting out his heavy jaw. Buktu, crouching silently beside his dead chief, suddenly grasped the captain’s hand in a grip of understanding loyalty, and faith.

Justice returned the grip with interest. Then he glanced at the wild scene ahead, where the warriors were still striving doggedly but fruitlessly to carry the hill by assault.

“We'll get ’em all right, Buktu! We'll get our boys back, then wipe out that gang of traitors for good!” he rasped. “But we’ll do it our way now, and without wasting any more precious time. Your chief is dead, your men can’t make headway, so it’s up to us to carry on with our plan of attack. Where’s Flaznagel?”

“Here, Justice!” The professor spoke from the darkness behind the hut, and Justice strode across to him immediately.

For several minutes he whispered in his friend’s ear, outlining a plan that made Flaznagel purse his lips and shake his head protestingly. But Justice, in his present mood, was like dynamite. He blew the old scientist’s objections away in a single speech.

“Professor, you’ll do as I say, please, and do your best! Hurry, man! There are lives at stake!” he snapped. And Flaznagel, after blinking his eyes rapidly, gave an apologetic grunt and scurried off down the line of huts.

“Now, O’Mally!” Justice wheeled on the hard-breathing Irishman and pointed towards the hill. “There’s only one way into that dump, and that’s along the stream and into that thundering great cave yonder. So I want a canoe, and this time I’ll get it. Come on!”

And, ducking his bald head, the stout Irishman ran, his eyes glued to Justice’s dim, wiry figure. Behind them Buktu hesitated, looked towards the firing-line, and raised his spear in a last salute to his old chieftain.

And then, because to him Captain Justice was the most inspiring leader he had ever known, the great warrior growled an order to two of the guards and dashed away, following the white men to the village parapet.

In the act of clambering over the natural rock-ribbed barrier that guarded the western flank of the village, Captain Justice smiled keenly as the three huge and tawny men loomed up behind him. There was little danger now. All the firing from the hill was concentrated on the stream and the boulders beyond. Together the five slipped over the parapet, running cautiously down the outer slope to the edge of the river below.

Battle Orders!

TEN minutes later they were back again, with Buktu’s men carrying a light and slender fishing canoe between them. The captain led them right through the village to a point where the oily stream flowed out from the foot of the eastern cliffs.

Dr. O’Mally started and raised his eyebrows as he saw the professor there already. And the old scientist, squatting alone in the semi-gloom, was mighty busy.

At his elbow stood the two jars that contained the highly inflammable liquid he had concocted. With Midge’s old knife he was methodically slicing open the shot-gun cartridges, and dribbling the black powder into another smaller jar.

“Bejabbers! An’ what game is this?” began O’Mally, only to be interrupted briskly by Justice.

“Good work, professor! Everything shipshape?”

“I am carrying out your instructions, Justice,” replied Flaznagel calmly. “If that is what you mean.”

“It is!” Justice chuckled shortly, and touched O’Mally’s arm. “All right, doc—just a little surprise for our friends yonder. A fireship! Now give me a hand here!”

They took the canoe from the native bearers and laid it on the water, O'Mally steadying it against the bank. Then, watched by three pairs of dark brown apprehensive eyes, the jars were placed carefully in the bows, and their weight balanced by stones and small chunks of rock in the stern. Then, whilst Justice and O’Mally held on to the gunwale, Professor Flaznagel stepped gingerly into the canoe, the smaller jar cuddled under one arm.

Along the bottom of the craft he then laid a thin trail of gunpowder, heaping up what was left in a small mound between the jars. His work finished, O'Mally helped him ashore. And Captain Justice, making a sudden dash towards the hut, returned speedily with a torch spluttering and smoking in his hand.

The famous gentleman adventurer was smiling now. It was a fighting grin, too—one that went straight to the hearts of the native warriors.

“We’re ready!” Justice spoke quietly. “So now listen, doc—orders for battle! As I said before, there’s only one quick road into the hill, and that’s along the stream and into the cave. But first we’ve got to panic the infernal defenders—scatter them, and give Buktu’s mob a chance to ram their charge home without being shot down before reaching the cave!

“And that’s what we’re going to do—or rather, I am. I’m a fireship, a battering-ram, and a bombshell—all rolled into one!” Justice laughed harshly. “And your job is to wait with the warriors and then charge! Burst your way in for the sake of Midge and Connor the instant you see the opening! Understand?”

“I—I—yes!” O’Mally nodded dubiously and licked his lips as if meditating some further remark. But Captain Justice waited for no more.

