The creature pulled him
suddenly forward so that he lost his balance and rolled over upon
the prisoner and to the floor beyond to stop with Tarzan upon his
breast. In-tan struggled to release himself--struggled to draw his
knife; but Tarzan found it before him. The Waz-don's tail leaped
to the other's throat, encircling it--he too could choke; but his
own knife, in the hands of his antagonist, severed the beloved
member close to its root.
The Waz-don's struggles became weaker--a film was obscuring his
vision. He knew that he was dying and he was right. A moment later
he was dead. Tarzan rose to his feet and placed one foot upon
the breast of his dead foe. How the urge seized him to roar forth
the victory cry of his kind! But he dared not. He discovered that
they had not removed his rope from his shoulders and that they had
replaced his knife in its sheath. It had been in his hand when he
was felled. Strange creatures! He did not know that they held a
superstitious fear of the weapons of a dead enemy, believing that
if buried without them he would forever haunt his slayers in search
of them and that when he found them he would kill the man who killed
him. Against the wall leaned his bow and quiver of arrows.
Tarzan stepped toward the doorway of the cave and looked out.
Night had just fallen.
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