The Demons of Burning Hill

The Demons of Burning Hill!

Part 9 of 12 of The Castaways

By Murray Roberts

Link to Part 1

From The Modern Boy magazine, 1 September 1934, No.343 Vol. 14.

Digitized by Doug Frizzle, November 2014.

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Bottled up in an African death-trap, wanted by the savage Witch-Doctor as sacrifices to his gods, CAPTAIN JUSTICE & CO. fight for the road to Freedom. And their Wits are their only weapons!

The Wizard of Science!

“BUT, Justice! An aeroplane! My dear fellow, this—this is incredible! In these unexplored wilds of Africa!”

Professor Flaznagel hunched himself forward, tugging vigorously at his long, unkempt white beard. Excitement whipped a touch of unwonted colour into his thin, sallow cheeks. His lanky frame, garbed in the remnants of what had once been a gaudily striped suit of silk pyjamas, stiffened as though an electric current had tautened his muscles. The varying emotions that flitted across his cadaverous face ranged from utter amazement to sheer disbelief.

With bony fingers that trembled the celebrated inventor-scientist fiddled impatiently with his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. Having adjusted them to his satisfaction, he then peered earnestly in turn at Captain Justice, the stout, bald-headed Dr. O'Mally, Len Connor, and young Midge, of the snub nose and flaming locks. They sat on the ground beside him in the shade of the mud-and-wattle hut which their strange hosts had handed over to them.

Then Professor Flaznagel blinked across the sunlit hollow to the rugged cliffs that formed the eastern wall of the village of Golden Giants, the huge but friendly natives who inhabited this region among the wild unknown African mountains. Captain Justice & Co. had been marooned there, in their pyjamas and without weapons, by their enemy, Xavier Kuponos, slaver and gun-runner.

From below these cliffs an oily brook flowed, its surface mottled with crude petroleum, washed out from the oil sands deep down under the rock. It disappeared into a cave at the foot of a lofty hill, the face of which was riddled with other caves and sulphur-fuming blow-holes.

Deep within this hill dwelt the savage witch-doctor of the Giants and his fanatical satellites—bitter enemies of Captain Justice & Co. But although the mass of smouldering rock stood out as the most noticeable feature of the landscape, and Professor Flaznagel had good reason to keep a wary eye open for the vicious, cunning fiends whose domain it was, the old wizard of science scarcely glanced in that direction.

Instead, he stared fixedly up at the ragged, crest of the eastern cliffs and shook his head, like one who has been told a yarn too steep to be swallowed.

“Incredible!” he repeated. “You assure me, Justice, that on the farther slope of those cliffs lies the wreckage of an Italian aeroplane?”

“Professor,” said the famous gentleman adventurer, “there is an Italian aeroplane up there—a total loss, unfortunately. We have also established the identity of the luckless flyer, whom the Giants have buried under a cairn on the cliff top. None of the natives—warriors or witch-doctor’s men—will go near the wreck now. In fact, I had the very deuce of a job to persuade Buktu to let us go up the cliffs at all.”

From the ground beside him Justice picked up a leather-covered notebook, a pair of cracked binoculars, a flare-pistol, and a bulky box stuffed with shot-gun cartridges and flares.

“We found these in the plane’s wreckage,” he said, “and they may come in mighty useful!” He fell silent, a thoughtful look on his face.

Their return to civilisation was Captain Justice’s one aim at present.

Pensively he looked across the village, and his comrades, guessing what was in his mind, remained silent. Justice’s eyes were shadowed by worry as he gazed first at the largest hut—the “palace” of the venerable chief of the Giants—and then at the witch-doctor’s sinister lair.

Full well he knew that he and his companions’ plight might have been far worse than it was. Had the warrior, Buktu, and his fellows turned out to be fierce savages instead of brave, semi-cultured, and hospitable men, their end would have come long ago.

But, despite the good will of Buktu and the fighting caste, Justice & Co. felt as if they were chained to a cask of gunpowder that might explode at any minute. The brawny and ferocious witch-doctor hated them, wanted to sacrifice them to his gods, and twice had attempted to capture them. For this reason alone the tribe trembled on the brink of civil war—of terrible faction fights between hostile sorcerers and friendly warriors.

Then again, mused Justice, there was the old chief himself. Where did he stand? What were his feelings towards them.

