 From the heart of the jungle comes a savage cry of victory. This is Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle. Yes, it's Tarzan brought to you by CBS Radio. From the black core of dark Africa, land of enchantment, mystery and violence, comes one of the most colorful figures of all time, transcribed from the immortal pen of Edgar Rice-Burl. Tarzan, the brawned white son of the jungle. And now on the very words of Mr. Burroughs, the story of the Knight Riders of Contia. These are the clearest camels we have, Macklin. Your orders are always followed explicitly, Mighty Wazeri. You can drop that Mighty Wazeri business when the natives talk about it. Whatever you say, Mighty Wazeri. I don't know why I put up with you, Macklin. I do. Outside of your fanatical followers, I'm the only one who can point a finger at you. You've got them hood crates, but this is all a lot of hogwash, so far as I'm concerned. A couple of hundred natives mounted on camels and wearing hooded masks to attack a broken down trading post run by a feeble old man and a couple of puny native helpers. Who are we trying to impress? We are not trying to impress anyone, Macklin, nor am I afraid of resistance this time. But fear is the emotion that rules men and if we display a force the government can't match and a mask that no one can uncover, we will soon be the government. We'd better get moving and then we'll reach the trading post before we do. Yes, let's hurry. We don't want to be late for the murder destruction and pillage so proficiently executed by the night fighters of Pompea. Wrong! The African moon hit its face behind a heavy bank of clouds as the two men were joined by hundreds of other masked riders. No word was exchanged as the sand flew beneath the pounding feet of their camels, nor did they speak as they reached their destination, leaped from their mounts and crossed the narrow veranda that led into the trading post. But then their savagery unleashed at last. The night fighters of Pompea struck out with their razor-sharp feet. The life and property fell upon its own eyes as they killed one million rabbits. Did you direct me to the office of the administrator of the Pompea Persectorate? It's a disdain to be looking at it as just a hit. I'm on my way there myself. You'd better take a loan. Oh, thank you. Is that ramshackle place is the government building? That's it, all right. Office of the administrator, barracks for the Persectorate police, post office, tables for the camels, head for post office. Oh, they have camels there. Well, you under the impression our police walked across the desert? Or did you think they took a train? I was very surprised at this. Well, never mind. Thank you for guiding me here. I'll say everything I have to say to the administrator. You'd better not give me the hee-ho. I'm Chatfield, and who are you? My name is Carson. Oh, Carson, friend. I know about you. What's your interest here? I happened to be in Maccarata when the sole survivor of a raid on an Arab caravan managed to stagger into that city. The caravan had been set upon near here, Mr. Chatfield. I learned that it's become most common for unprovoked and unexplainable attacks to be made on both individuals and groups in this territory. Not only here, all of Africa's in a muddle. And yet, from what I've heard, even the violence of the Mao Mao terrorists in Kenya seems pale when compared to the savagery of the night riders of Tumquia. Perhaps, but I can't cope with it. Haven't the men or the ammunition? Nor the desire, apparently. Now, I'm an old timer here, you know, in and around since the time of the Boer War. I guess I've become a little immune to violence. I was sorry, though, to hear that the night riders attacked the trading post a few nights ago and killed everyone in sight while the good folk cast thunderbolts. Poor old cat. Dead. A man who has befriended thousands of Africans. Another hint, the night riders are not natives, Mr. Chatfield. What do you mean, another hint? The survivor I spoke of tried to give me information, but he died with the single word, Inglis, on his lips. Inglis? An Arabic word meaning Englishman. How many other Englishmen are there in this territory beside you, Mr. Chatfield? None of them, I know of. Was a missionary chap, not too far from the trading post, but I think he shoved off a year or two ago. Why do you remain here, Mr. Chatfield? A habit, I guess. Certainly can't be the climate for the pay. And yet someone around here is making a great deal of money through the sale of goods stolen from murdered men. I dare say that these things are, they always do. I doubt that the condition will improve so long as our official here is a man who's been in Africa for over 50 years and yet is unfamiliar with a simple Arabic word. I wasn't sure whether the only other Englishman within a radius of 500 miles has shoved off or not, and who shows a startling unconcern about a group of mass