Deftly he wedged his torch upright between the stones in the stern of the canoe, then gave the craft a shove-off. It was built to carry two Giant fishermen, and so, making light of its present cargo, it glided away, bobbing slightly as the sluggish current took charge. Justice let it go. Then coolly he dropped into the water, pausing for a last word before setting forth on one of the most audacious ventures of his career.

“Now, don’t forget, O'Mally!” he cried. “The moment the balloon goes up—charge for the cave! And remember this! Those beggars can't escape once we’re in, because there’s another band of Giants besieging the other side of the hill. So smash your way into that dump somehow, then keep on smashing. Good luck!”

"But, Justice—” The Irishman found his tongue at last. “By the beard o’ St. Patrick, ye can’t take that canoe right up to the cave- mouth alone! Man, ye’ll be under fire the whole way! Those demons will shoot—”

“Good!—Then we’ll give ’em enough light to shoot by!”

That was all. O’Mally fell back, silenced by that typically calm reply. And Captain Justice, kicking off from the bank, turned in the water and struck out after the swaying “fireship.”

“Oh, bedad! Hasn’t that beggar any nerves at all? Faith, I’ve seen Justice do some desperate deeds, but this—”

Dr. O'Mally gulped. Dismay, anxiety, and admiration struggled for expression on his big face as he watched Justice catch up with the canoe and send it on faster with a lusty shove.

Then, because he was in charge of the “shore-gang” now, the doctor snapped his fingers and began running cautiously along the bank, with Flaznagel, Buktu, and the others at his heels.

Silently the canoe glided along the winding stream, propelled partly by the current, partly by Justice’s arms and shoulders. Its progress became a series of jerky spurts; once or twice it struck the bank on a bend, but each time the lone swimmer thrust it clear, and on it sailed, with the torch fluttering redly above the stern. The warriors among the boulders stopped shooting, uttering guttural grunts of amazement as the craft with its dangerous load lobbed past them.

But if Buktu’s men were astonished, that was nothing to the consternation and alarm that seized their foes as the canoe turned into the straight stretch at last, and headed directly for the cave-mouth. Captain Justice had to swim mighty close to the vessel then. From above him, and from both flanks, streaked whistling arrows, accompanied by yells of rage. Faced by this strange new menace, the defenders of the hill shot fast.

Whee-ee! Plunk! Feathered shafts hissed through the air, thudding into the thin sides of the canoe, skimming into or across the water. But Justice, swimming slowly against the protecting stern, smiled coldly and carried on. Nearer—nearer!

He could see right into the yawning cave-mouth now—and, better still, he could see frantic figures skipping down the rocks or swarming out of the dimly lit tunnel beyond, gathering at the entrance to greet him with point-blank volleys. That was all he wanted. As an arrow whipped past his partially exposed shoulders, he ducked a little, gave the canoe another shove, and grinned again.

“The reception committee!” he jeered, risking his life to take a good long look at the crowd of yelling fiends manning the cave-mouth.

“All right! Stay there, my hearties, and enjoy the fireworks! The more the merrier! Ha!”

Hastily Justice swerved behind the stern again, as a bunch of hideously painted figures suddenly darted from cover, making for the water’s edge with upraised spears. But he need not have worried. Buktu’s archers were right on their toes now! Suddenly, to the long-drawn whee-ee-ee! of arrows, the band of fanatics crumpled in their tracks, while a second storm of shafts drove their comrades back from the cave-mouth in disorder.

Fast and furious then grew the fire from the village, covering Justice’s advance, sending the defenders cowering into their holes. The canoe crept on; the alarm spread. And at long last the iron-nerved captain braced himself for the final effort—the critical move in his breathless attempt to save Midge and Len.

Coolly he reached up, braving death as he gripped the gunwale of the canoe. Coolly he drew in a long, deep breath, filling his lungs to bursting point. Then, swiftly, strongly, he heaved himself out of the water.

One lightning sweep of his free hand sent the blazing torch flying on to the gunpowder-strewn bottom of the canoe. But before it landed, Captain Justice was back in the water again, diving down to the bed of the stream for dear life!

Victims for Sacrifice!

LEN CONNOR sighed wearily and groaned. He could stifle the painful outburst no longer. For a brief moment pride and pluck forsook him, and the low groan of anguish forced itself from his parched lips. His head drooped.