“Buktu is with us solidly,” the captain said suddenly. “He’s grateful to us for saving him from his tribal enemies, the cannibal blacks. Also, we’ve shown that beastly witch-doctor that we can take care of ourselves, and lie’s lying low—for the moment. At the same time, we still have small hopes of escaping, or of finding a way out of this wilderness. And the only possible weapons we have are Midge’s knife and this flare-pistol.

“Well, perhaps the wreckage of that plane may help us now; perhaps not. There is at least plenty of steel up there that we could fashion into weapons of a kind, and we may find use for the gadgets on the dashboard. The compass and chronometer, for instance, we might be able to repair them. So now that it’s getting cooler I suggest paying another visit to the wreck right away.”

“I am indeed anxious to view the debris,” said the professor, taking the dead airman’s log-book and hastily turning the mildewed pages. But when Captain Justice opened and handed over the cartridge-box, the old scientist suddenly pounced upon them as if they were diamonds.

Eagerly he jerked out a handful, inspected them keenly, and gave a little chuckle of glee.

“Splendid—splendid! A valuable find indeed!” he murmured, beaming at his perplexed companions. “But surely some hours have elapsed since you found this aeroplane? Why on earth did you not inform me of the discovery before?”

Captain Justice smiled; Len and Midge grinned. But it was Dr. O’Mally who replied with sudden vigour.

“Inform ye, is it?” said the fat Irishman. “Faith, I’m glad ye asked that! And how could we inform ye of anything when all this time ye've been hidin’ yourself in that hut, messin’ about with experiments, and making smells that would shock a self-respectin’ skunk? Don’t ye know ye’ve scared the Giants stiff? And what experiments have ye been making? Tell me that.”

Professor Flaznagel chuckled again. The peppery old scientist seemed to be in high good humour all at once.

“It will be a privilege to satisfy your curiosity now, doctor,” he replied calmly. "The fact is, Justice, I, too, have considered the question of our lack of defensive or offensive weapons very closely. In view of the difficult, not to say precarious, circumstances, I deemed it advisable to manufacture something that we may well employ with good effect should the need arise. And the result is—Well, you shall see!”

The professor rose stiffly; took a pace forward, then halted again.

“Moreover, Justice,” he added dryly, “I fancy this invention of mine will help you considerably in another way. For you are, I believe, carrying out a deliberate programme to astonish the natives, are you not?”

“I’m trying to impress them with the fact that we’re not men to be trifled with, if that’s what you mean!” snapped Justice.

The professor stroked his beard, his eyes twinkling with a light that made the others look at him hard.

“Ha! Then we will astonish and impress them!” he purred. And with that distinctly thrilling remark, the old Wizard of Science turned his back on the bewildered company and ambled away.

A little way off stood one of the strong guard-huts which the Giants had built along the western rampart of the village—facing the quarter from which they had most reason to fear attack from the terrible black cannibals. But Professor Flaznagel cared nothing for that.

Calmly he had appropriated this hut for his own purposes—stocking it with a weird medley of native pots, jars, and other cooking utensils. And all these he had obtained in the same high-handed manner, for where his scientific interests were concerned, Professor Flaznagel was quite unscrupulous! What he needed, he took. Nothing short of violence on the part of the original owner could restrain him.

There was little danger of that, however. The Giants, from tall Buktu, the chief warrior, down to the humblest villager, stood in far too much awe of Professor Flaznagel to oppose him. Ever since that hectic night six days ago, when he had beaten the tricky witch-doctor at his own game and produced some white mail's magic, the superstitious, tawny-skinned warriors had looked upon the bearded scientist as a superior being. They respected Captain Justice as a fighting-man and a leader born. But they feared Professor Flaznagel as they had never feared anyone in their lives!

And now, as he stalked through them, Buktu’s guards edged aside nervously. Even the sentries on the rampart relaxed their vigilance for a second and eyed the formidable white man askance. Yet it was doubtful if the professor so much as noticed the impression he made on those strapping spearmen. Full of his own projects, he entered the hut, reappearing soon afterwards with a small, covered, earthenware jar in his hands.

This vessel he placed carefully on the ground beside Captain Justice, with strict orders that no one should touch it. Then, having stroked his beard and gazed thoughtfully around for a moment, the professor stalked up to mighty Buktu.

“Pray allow me the use of your dirk, my dear fellow. I assure you I shall not harm it," murmured the courteous but absent-minded scientist. Nor did it seem to dawn upon him, until Buktu stared and shook his handsome head, and Midge howled with laughter, that actions, not words, were needed to make his request plain.