killers who have taken the law into their own hands. This attitude could be a mask to hide your own activities, Mr. Chatfield. You're barking up the wrong tree. I used to take in distant things, even took field trips when I was younger, but I can't even mount a camel anymore. I see. Well, perhaps I can reach the trading post on foot, and perhaps I can learn something about the identity of the Marauders. Well, I wish you luck, old man. Too bad about Xandavoc. So far as I know, he didn't have an enemy in the world. Not unless you can count that waste drill who used to work for him years ago. Don't recall that. Xandavoc finally got tired of his indolence and fired him. Wilkinson always threatened to get revenge. Now that you mention it... Don't suppose you bothered sending the police to the trading post since the night writers made their visit? Couldn't see any need of it. Chaps taken over the place and he called into the will. Xandavoc left. But he had no family. Who could he have willed the trading post to? You mentioned the one you said he fired, Harry Wilkinson. Tarzan's only clue was to the identity of the night writers of Plum Pier had been the single word on the lips of one of the victims, Inglis, Englishman. And the attitude of the administrator had made him a prime suspect. But now the news that another Inglis had returned to the district under strange circumstances shifted Tarzan's suspicions to him. And by late afternoon, the jungle lord had left the decaying capital city and started toward the remote trading post. It was during that darkest hour before dawn when he arrived there, but the tumbledown structure was ablaze with the lights of a dozen of settlement lamps. As a weasel-like squinter of a man minutely inspected his inheritance. Taking an inventory of your newfound wealth, Mr. Wilkinson? Oh, Tarzan! You gave me quite a start, you did. Thought it was the night writers coming back for their first visit, apparently accounted for your windfall. Oh, I wouldn't call it no windfall. Mostly what they didn't take, they ruined. I'd be lucky to make fifty quid out of what's left. And Vanderhoal told me more on that than wages. I seem to recall that he refused to pay you because you neglected the work you were supposed to do. Yeah, we had a bit of a row about it, but the old Tarzan was a bit of a riot he was. I was all broke up till he got himself done in. You arrived amazingly soon after his death. I was on my way here when it happened. You see, his nibs must have suspicion the night writers was after him, so he sent a runner for me, he did. And the bloke he sent at a note with him saying I was to get the place of anything happened. I don't suppose you happen to keep that note. I did that. Got it right here as a matter of fact. You like to cast your papers at it, go ahead. Yes, the note says that you were to have the trading post. He was more than a mite far under me. And this was his way of showing he was sorry he pushed me out. Well, your legacy is not very impressive. He certainly turned the place upside down. He did a proper job of it or what. He probably copped whatever brass the old man had in the cash drawer. But there ain't nothing missing from the inventory aside from some sort of chest. A chest? Well, Klanderwald never carried furniture. It was some sort of a special order, I'd say. But whoever ordered it never comforted. I'm sure it couldn't have been intended for any of the natives. Do you happen to know of any other Englishman aside from the administrator and you in the district? No, there's Aleister Meadows, a missionary broke. I thought Meadows had left you. He had a mind to it one time, but he decided to stick it out. I think Van der Waak had something to do with that. Mr. Meadows always said he'd bring religion to the old man if it was the last thing he did. But the old man had no patience for such things. Him and Meadows used to argue for hours and hours about religion. Van der Waak used to say terrible things to the preacher. He used to get pretty mad, he did. Not angry enough to go to a resort to murder, I'm sure. But perhaps he can give me some information if I call on him. Well, sir, there's much like to find a bloke what done in the culley as you would, Tarzan. Aleister Meadows is a lot of natives that might have backed his word with their knives. You'd best have a little help with it, chum. And Ali Wilkinson's your man. Well, here's the clearing where he had his mission school and his church. Looks like nothing but charred wreckage now. Maybe he did move on sometime back. I think you will find the ashes of the building still warm. You mean you think it was just burned down today? Last night, just before the rain, according to those prints of camel's feet under the tree. The night-writers? Undoubtedly. Perhaps their leader feared that Meadows might give information about him and only one man had reasons to suspect I might come here. Who is that? Mr. Chatfield. The