As if ashamed of betraying such weakness, the stout-hearted youngster gritted his teeth next instant, and, spurred by desperation, strained at the rawhide bonds that cut into his wrists. But the. struggle was as futile as it was feeble, for Len was nearly all-in. His brain reeled under the excruciating stabs of pain that tortured every inch of him.

He hung limply between the sloping arms of a triangular wooden frame. His wrists were tied to the apex of the triangle, and in this plight his merciless captors had left him to dangle, with unbound feet barely touching the rocky ground. And that had been over an hour ago—though it seemed more like a hundred years!

Now, as he swayed slackly in his bonds, his arms felt as if they were being drawn from their sockets. Try as he would, he could not get sufficient purchase with his feet to ease the strain on his wrists. He groaned again, and turned bleary eyes on the dark stream flowing past him, not twenty feet away. But the sight and sound of the gurgling water only added to his torments, for his tongue was swollen, his throat drier than a lime-kiln.

“Cheese it, you ass! Don’t struggle!”

Faintly, as from a distance, the familiar voice came to him, hoarse and jerky. But the warning sank in. Len turned his head the other way, fighting to summon up a gallant grin. Close beside him, suspended from a smaller triangle, hung young Midge, sweat streaming down his white face.

"No use struggling!” repeated the diminutive, red-haired youngster, licking his lips. "Only hurts you and makes these painted sons o’ mud laugh. Cheer up, old boss—looks as if they’re waitin’ to—to make themselves bosses of the Giants first before polishin’ us off! Victims for sacrifice—that’s us! Only they’re all makin’ one big bloomer!”

Attacked by a spasm of nausea, Midge reeled, sagging towards one of the supports. But he shook off the dizziness somehow, and snorted, blowing back the damp forelock that flopped over his eyes.

Groggily Len lifted his heavy head again and gazed at the witch-doctor’s lair.

Of its exact or even approximate dimensions, neither Len nor Midge had the foggiest idea. It was too gloomy, too immense; so lofty and expansive as to dwarf the stalwart defenders and muffle their incessant yells. At some time in ages past an earthquake had scooped this mighty amphitheatre out of the solid heart of the rock.

Parts of it were uninhabitable. For there, between massive boulders, deep fissures criss-crossed the ground, and from these issued evil-smelling fumes of sulphur, curling slowly up out of the bed-rock. Darkness, velvety-black, shrouded the nethermost regions. The stream cut the cave roughly in two, before plunging, with a noise as of distant thunder, into a bottomless sink.

High up in the gnarled, sloping walls gaped the mouths of smaller caves, and in and out of these men crawled like bees in a monstrous hive.

It was a dungeon of haunting gloom and terror—citadel and temple combined, for to Nature’s handiwork generations of savage priests had added their own. There were gruesome idols and altars everywhere. The largest, most hideous of all, half man, half brute, loomed high above thc heads of the luckless youngsters, seeming to grin down upon them out of the dimness with its stony eyes.

Beneath it, on a grotesquely carved throne, set between the outstretched paws of the idol, tlic Giants’ witchdoctor sat in state.

Chin in hand, elbow propped on a stout, bare thigh, he sat motionless as the carven monster above him. The glow from a ring of torches and braziers cast a reddish sheen over his powerful shoulders and face, heightening the man’s terrifying aspect. One mighty hand was clenched tightly on the stock of the rhinoceros-hide whip that lay across his knees. Only his small, unwinking eyes moved, taking in all that happened as he squatted there, a menacing lord of the underworld.

Now and then, other men—lieutenants or councillors, apparently—came towards the leader, dropping on their knees before him. They spoke. Their chief answered them briefly in a deep, cold voice, and dismissed them with a gesture. But though the captives watched closely, neither word nor action gave them any clue as to what was going on outside.

At last one man, evidently the bearer of ill news, was rewarded with a sudden vicious stroke of the whip that sent him running, howling as he fled. Midge and Len perked up a little at that—the more so as the clamour at the cave-mouth increased at the same moment. Something was up! Then, with a snarl that showed all his betel-reddened teeth, the witch-doctor turned his head slowly, raking the lads with a look that made them shiver.

“Gummy, what’s this mean?”

Midge, never subdued for long, recovered his nerve quickly and returned the threatening glare with one of defiance.

“Sufferin' cats, Len—looks as if the Big Baboon heard something then that he didn’t like!” the exhausted youngster gasped. “Yes, by ginger, that last messenger gave him a shock. He’s got the wind up. He—”

“Listen, you ass!”

LEN, whose mind was growing hazy with pain, pulled himself together by sheer will-power and raised his head. Gosh, how tired he was! And how his arms and stomach muscles ached with the intolerable strain!