“All—hum, of course! Pardon me—my mistake!” he apologised, thereby increasing the great warrior’s mental fog and Midge’s hilarity. Then he coolly drew forth the heavy, broad-bladed weapon that hung in its sheath at Buktu’s hip, and jammed its tip into the nearest charcoal-brazier.

“My hat, you have got a neck!” observed Len, watching the expression on Buktu’s face. “I reckon you’d pinch the poor beggar’s teeth if you needed ’em, professor.”

“Nonsense. I simply require that tool for my work!” snapped Flaznagel, picking up two of the shotgun-cartridges. With Midge’s knife he carefully cut through the stout cardboard cases and shook out the black powder into the palm of his hand.

Then, requesting Justice to fetch the earthenware jar along, Professor Flaznagel stalked to the parapet, clambered over, and took a few paces down the gently-sloping hill below.

In the Hands of the Raiders!

BY this time, warriors as well as sentries were peering furtively over the rocky rampart, and the professor was a target for all eyes. Oblivious to his wonderstruck audience, however, he piled up the powder in a neat little mound on the ground, and returned to the parapet.

“Now, my friends—an interesting demonstration!” he chuckled; taking the jar from Captain Justice he sent Len back to get Buktu’s blade from the brazier. When the youngster returned, Flaznagel uncovered his precious pot and carefully decanted a stream of pungent, pale amber liquid down the slope.

Rapidly the stuff soaked into the thirsty ground, sending forth acrid fumes that made Len and Midge sniff and snort disgustedly. Justice frowned, darting a sudden look of inquiry at his eccentric friend. But all the professor did was to toss back his lank white hair and flourish Buktu’s sword with the air of a conjurer about to perform.

Then, stretching his arm full length over the parapet, he gave the moist earth a touch with the red-hot tip of the blade—and ducked!

So did Captain Justice & Co.

So did Buktu and the Golden Giants!

Whoo-oosh! Out of the barren ground there sprang blue flames that leapt high into the air, giving forth blasts of heat that drove the onlookers back in a body. As by magic, the conflagration increased, dazzling all eyes by its glare. The hissing flames rose higher still; raced down the slope, lapping up the liquid, burning furiously into the bare earth itself. And then, as they licked at the little mound of cartridge powder confusion grew worse!

Down went Buktu and his men, flinging themselves flat beneath the parapet as there came another, more vivid flash of fire, and a sharp, breathtaking bang that made the eardrums tingle. Fragments of stone whined through the air, a dense cloud of thick, evil-smelling smoke belched upwards, and drifted down the hill towards the turbulent river.

Professor Flaznagel’s experiment had proved an even greater success than he had reckoned on! But he received few compliments from his deafened and startled comrades!

As for his native hosts, not a man remained on his feet.

Guards, warriors, and villagers sprawled in heaps on the ground, fingers jammed in their ears, faces hidden between their quivering arms. The Giants were brave men, none braver; but here was “magic” that numbed their superstitious minds, and played havoc with their nerves. In a matter of seconds, Professor Flaznagel had petrified a whole fighting tribe. And not another sound arose, until:

“Ow! Moanin’ moggies! You—you batty old pelican!” hooted Midge, hopping round on one leg and nursing a foot which O’Mally had trodden on with all his weight. “Oh, you footlin’ fatheaded firebug! Who the pink alligators d'you think you are—Guy Fawkes?”

"By James, that was a dangerous trick, professor,” Justice murmured gravely, glancing back at the prostrate Giants. “Phew! You certainly astonished the natives that time—and me, too! Why on earth didn’t you warn us first? And what the deuce is that infernal liquid composed of?”

Quite unperturbed by all the commotion, Professor Flaznagel chuckled and rubbed his hands together complacently.

"Merely a little experiment,” he answered, peering over at the blue flames that still writhed and danced down the hillside, leaving a trail of smouldering, blackened earth. “Really, Justice, it was simply a highly inflammable mixture of sulphur and naphtha—not very refined, perhaps, but the best I could achieve with the very primitive apparatus at my command. As you may possibly know, the naphtha constituents of petroleum vaporise at quite a low temperature, and so—”

But what threatened to be one of Professor Flaznagel's usual long-winded lectures came to an abrupt finish.

Before he could proceed further, another “highly inflammable mixture” of explosive and caustic remarks from Midge, Len, and O’Mally drowned the scientist’s explanations, while Buktu and his men seized the chance to beat a headlong retreat. Offended, the professor drew himself up haughtily and glared.