administrator? Hmm. Well, stranger things than that have happened in Africa. Let's have a go at the plighter. I'll give a pretty penny to know who's causing all the trouble around here. Don't I. A pretty penny to find out who rules the night-writers of Tumquia. Another detect tonight. Is this mighty with Jerry business begun to soften your brain? You're quite necessary. Rarely it is, Macklin. I have heard that a certain individual is hunting assiduously for the leader of the night-writers of Tumquia. But you can't kill every other white man in Africa. I only kill those who oppose me. Then the valk had become very suspicious. Meadows' religion threatened the universal acceptance of mine. And now we have a new threat, so he must be killed, too. Naturally. While Tarzan and Harry Wilkinson were traversing the distance between the demolished mission and the capital of Tumquia, the night-writers stuck again, this time braving the capital city itself, threatening terror in the past, leaving debt in their way. And when Tarzan and Harry Wilkinson reached the city in the orange glow of dawn, they lay in smoldering ruins while a handful of homeless Arabs who had survived the butchery shivered despite the heat of the new day. And where was Mr. Chatfield, the administrator while all this was going on, I mean? He was the first to die, Effendi. It was his fault the attack was made. Looks like we was wrong about him, I Tarzan. Apparently, but tell me, uncle, why do you say the attack was the fault of the administrator? A few days ago, a stranger came and criticized him for his failure to apprehend the night-writers. So when this man had gone, his excellency called out the police, mounted the camel himself, and Sally fought to find their headquarters. The night-writers must have gotten wind of his intent, for when he returned home, he found death awaiting him. So I inadvertently caused this destruction. Well, you shouldn't blame yourself. Come, maybe we can find a clue with the old boy's house. Where is it, uncle? The ashes are on the other side of what was the government building. But you will find nothing there. The raiders took an ancient Chinese rug. They'd been just where they cherished, but destroyed everything else in the city before they peaked across the desert. A Chinese rug? That's strange. You know what, come, that chest what was missing from the Trident Post was Chinese, too. There'd been a lighting set on Kong. But that caravan that's coming through tonight is worth a dozen of those we've attacked. But, Macklin, I had promised my followers that tonight we will have our ceremonies. It is my sacred obligation to them. Sacred obligation, my foot. I knew that mighty was very stuff was going to your head. You have to get something straight. I got into this with you to make enough money to go home and live like a king, and I have no intention of risking my neck so you can stay here to become a king to a lot of stupid savages. It is most unwise of you to make derogatory remarks about the people here or their leader. Since the death of the administrator, I am the law in Tom Kier. I can drain the land of wealth, attack every passing caravan without fear of reprisals, tax the natives who refuse to join me, levite tolls on every safari that crosses our borders, and pass sentences of death on those who dare to cross me. No one can ever get away with murder forever. I can try, Macklin. I can try. Sounds like a lot of fun to me. A hidden city where the jungle meets the desert. A likely story. But aside from the strange enigma of a missing chest in a pilfered Chinese rug, it's the only clue we have. A city built by a man who organized better ones and burburs into a salvage crew. Or to know that part of the kept. According to the story, he conned the desert collecting abandoned tanks, ammunition, and other wars. He paid his men more money than they'd ever seen before and kept a substantial fortune for himself with which he built this stronghold that's supposed to be near here. Well, perhaps it is. Perhaps he's found a new source of income now that the spoils of war are gone. Well, this would be a run place for the stronghold, if you ask me. I don't believe there's any room in city air. Well, there could be one hidden just beyond that mountainous tallow shade ahead. Well, I don't fancy climbing that. Let's cut through these weeds over there. Wait, Harry. Those that climb this is fine. Never go near them. There's a passageway through the rocks right there. Oh, Roy, I mean Roy. Don't let me know. I don't want to put anything on the other side. I suppose we'll see in just a city. A city of pergola-shaped houses of Chinese pavilions and temples with ruddy eaves and idols out front. The Orient recreated in Africa. Look at the brighter, comatocratus all swanked up in an embroidered silk well. Must have been warned of our coming. Welcome to our little community, gentlemen. Not many strangers find our