CHAPTER IV.

The Apes

In the forest of the table-land a mile back from the ocean old Kerchak

the Ape was on a rampage of rage among his people.

The younger and lighter members of his tribe scampered to the higher

branches of the great trees to escape his wrath; risking their lives

upon branches that scarce supported their weight rather than face old

Kerchak in one of his fits of uncontrolled anger.

The other males scattered in all directions, but not before the

infuriated brute had felt the vertebra of one snap between his great,

foaming jaws.

A luckless young female slipped from an insecure hold upon a high

branch and came crashing to the ground almost at Kerchak’s feet.

With a wild scream he was upon her, tearing a great piece from her side

with his mighty teeth, and striking her viciously upon her head and

shoulders with a broken tree limb until her skull was crushed to a

jelly.

And then he spied Kala, who, returning from a search for food with her

young babe, was ignorant of the state of the mighty male’s temper until

suddenly the shrill warnings of her fellows caused her to scamper madly

for safety.

But Kerchak was close upon her, so close that he had almost grasped her

ankle had she not made a furious leap far into space from one tree to

another—a perilous chance which apes seldom if ever take, unless so

closely pursued by danger that there is no alternative.

She made the leap successfully, but as she grasped the limb of the

further tree the sudden jar loosened the hold of the tiny babe where it

clung frantically to her neck, and she saw the little thing hurled,

turning and twisting, to the ground thirty feet below.

With a low cry of dismay Kala rushed headlong to its side, thoughtless

now of the danger from Kerchak; but when she gathered the wee, mangled

form to her bosom life had left it.

With low moans, she sat cuddling the body to her; nor did Kerchak

attempt to molest her. With the death of the babe his fit of demoniacal

rage passed as suddenly as it had seized him.

Kerchak was a huge king ape, weighing perhaps three hundred and fifty

pounds. His forehead was extremely low and receding, his eyes

bloodshot, small and close set to his coarse, flat nose; his ears large

and thin, but smaller than most of his kind.

His awful temper and his mighty strength made him supreme among the

little tribe into which he had been born some twenty years before.

Now that he was in his prime, there was no simian in all the mighty

forest through which he roved that dared contest his right to rule, nor

did the other and larger animals molest him.

Old Tantor, the elephant, alone of all the wild savage life, feared him

not—and he alone did Kerchak fear. When Tantor trumpeted, the great ape

scurried with his fellows high among the trees of the second terrace.

The tribe of anthropoids over which Kerchak ruled with an iron hand and

bared fangs, numbered some six or eight families, each family

consisting of an adult male with his females and their young, numbering

in all some sixty or seventy apes.

Kala was the youngest mate of a male called Tublat, meaning broken

nose, and the child she had seen dashed to death was her first; for she

was but nine or ten years old.

Notwithstanding her youth, she was large and powerful—a splendid,

clean-limbed animal, with a round, high forehead, which denoted more

intelligence than most of her kind possessed. So, also, she had a great

capacity for mother love and mother sorrow.

But she was still an ape, a huge, fierce, terrible beast of a species

closely allied to the gorilla, yet more intelligent; which, with the

strength of their cousin, made her kind the most fearsome of those

awe-inspiring progenitors of man.

When the tribe saw that Kerchak’s rage had ceased they came slowly down

from their arboreal retreats and pursued again the various occupations

which he had interrupted.

The young played and frolicked about among the trees and bushes. Some

of the adults lay prone upon the soft mat of dead and decaying

vegetation which covered the ground, while others turned over pieces of

fallen branches and clods of earth in search of the small bugs and

reptiles which formed a part of their food.

Others, again, searched the surrounding trees for fruit, nuts, small

birds, and eggs.

They had passed an hour or so thus when Kerchak called them together,

and, with a word of command to them to follow him, set off toward the

sea.

They traveled for the most part upon the ground, where it was open,

following the path of the great elephants whose comings and goings

break the only roads through those tangled mazes of bush, vine,

creeper, and tree. When they walked it was with a rolling, awkward

motion, placing the knuckles of their closed hands upon the ground and

swinging their ungainly bodies forward.

But when the way was through the lower trees they moved more swiftly,

swinging from branch to branch with the agility of their smaller

cousins, the monkeys. And all the way Kala carried her little dead baby

hugged closely to her breast.

It was shortly after noon when they reached a ridge overlooking the

beach where below them lay the tiny cottage which was Kerchak’s goal.

He had seen many of his kind go to their deaths before the loud noise

made by the little black stick in the hands of the strange white ape

who lived in that wonderful lair, and Kerchak had made up his brute

mind to own that death-dealing contrivance, and to explore the interior

of the mysterious den.

He wanted, very, very much, to feel his teeth sink into the neck of the

queer animal that he had learned to hate and fear, and because of this,

he came often with his tribe to reconnoiter, waiting for a time when

the white ape should be off his guard.

Of late they had quit attacking, or even showing themselves; for every

time they had done so in the past the little stick had roared out its

terrible message of death to some member of the tribe.

Today there was no sign of the man about, and from where they watched

they could see that the cabin door was open. Slowly, cautiously, and

noiselessly they crept through the jungle toward the little cabin.

There were no growls, no fierce screams of rage—the little black stick

had taught them to come quietly lest they awaken it.

On, on they came until Kerchak himself slunk stealthily to the very

door and peered within. Behind him were two males, and then Kala,

closely straining the little dead form to her breast.

Inside the den they saw the strange white ape lying half across a

table, his head buried in his arms; and on the bed lay a figure covered

by a sailcloth, while from a tiny rustic cradle came the plaintive

wailing of a babe.

Noiselessly Kerchak entered, crouching for the charge; and then John

Clayton rose with a sudden start and faced them.

