 Farthand the Apes brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Riceboro's vivid book. Farthand stops in his flight through the treetop. He hears James call for help, and with the speed of a striking snake, the eep man turns. Springing from limb to limb, swinging from trailing behind the swaying branch, he flies you through the dark corridors of the upper jungle terrace. On the little platform, James lashes with all his strength at Sheeter's slipping jaws. Again, she lifts up the branch higher above her. Again, she brings it down on Sheeter's head. Snarling, calling, hiding, the leopard reaches with his giant paws for the platform. He captures the outside edge. Ten fingers of the mighty blood flows through the great shaft, holds himself under the shaking branches. James tries one more test, and he takes it up a hole. She defends from head, but he moves forward. James throws the branch further. He reaches the hole for a low-hanging limb, swings it up through the platform. Sheeter strikes her rudder with striking, tearing jaws. At Farthand's call of warning, Sheeter stops. He looks up, crashing down from the treetop. Farthand holds himself on Sheeter's back. They're all over and over on the narrow ledge. Farthand's fingers clutch at the loose throat. Sheeter's hind feet strike out. Farthand throws himself to one side, but he holds on. The leopard makes a desperate effort to throw the eighth man from him. They're all off the platform, down, down, crashing through the branches to the ground below. In an agony of despair, James throws himself to the platform and drops down. Farthand is on his feet. Sheeter's jaw snaps at the eighth man's thigh, but Farthand twists himself clear. His life is out. The blade splashes and splashes again, as the platform rises and falls with the deadly refinity. Sheeter howls in agony, tries to break away, but Farthand's grasp on the wound closes the cure. Sheeter, in one last dispelling effort, throws himself to the ground. The eighth man's steely muscles pin the leopard past, while the greenish yellow fire dies from the beast's eyes. Farthand rises from the ground, places his foot on Sheeter's carcass, beats his broad chest with clenched fists, and raises his head to the sky. Back in the cannibal crowd, Clayton, Professor Porter, Darno, and Philander with Darno's sailors formulate plans for the future, and their eventual escape. Well, the subtle feeling of security being together in this hut? Yes, and I opposed exactly so. However, Monsieur, although we have gained the rest of it, the situation is still anything but secure. Well, it's considerably better than before, just to say. I do think, Darno, that we now have these superstitious natives completely under control. They know, Monsieur, by no means. They believe, yes, that we have worked magic. Like now, Monsieur, one false move means not only death, but the most vicious torture that the human mind can devise. I feel that I must sustain Darno and his belief. Having assumed the roles of my ideas, we've placed ourselves in the position of formulating all human characteristics. Frankly, to me, the whole thing is ridiculous. I respect it, but whatever goes with the theory involved in all this black magic for transfer. What I want to know is, if these blighted to you all this, how are we going to pull them all over their eyes? Monsieur Crayton, these primitive peoples can do much that we at the West regard as impossible, but we at the West do many things that these natives do not understand. Yes, I'll admit that. Then, for the sake of saving our skin, it will be well for us to play upon the natives with what we can do. Their mentality is, as I think before, about six years. Now, can you try to understand what is passing through the mind of a six-year-old child? Certainly not. At the same time, while I'm not asking for an explanation of what's going to happen, I would like to have an explanation of what has happened. You refer, of course, to the black knowledge of James' disappearance, and our search for her and part of that. And also, if these blacks know so much, I don't know where to lay hands on this devil god that's going to catch. My dear Crayton, you're getting into something very deep and something that we cannot explain. You see, the witch doctor probably feels she's up a very strong place in favor of this devil god being just that, a devil, a god. And on top of that, this pagan jungle friend of ours, I still assert, Crayton, that he is friendly at any rate by his actions have completely upset the natives. They want to kill him, but... Well, that's just it. They have had opportunities. But have they, Crayton? Remember, in every case, he may have surprised them. And also, they may be overcome by fear that their arrows fly wide, or there's fears, Mr. Mark, a thousand things to have. And do not forget also, Monsieur, that we were present when a message was brought in that this devil god had been seen in the trees with the white mems up. Yes, that's right, Donald. Then how can we change? Possibly before that, a similar message was brought secretly to the witch doctor, and he, merely for the purpose of increasing his standing, claimed second sight of his powerful medicine. All of which I admit, and incidentally, all of this goes to discredit the theory of any genuine message. I am not trying to convince you, Monsieur Crayton. I merely say, wait. You will see. That I'm taking is some sort of signal. A warning, perhaps, but the council is about to meet. I don't know whether or not you've noticed it, Professor, but there's a strong similarity between certain aspects of the ritual among these savages and those of some of the rights of ancient Egypt. Yes, Philander, I noticed that when I was tied to the stake. I was thinking, Porter, that our knowledge of the ritual is laid down in the book of the dead, my true very valuable, in cases which must of necessity arise. Very excellent, Monsieur Crayton. May we excellent a thought that he knows may save our lives. Porto, can I read a coup d'oeuvre? The council awaits us, Monsieur. The d'oeuvre in luck shall... May you... What is it? The deposed witch doctor has insisted upon the poison head. Poison head? Trial of some sort, my boy, exactly, Monsieur. To prove our superiority, we will have to drink the poison cup. The jungle witches awakened at Tarzan's fall of victory, falls again into a subdued murmuring. Tarzan pulls himself up to the platform, puts a protecting arm around Jane's trembling shoulder. Jane Brighton? No, no... Oh, my skin, it was too horrible. I struck and struck, but it kept on getting closer and closer. I didn't know what to do. I knew you went far away, but I thought surely that the lock would kill me before you got back. As the torrent of words which Tarzan cannot understand falls from Jane's lips, Tarzan holds the trembling girl close in an instinctive gesture of protection and assurance that he has no English words to voice. Jane forces back the tears and tries to smile. You've no idea how hard I am trying not to cry, trying to be brave. Oh, my skin, you can't understand. You don't know the meaning of fear. Fear? Fear? Yes, fear. You know the meaning of Jane Brighton. Fear is something you may learn as a word, but you'll never know the feeling of it. Cheetah frighten Jane? Yes. Cheetah frighten ma'am? No. Oh, white skin, there's no use trying to explain to you. Any of the men I know, or I should say, used to know, would have been as bright and as I. White skin. Yes. White skin. Jane go hut. Jane wants guns. Jane wants guns? Bang bang? Yes. One? One? Oh, fear, you don't know the meaning of the word one. Yes, one. One. Let me see. Like. Like. Jane like go hut. Jane like take guns. Yes. Jane like go hut quick. Jane like take bang bang. That's it, white skin. I'll feel much creeper with a gun. Go quick hut. No, white skin. Sleep now. Yes. Jane sleep. No go hut. Jane no sleep. Go hut quick. Yes, that expresses it. Although I don't believe that I'll ever sleep after the tonight experience. Jane Porter goes to a resting place in the little leafy alcove and Tarzan stretches himself on the platform. The fearful jungle shadows lengthen and deepen as the moon sails and fades in the jet black sky. The jungle's memory is short-lived. Already the fight is forgotten. Already the jungle is gone back to sleep. All but the beasts that prowl by night. And the jungle night ends as it began. Dango the hyena slinks from the underbrush. Head raised, yapping at the dying moon with his hideous merciless mouth.