way here. Well, it's not exactly a convenient place for guests to drop in for a spot of tea, quite so. But you are most welcome, I assure you. Even though we come looking for the leader of the Knightwriters of Tom Kier? Doubly so. But I have just succeeded in apprehending the scoundrel, a man named Macklin. Perhaps you'd like to look at his last remains before I show you to your quarters. We shall gladly accept your hospitality, but we shall forego the pleasure of seeing your victim since we are very worried. Come along, then. I have a comfortable load to put at your disposal, but one that I only recently purchased. Oh, you're English, aren't you, Governor? My name's Oliver Waterbrake. It couldn't be anything else but English, could I? And what's out there all this Chinese junk in the Masqueride costume? Going to a fancy dress war? Have a great admiration for the Chinese, their philosophy, their architecture, their furniture, their dress. And the oriental effects I assume impress my people, their simple selves. They find their pleasures in such primitive ways. I doubt about it, Chum. That was the chest he stole from the old man. He always used to mark his merchandise on the back with a piece of chalk. And the Chinese rug on the floor. It's undoubtedly that which once graced the administrative home. Quite a coincidence him giving us that particular room. No, it was no coincidence he's playing a game with us. He knew the lock would be picked with my knife and his camels are already saddled for the chase. He's prepared when we attempt to flee. The largesis will never go at it now. I don't much care about climbing around on the roof of this even temple. Sorry, look, we've gone there through this lattice work. Good boy, may the night largesis. Hundreds of them. All done up in their bloomin' odes and masks. Let's get out of here, Chum. I assume too much ponder in their stomachs will mean too few thoughts in their heads and we shall need every advantage we can get. Look at the fly that's strutting around like a pumpkin-tite. Well, striders of some cure! Drink deeply of the fine brew that I, your mighty Wazeri, have provided for you. With great pleasure, we see much ponder in the night largesis. This weather of the delicious food, your mighty Wazeri, has provided for you. Eat, ooh! And they give everything, high-key water. As before the coming of dawn, two more enemies will be delivered to you. Two more enemies who defy the night-riders of some cure. We kill! Yes, to enemies! Destroy enemies! Shoot them! I can't miss a fight! They make that bit for freedom. Where was that one shouting from? Yes, to the enemies of your Wazeri! But already Tarzan and Harry had leaped to the ground and started to cross the desert. He infuriated raiders, mounted their camels, and sped after their enemies. Tarzan, half carrying the game little cockney, clambered up the dizzy heights of the palisades. And it is he who came the camels of his pursuers, fumbling and sliding as their riders forced them over the unaccustomed rocks. They were still skidding and milling in wild confusion when Tarzan wheeled and slid down the steep incline. His savage cry causing them, begging them to follow. The riders flipping their foam-secked mounts viciously, running downward into a maze of gargantuan weeds in pursuit of a jungle man and his companions. Suddenly as the weeds clutched their tired legs, the camels went berserk, throwing their riders, fighting them, pounding them beneath a vending seat. Then the camels fought their way free, but the leader of the night riders and his fanatical followers were enmeshed in the fibrous coast and hailed as though in a bottomless ocean of crushing seas. Remember, Harry, I warned you about trying to take a shortcut through that vegetation on our way here. Those plants are as enclaving as a pit of quicksand, and those vines will hold our friends there until the authorities can arrest them. If they lost that long under the blazing African sun, eh, it was a bit too much for them, eh, chum? Yes, we have defeated another enemy of Africa. In a nice place a detective work, I'd call it, finding the blighted. There was an unusual bit of detective work, Harry. Often enough I found an enemy by following his footprints, detected a crime through an impression of a finger or a hand. But this is the first time I've ever followed a trail left by a chest. George Robinson is tired of the nine-to-five grind, his wife is sick of cooking, cleaning, washing and picking up after George and the two kids. 18-year-old Marion, having had a fight with her boyfriend, wants to get as far away from New Jersey as possible. And Billy Robinson wants to hunt elephants and panthers. Comedy is mingle with drama as we relate the experiences of the American family Robinson. Tarzan, a transcribed creation of the famous Edgar Wright boroughs, is produced by Walter White Jr., repaired for radio by Bud Leather with original music by...