“Listen!” he repeated urgently. “Something is happening outside! Or am I imagining things? No, by thunder, I can hear it! The noise outside—it’s getting louder, Midge! And coming nearer! Oh, my hat, listen!”

Len’s words grew more coherent. Again his head jerked up more alertly. Two spots of colour, born of sudden excitement, burned on his pallid cheeks. His eyes held a wild gleam as he glanced at his quivering chum.

“It’s a raid!” he shouted. “Midge —Midge, old son, stand by! A charge —the big attack, and —Gosh, look at the brutes now—look at that hog on the throne!”

With hearts pounding against their ribs, the youthful prisoners strove to ease themselves in their bonds, craning their necks as, for some reason, the denizens of the cave were swept by a violent wave of panic and dismay. Painted figures were racing towards the cave mouth from all parts, horns began blowing, summoning reinforcements down from the heights.

Soon a whole mob of archers were jammed together on both banks of the stream, firing rapidly, and a few moments later they fell back with screams and groans under a storm of arrows that drove in suddenly from the outside. Their gigantic chief leant from his throne, and rushed forward to rally the shaken men with thunderous roars and strokes of his terrible whip. As for Midge and Len, they dangled in the triangles, almost suffocating with anxiety.

WHAT was happening? What was the meaning of this new and frantic uproar?

Faster and straighter the arrows of the giant warriors drove through the opening, hurling the stricken enemy back. The entrance, for a fatal moment, was left unguarded. Even the raging witch-doctor dived for shelter. And in that moment Len Connor uttered a gasp!

For something—some black and oddly sinister shape—came gliding into the cave-mouth.

A long, slender canoe it was, with a blazing torch fluttering in the stern. Len watched it, spellbound. On it came, steadily, silently, until suddenly the torch seemed to leap up of its own accord and fall to the bottom of the craft. And then—

The explosion!

Len shut his eyes tight. Midge wilted. The terrific concussion scattered his wits. Vivid flashes of light, of blue and crimson flame lit up the entrance, a smashing roar, heavy yet vibrant, seemed to shake the ground. Echoes like the thunder of guns filled the mammoth cave, and then left behind a stunned silence. Then a wounded man cried out in a thin, high wail, and Len, opening his eyes as the tension snapped, cheered hoarsely.

The canoe, Justice’s “fireship,” had vanished—blown to splinters by the explosion of its deadly cargo. And the ranks of the witch-doctor’s fanatics were shattered, too. Men, scalded by flying oil or struck by whizzing fragments of rock, lay on the banks or in the water; others were staggering about aimlessly, helplessly. A delirium of terror seized the survivors, who scattered like fear-crazed sheep.

And then, at the height of the hopeless panic, Captain Justice, O’Mally, Buktu, and his herculean warriors rushed the cave.

Into their enemies’ lair they charged, tridents glittering, broadswords rising and falling like flails. As in a dream, Len and Midge saw their captain’s dark, hawk-like face in the van; saw the burly, baldheaded O'Mally laying about him lustily with the shaft of a broken spear. From the cowed and demoralised defenders rose a long wail of terror—from the triumphant attackers a war-cry that swelled up to the heights. Then the work of vengeance began!

For a minute or so the towering witch-doctor fought like a gorilla to stem the tide, only to be hurled back with the rest. Captain Justice struck at him, and, missing, fell to his knees. The witch-doctor snarled, whirled about, and made a dash straight for Len and Midge, swinging his whip as he came.

That he meant to take instant revenge on his prisoners was plain! Not even Midge for all his hardihood, could face up to the howling madman then. Involuntarily the youngster quailed as the maniac whooped, heaving up his weapon for a slashing stroke. But that blow never fell.

It was checked—parried in midair. And:—"Buktu!” wheezed Len.

Buktu seemed to spring out of the very ground behind the witch-doctor. Laughing terribly, he yanked his bitter rival round by the hair, and for a tense moment the fighting giants glared deep into each other’s blazing eyes. Then Buktu laughed again, and his sword-arm shot out, straight from the shoulder.

That was the end!

Ten minutes later, in a half-fainting condition, Midge and Len were borne away triumphantly out of the dreadful cave, back to the joyful village. With them went Captain Justice and O’Mally, weary, dripping wet, but exultant!

With the downfall of the Witch-doctor, the Road to Freedom is opening up for Justice and his Comrades. But it's a hard road to travel, as they discover in Next Saturday's Thriller!
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