The sight that met his eyes must have frozen him with horror, for

there, within the door, stood three great bull apes, while behind them

crowded many more; how many he never knew, for his revolvers were

hanging on the far wall beside his rifle, and Kerchak was charging.

When the king ape released the limp form which had been John Clayton,

Lord Greystoke, he turned his attention toward the little cradle; but

Kala was there before him, and when he would have grasped the child she

snatched it herself, and before he could intercept her she had bolted

through the door and taken refuge in a high tree.

As she took up the little live baby of Alice Clayton she dropped the

dead body of her own into the empty cradle; for the wail of the living

had answered the call of universal motherhood within her wild breast

which the dead could not still.

High up among the branches of a mighty tree she hugged the shrieking

infant to her bosom, and soon the instinct that was as dominant in this

fierce female as it had been in the breast of his tender and beautiful

mother—the instinct of mother love—reached out to the tiny man-child’s

half-formed understanding, and he became quiet.

Then hunger closed the gap between them, and the son of an English lord

and an English lady nursed at the breast of Kala, the great ape.

In the meantime the beasts within the cabin were warily examining the

contents of this strange lair.

Once satisfied that Clayton was dead, Kerchak turned his attention to

the thing which lay upon the bed, covered by a piece of sailcloth.

Gingerly he lifted one corner of the shroud, but when he saw the body

of the woman beneath he tore the cloth roughly from her form and seized

the still, white throat in his huge, hairy hands.

A moment he let his fingers sink deep into the cold flesh, and then,

realizing that she was already dead, he turned from her, to examine the

contents of the room; nor did he again molest the body of either Lady

Alice or Sir John.

The rifle hanging upon the wall caught his first attention; it was for

this strange, death-dealing thunder-stick that he had yearned for

months; but now that it was within his grasp he scarcely had the

temerity to seize it.

Cautiously he approached the thing, ready to flee precipitately should

it speak in its deep roaring tones, as he had heard it speak before,

the last words to those of his kind who, through ignorance or rashness,

had attacked the wonderful white ape that had borne it.

Deep in the beast’s intelligence was something which assured him that

the thunder-stick was only dangerous when in the hands of one who could

manipulate it, but yet it was several minutes ere he could bring

himself to touch it.

Instead, he walked back and forth along the floor before it, turning

his head so that never once did his eyes leave the object of his

desire.

Using his long arms as a man uses crutches, and rolling his huge

carcass from side to side with each stride, the great king ape paced to

and fro, uttering deep growls, occasionally punctuated with the

ear-piercing scream, than which there is no more terrifying noise in

all the jungle.

Presently he halted before the rifle. Slowly he raised a huge hand

until it almost touched the shining barrel, only to withdraw it once

more and continue his hurried pacing.

It was as though the great brute by this show of fearlessness, and

through the medium of his wild voice, was endeavoring to bolster up his

courage to the point which would permit him to take the rifle in his

hand.

Again he stopped, and this time succeeded in forcing his reluctant hand

to the cold steel, only to snatch it away almost immediately and resume

his restless beat.

Time after time this strange ceremony was repeated, but on each

occasion with increased confidence, until, finally, the rifle was torn

from its hook and lay in the grasp of the great brute.

Finding that it harmed him not, Kerchak began to examine it closely. He

felt of it from end to end, peered down the black depths of the muzzle,

fingered the sights, the breech, the stock, and finally the trigger.

During all these operations the apes who had entered sat huddled near

the door watching their chief, while those outside strained and crowded

to catch a glimpse of what transpired within.

Suddenly Kerchak’s finger closed upon the trigger. There was a

deafening roar in the little room and the apes at and beyond the door

fell over one another in their wild anxiety to escape.

Kerchak was equally frightened, so frightened, in fact, that he quite

forgot to throw aside the author of that fearful noise, but bolted for

the door with it tightly clutched in one hand.

As he passed through the opening, the front sight of the rifle caught

upon the edge of the inswung door with sufficient force to close it

tightly after the fleeing ape.

When Kerchak came to a halt a short distance from the cabin and

discovered that he still held the rifle, he dropped it as he might have

dropped a red hot iron, nor did he again attempt to recover it—the

noise was too much for his brute nerves; but he was now quite convinced

that the terrible stick was quite harmless by itself if left alone.

It was an hour before the apes could again bring themselves to approach

the cabin to continue their investigations, and when they finally did

so, they found to their chagrin that the door was closed and so

securely fastened that they could not force it.

The cleverly constructed latch which Clayton had made for the door had

sprung as Kerchak passed out; nor could the apes find means of ingress

through the heavily barred windows.

After roaming about the vicinity for a short time, they started back

for the deeper forests and the higher land from whence they had come.

Kala had not once come to earth with her little adopted babe, but now

Kerchak called to her to descend with the rest, and as there was no

note of anger in his voice she dropped lightly from branch to branch

and joined the others on their homeward march.

Those of the apes who attempted to examine Kala’s strange baby were

repulsed with bared fangs and low menacing growls, accompanied by words

of warning from Kala.

When they assured her that they meant the child no harm she permitted

them to come close, but would not allow them to touch her charge.

It was as though she knew that her baby was frail and delicate and

feared lest the rough hands of her fellows might injure the little

thing.

Another thing she did, and which made traveling an onerous trial for

her. Remembering the death of her own little one, she clung desperately

to the new babe, with one hand, whenever they were upon the march.

The other young rode upon their mothers’ backs; their little arms

tightly clasping the hairy necks before them, while their legs were

locked beneath their mothers’ armpits.

Not so with Kala; she held the small form of the little Lord Greystoke

tightly to her breast, where the dainty hands clutched the long black

hair which covered that portion of her body. She had seen one child

fall from her back to a terrible death, and she would take no further

chances with this.