“You are exceedingly ignorant, unappreciative, and ungrateful people,” he barked. “Here I have been at great pains to supply you with an incendiary weapon which, I guarantee, will thwart and terrify every native, hostile or otherwise, in these parts! The cartridge powder was a last-minute inspiration, more than redoubling the power of my invention! And now this—this is my reward!”—bitterly. “Justice, I am hurt! I am annoyed! In future, I assure you that I shall—”

“Forgive us, like the good fellow you are, professor!” Captain Justice, ever tactful, smiled soothingly and clapped his indignant scientific adviser on the shoulder.

"Flaznagel, it’s great stuff!” he went on. “We congratulate you heartily!” he cried, with a warning frown at the others. “But now that the show is over, I am terribly anxious for you to inspect the wreckage of that plane—and to give us your valuable opinion as to how we can best use some of the debris. So, as the evening is cool enough now for some hard climbing, I suggest we gather a party of guards and start at once.”

The captain hesitated a moment, glancing doubtfully at the now silent village.

“That is, if we can gather a party of guards!” he added ruefully. “By James, it looks to me as if you’ve scared the poor beggars so much this time, professor, that we’ll have to climb the cliffs alone!”

As Captain Justice, carrying the binoculars and flare-pistol, led his companions through the village a few minutes later, not a living soul was to be seen save a few lean goats, dogs, and ruffled hens.

Every hut door was closed; and through chinks in the walls dark eyes timidly watched the approach of Professor Flaznagel, the magician who set the earth alight with water! But none of the trembling villagers dared venture out even when his figure had passed on, while not so much as a whisper disturbed the heavy stillness. It was not until the cliff walls were looming above them that Justice & Co. heard a sound that made them turn.

Buktu, that loyal and magnificent stalwart, with his feathered headdress, and leopard skin slung across his swelling chest, was striding slowly towards them.

The tall warrior’s face was a study in conflicting emotions. Humbly he saluted Justice and Flaznagel, with upraised trident, then, pointing to the cliffs, shook his head as if imploring them not to scale the heights again. But when Justice smiled and patted his muscular arm encouragingly, the Giant sighed and shrugged. Another moment of hesitation, then his hand moved in a little gesture of submission.

“I am afraid. But where you go, I go. I am your man!” his look said plainly, and then the chief warrior shouted to his men.

But the summons passed unheeded!

For once, Buktu’s followers were rebelling against his orders, dreading the very presence of Professor Flaznagel. Swift anger blazed in the young Giant’s eyes, his swarthy cheeks darkened as still no men appeared. Twirling his spear ominously, he made a sudden dash for the nearest hut, smashing the door in with a single thrust of his mighty shoulder.

“Bilious baboons!” exclaimed Midge. “Great pip, that’s the way to get orders obeyed!”

Out of the hut darted, three of the reluctant guards, squirming and grunting as Buktu bellowed furiously and lashed out right and left with his spear-shaft. For them, the brief spurt of rebellion was over. Their leader’s whistling strokes effectually conquered their fear of the white men. Whimpering like beaten hounds, the tremendously powerful fellows scurried meekly up to Midge, Len, and Professor Flaznagel. They bowed, they hoisted them on their backs, and then began a sullen ascent of the cliffs.

Buktu, however, still unappeased, still growling and bristling like an enraged lion, harried them sternly. With voice and spear he urged the bearers on to greater activity. It was, without doubt, a triumph for Justice & Co.—positive proof of their domination over the huge natives! Yet Captain Justice, as he, too, prepared to climb with the grinning O’Mally, pursed his lips grimly instead of looking pleased.

“I don’t like this, doc!” he growled. “I’m afraid old Flaznagel’s gone a bit too far this time and frightened the heart out of these good fellows. Buktu’s all right—a real hero! But, by James, I wish we had the same strong escort as we had earlier on, instead of three scared and unwilling men. Just take a squint at that confounded witchdoctor’s hill, and you’ll see why!”

HASTILY O’Mally obeyed, scowling at what he saw. For the sorcerer’s men had gathered in full force to watch the castaways’ movements. Every black cave mouth held its cluster of feathered heads and peering, painted faces. Sentinels, alert and armed, had appeared on the higher slopes, rigid as statues against the evening sky.

But—as far as O'Mally could observe—there were no signs of actual mischief brewing among the scarecrow denizens of the burning hill. The men he could see seemed curious rather than hostile. He sniffed, settled his rush-hat more firmly on his bald head, and reached up to dig his fingers into the first hand-hold.

“Och, don’t worry about those heathens!” grunted the courageous doctor. “They’ll not harm us—they’ve had their lesson! Best save your breath, Justice, and climb before Midge and Len get too far ahead. Ten to one the young limbs will run on and get into some trouble without waitin’ for their elders and superiors.”

It was good advice; and Captain Justice, knowing that Midge’s capacity for getting into trouble amounted to genius, was quick to act on it. But when, hot and breathless despite the cool breeze, he and O’Mally gained the crest of the cliffs after a long spell of difficult climbing, only the impatient professor and four restless Giants were there to greet them. As the doctor had prophesied, Midge and Len had carried on!

Eager to have a last good poke around into the ruins of the wrecked plane before the light failed, the youthful pair of adventurers were now completely out of sight, hidden by the folds in the sloping ground at the northern end of the cliff.

“Insubordinate young blighters!” Justice muttered. “Why didn’t you make them wait here, professor?”

Two pink spots dyed the professor’s cheekbones. “I tried to!" he snapped gruffly. “But, really, Justice, that scamp Midge grows more impertinent every day! I ask you, I put it to you, do I look like a—a fussy old bandersnatch? Because that is what Midge called me when I ordered him to wait. But the young imp was born to be hanged, so no danger is likely to befall him up here. I wash my hands of him entirely. What a truly marvellous view this is, Justice! It is indeed well worth the arduous climb!”

Pushing his spectacles up on to his forehead, then taking the binoculars from Captain Justice, the professor gazed enthusiastically at the wildly beautiful scene that had so entranced his comrades earlier on. The gaunt palisades on the eastern brink of the cliffs, the lofty cairn that marked the last resting-place of the gallant pilot of the wrecked plane, were dappled with ruby tints, while the enormous valley that cut a wide swathe through the mountains stretched away serenely into the north. The great river, rippling through tree-fringed meadows, twisted like a shining emerald-green ribbon.

To the professor’s left, four or five hundred yards from where he stood, the witch-doctor’s hill loomed up, its greasy plume of sulphur smoke stained red by the sunbeams. Beyond rolled the high waste land of torn and twisted rock, black gullies, and blow-holes—the result of some tremendous earthquake far back in the mists of time. A lone eagle winged its way towards the mountains. In the east, a thin line of clouds lay across the sky, heralds of advancing night.

“Amazing! A glorious spectacle after the confinement of the village!” declared Flaznagel at last; and unconsciously he repeated Captain Justice’s earlier remark: “By Jove, but that valley makes an easy highway into the north!”

Neither Justice nor O’Mally replied. Both were too anxious to press on and see what Midge and Len were doing. It was all very well for the professor to wash his hands of the cheerful pair. But with foes like the witch-doctor’s fanatics lurking in the vicinity, this was no place for a couple of daring youngsters to wander about!

Justice felt a strange alarm tug at his heartstrings as he shot another glance at the “burning ” hill. Hastily he took the binoculars from Flaznagel and focused them on a little group of savages moving furtively out of one of the caves.

“I don’t like this one little bit!” he repeated uneasily. “There's something queer going on over there! Confound those youngsters. Come on, O’Mally, give them a hail!” And Captain Justice cupped his hands to his mouth. As he filled his lungs for a lusty shout, pandemonium, fierce, ugly, and horrifying, arose, crashing through the evening stillness.

Captain Justice felt as if his blood had turned suddenly to ice.

So abrupt, so unexpected, was the sinister outburst that he reeled under the shock.

The triumphant clamour swelled out—a babel of uncouth howls and shrieks, the clatter of weapons, a faint cry for help, instantly stifled. The uproar was somewhere down the slopes—the danger zone into which Midge and Len had ventured alone. For one terrible moment the party on the cliff-top, white men and Giants, stood, unable to stir a muscle. Then, with a hoarse cry, Captain Justice sprang forward and ran!

With O’Mally and Flaznagel blundering at his heels, the famous adventurer tore ahead, his tanned face livid, eyes aflame with fear and rage. Buktu and his warriors followed, nervousness forgotten now that a stark crisis was at hand. Swiftly, recklessly, the seven men flung themselves across rough, rock-ribbed ground, united in a common purpose. But though they strained every nerve to reach the top of the slope, they ran a losing race right from the start.

Justice suddenly uttered a strangled cry. The veins swelled on his forehead as he stared downwards with bulging eyes. O’Mally, sobbing for breath, lurched against him; Professor Flaznagel tripped on a rock and fell sprawling. They were too late! Midge and Len were in the hands of the witch-doctor’s raiders!

Where the yelling demons had sprung from, Justice wasted no time in trying to guess. There were over a score of them—huge, grotesque figures, paint-daubed and tattooed. Already in full retreat towards their own lairs, they were screeching exultantly as they pelted away from the wrecked aeroplane. And with them went the two luckless youngsters who had paid so stiff a price for over-impulsiveness!

No Quarter!

O’MALLY, trembling like an aspen-leaf, scrambled up, stretching out a quivering hand. He could see young Midge hanging over a brawny shoulder, with his red head bobbing limply, his legs and arms quite slack. Len, taller and sturdier, was being dragged along, still struggling desperately against his Herculean captors. And, as O’Mally pointed, a spear-handle flailed down from behind, knocking the gallant lad senseless.

“Come on! Come on, and tear those fiends apart!”

Captain Justice scarcely recognised that tortured voice as his own. But the blow that quietened Len seemed to snap the invisible bonds that had gripped him. Savagely he jerked the flare-pistol from the breast of his ragged pyjama jacket and bounded down the hill. Roaring their thunderous war-cry, Buktu and his Giants charged after him in a dash to the rescue.

Superstitious and panicky they might be in the face of Professor Flaznagel’s “magic,” but this was work they understood and delighted in. With lips drawn back, teeth bared, and tridents poised, they streaked down the slopes, four lithe and splendid warriors, indifferent to the odds against them.

But, alas! for Justice’s hopes. This was work that the witch-doctor’s henchmen also understood!

At the very first shout of alarm, the raiding party spurted up the opposite slope, while other fiends suddenly materialised from behind rocks and boulders. Bowmen they were, expert marksmen who had sneaked down through the gullies to cover the kidnappers’ retreat. With a yell of glee, they sprang from hiding. Their polished bow staves gleamed in the sun.

Ouly in the nick of time did Captain Justice spot the trap and swerve sharply in his stride.

“Down! Down for your lives!” he panted; and, swerving again, brought Flaznagel to earth with a flying tackle.

Something whistled past O’Mally’s ear; a second arrow grazed his cheek as he ducked and rolled over. There was a coughing grunt of pain from somewhere, then a dull thud. Helplessly the baffled rescuers lay close to the ground, while overhead the deadly barrage zipped ceaselessly through the air.

And higher up, half-way to the witch-doctor's caves, Midge and Len were carried on in triumph to their fate!

Captain Justice groaned aloud— not with fear or pain, but in sheer rage and dismay.

Midge and Len—lost! His youthful comrades, brave as they were cheerful, were fast in the merciless claws of a fiend!

For a sickening moment everything went black before him. But then, summoning up all his will power, the captain set himself to weigh up the ghastly situation as best he could.

By this time the cave-riddled hill was aswarm with prancing figures, pouring out of their holes like rats to greet the successful marauders. The air quivered to the raucous blare of horns, while never for an instant did the storm of arrows falter. One of Buktu’s Giants was down, lying limply across a rock, with a feathered shaft jutting out from between his ribs. Buktu himself was tearing back towards the village, twisting and dodging like a hunted hare, with arrows pattering all about him.

“We’re done!”

Justice dashed the cold sweat from his eyes and peered round the edge of a rock. No chance of aiming a shot at the archers, for the savages had cover in plenty.

“Heaven help those poor lads, for we can’t—yet!” he gritted. “It’s death to go forward! Keep your head down, professor! We’ll have to get back—if we can—before those hounds up there rush us!”

Flaznagel clawed at his hair in an agony of remorse.

“This is all my fault—all my fault, Justice!” he muttered brokenly. “I should have made those boys wait! I ought not to have let them go ahead!”

“You mean you oughtn’t to have scared the daylight out of Buktu’s men without warning them! Then we might have had a stronger escort!” Justice thought bitterly. But aloud he said:

“Come! Brace up, professor! No use you blaming yourself. That tricky fiend yonder saw his chance to strike, and seized it, that’s all! I’m the most to blame for this, and, by James, I’ll never forgive myself if we fail to get Midge and Connor back alive! The brute had oceans of time to post his men while we were sweating up the cliffs—he had the trap already laid for the boys to walk into! We shouldn’t have come! I should never have risked it without a strong guard! But, dash it, who ever dreamed that the brutes would venture so near the wrecked plane? Hang it, I thought they were as frightened of it as Buktu's lot!”

“Me, too!” O’Mally exclaimed huskily. “But where’s Buktu gone now?”

“For help, I hope! Yes—listen!”

Captain Justice stiffened suddenly, for, mingling with the riotous celebrations on the witch-doctor’s hill, came another fanfare of horns from the direction of the village. Faintly a roar of angry voices floated up to the captain’s ears. He guessed that Buktu, signalling from the cliffs, had set his fellow-warriors alight with the dread tidings.

Suddenly his voice rose to a warning shout—swamped instantly by the ferocious yells of the foe. The archers were advancing, bunching together and firing madly as they rushed. O’Mally grabbed a stone, preparing to sell his life dearly. The two remaining Giants gripped their tridents more tightly.

But Captain Justice suddenly smiled—a fierce and mirthless smile that showed all his strong white teeth, but left his grey eyes cold.

“Look out for the rush! Stick close to the ground!” he ordered, and then disobeyed his own commands! To the horror of his companions, the captain rose. He sprang up, cool as ever under fire, with the flare-pistol steady in his right hand, and right elbow jammed against his hip.

“Now, you screeching demons!” he snarled, and squeezed the trigger.

Plop! The pistol spoke—at short range. A burning streak of crimson fire flashed from the captain’s hip. Full into the thick of the storming attackers whizzed the flare, exploding with the devastating force and effect of a shell. Captain Justice had turned at bay!

Like a wave striking against a breakwater, the rush of the archers was shattered and flung back in confusion. Fire-shot smoke arose, with flames flickering below it, and through that smoke staggered frenzied figures, fighting each other to get clear of the Terror that sputtered in their midst. Panic- stricken, the surviving bowmen fled in all directions, flinging away their weapons as they scattered with arms upflung. And Captain Justice, turning a stony eye on the results of his shot, calmly reloaded.

“After ’em now! No quarter!” he snapped. And as he nipped round a boulder in pursuit of the fear-crazed archers he fired again, high above their heads. In a fiery arc the flare hissed through the air, struck a rock on the witch-doctor’s hill, and exploded. Another screen of smoke drifted up, sending the cowering defenders helter-skelter to cover. Suddenly, as a hoarse, deep-chested roar of exultation boomed out from behind, Justice and O’Mally halted.

They turned. Buktu and half of his fighting-men had arrived!

A GOLDEN-BROWN mass, the giant warriors poured down the slope from the cliffs, brandishing their weapons as they stormed the burning hill. Again the awe-inspiring war-cry thundered up to the heights. Instantly a hail of arrows shrilled down from the dark cave mouths about them, and a few men fell. But the rest carried on under Buktu’s fearless leadership, bowstrings twanging viciously as they advanced slowly, but doggedly, to the attack.

Yet that onslaught, as Justice could see with half an eye, was as futile as it was splendid. Faced by the withering fire from the caves, Buktu’s troops could make little headway, gallantly though they tried. Civil war had broken out among the Giants at last. The long-smouldering fires of rivalry had flared up! But the savage witch-doctor had already gained all the honours of that day.

He had hit first, and he had hit hard. His stronghold was almost invulnerable against besiegers armed only with spears and bows. Safe in his cave-riddled lair, he held the whip-hand over Justice & Co., Buktu, and all his valiant men. And what was worse—he still held Midge and Len Connor.

“Justice, we’re licked! And I thought we had the blackguards tamed!” Dr. O’Mally, watching the furious battle with lack-lustre eyes, sank heavily to the ground, hardly daring to think now of what would happen to the young captives. His chin sagged to his breast; his huge fists clenched and unclenched convulsively. Flaznagel’s hand descended suddenly on his shoulder. But the grief-stricken Irishman only shook his head miserably when the professor spoke.

“No, we are not beaten! I refuse to accept defeat like this!” There was a vibrant ring in the old scientist’s voice. “Confound it! Surely we can think of a way to turn the tables, between us? Are men like us to be outwitted by a pack of ignorant painted savages?”

“But young Midge—and Len—” O’Mally’s voice broke.

“Have no fear! I feel positive that both lads are still alive!” the professor encouraged him stoutly. “From what I have seen of that unspeakable ogre up there, he is not the man to give his captives a speedy death! Come, O'Mally! We must not despair! At all costs, we must rescue our young comrades!”

“Ay, we’ll rescue them! By James, we’ll get ’em both back, if we have to go in and pull that ghastly dump to bits with our bare hands!”

It was Captain Justice who spoke then, and his expression was not good to see. All the implacable fury—all the fierce recklessness in his nature—had risen to the surface. Captain Justice, in his present mood, was the deadliest enemy any man could have.

He looked back towards Burning Hill to where the battle had almost come to a standstill. Buktu and his giants had fought furiously and driven the painted demons back pell-mell into their holes. But beyond that, as Justice had foreseen, they could make no headway. Already they were falling back slowly into a position where, out of range of the defenders’ arrows, they were still near enough to stop any further attempts on the part of the witch-doctor’s men to leave their cave-ridden stronghold.

“They’ll never get the beggars out of there,” Justice murmured grimly. “The place is a natural fortress. I doubt if artillery could do it. It’s up to us to think of some other method. There must be some way of outwitting them.”

Neither O’Mally nor Flaznagel answered. O’Mally was still overcome with grief at the thought of the danger to which the gallant youngsters were exposed; and it was plain by his crestfallen demeanour that the old scientist could not easily forgive himself for letting them go on ahead. Justice's brow was furrowed in deep thought. With eyes that seemed to probe every rock, he scanned the landscape, photographing the scene before him on his mind. He realised now that he was up against a task as difficult as any he had ever set himself—a task in which every passing minute lessened the chances of success. Suddenly he straightened up.

“Sharp now—back to the village before darkness sets in! We want action now, not words! Midge and Len are coming out of that dump right away. And, professor, I need your help. I’ll have the swab who caught the boys, too—dead or alive!”

Without another word; Captain Justice turned his back on all the useless yelling and fighting, and strode away towards the cliff-top.

In silence, Flaznagel and O’Mally followed. Their leader, they saw, had a plan of campaign simmering in his shrewd brain. Though the Giants’ ambitious witch-doctor did not know it yet, he had twisted the tail of a sleeping tiger when he set out to make war on Captain Justice.

And that was a mistake he would have good cause to rue before long!

Captain Justice carries the war right into the enemy's camp in Next Saturday's thrilling story, and he hands the jolly old witch-doctor the Surprise of His Life!
NEXT

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!!!
NEXT

Mind the Doors, Please!

MIND the DOORS, PLEASE!

The Guard’s “Magic” Switchboard

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

Digitized by Doug Frizzle. Stillwoods.Blogspot.Com

EVERY fellow who has travelled on London’s Underground Railways knows the sliding doors which open—somewhat mysteriously—by themselves, and when everyone has got into or out of a coach, shut again. Nobody touches them, or so it seems!

Next time you get the chance, get into the last coach on the train, where the guard always travels. He’s the man in charge of the doors. He’s in charge of the whole train really, as we shall see presently.

When the train gets to a station, watch what he does. He’ll step up to a switchboard, and, as soon as the train stops, will push a button on the board. Watch those doors, and you’ll see them slowly open and stay open. You may hear a slight hiss of escaping air, too.

When the train is ready to go off again, the guard presses another button, and the doors shut. As soon as they’re shut, he presses a third button—the middle one on the switch-board—and that gives the signal to the driver that all’s well and he can go ahead—which he docs.

How’s it done? To each sliding door there is an engine, and it is fixed underneath and behind the seat cushions nearest to the door it has to work. It consists of a cylinder, with a piston working inside it. The piston rod has a bar fixed to it with cog teeth cut on its end. These teeth engage with a cogwheel, called a “pinion.” If the piston rod moves, it turns the pinion.

On the pinion is fixed a long lever with a roller bearing at its end, which runs in a groove fixed to a framework extension of the door itself. So you see—look at the picture—that if you turn the arm, you pull open the door. That’s all that happens.

When the guard presses the button, he closes a switch which allows an electric current to work a valve. This valve, in its turn, allows air under pressure to go into the door-engine cylinder, and this, acting on the piston, pushes it one way or the other. As the piston moves, so it turns the pinion, which moves the arm, which moves the door!

The air that does the work is the same air that works the brakes, only the pressure is let down a bit first.

As it is important to secure the doors in the shut position, air is kept in the cylinders of the engines all the time. When the doors are to be opened, this air has to be released first, and that hissing noise you may hear will be caused in that way.

When each door is truly shut, an electric tell-tale sends its signal to the guard, and until all these signals have come in it, isn’t a bit of use his sending the wire to the driver, because the driver won’t get it!

On one of each pair of sliding doors there is a spring arm, so that if anyone did get trapped between the doors the spring would come into action. The passenger could easily get away, and then the door would close properly—but until it was fairly closed the train couldn’t start!