st have recourse to her pistol. She cast a side glance at the
tall figure. What a magnificent creature! But yet he was a brute
who would kill her or have her killed if she did not slay him. And
the locket! She must have that back--it must not fail to reach
Wilhelmstal. Tarzan was now a foot or two ahead of her as the path
was very narrow. Cautiously she drew her pistol. A single shot would
suffice and he was so close that she could not miss. As she figured
it all out her eyes rested on the brown skin with the graceful muscles
rolling beneath it and the perfect limbs and head and the carriage
that a proud king of old might have envied. A wave of revulsion
for her contemplated act surged through her. No, she could not
do it--yet, she must be free and she must regain possession of
the locket. And then, almost blindly, she swung the weapon up and
struck Tarzan heavily upon the back of the head with its butt. Like
a felled ox he dropped in his tracks.

Chapter VI

Vengeance and Mercy

It was an hour later that Sheeta, the panther, hunting, chanced to
glance upward into the blue sky where his attention was attracted
by Ska, the vulture, circling slowly above the bush a mile away and
downwind. For a long minute the yellow eyes stared intently at the
gruesome bird. They saw Ska dive and rise again to continue his
ominous circling and in these movements their woodcraft read that
which, while obvious to Sheeta, would doubtless have meant nothing
to you or me.

The hunting cat guessed that on the ground beneath Ska was some
living thing of flesh--either a beast feeding upon its kill or a
dying animal that Ska did not yet dare attack. In either event it
might prove meat for Sheeta, and so the wary feline stalked by a
circuitous route, upon soft, padded feet that gave forth no sound,
until the circling aasvogel and his intended prey were upwind. Then,
sniffing each vagrant zephyr, Sheeta, the panther, crept cautiously
forward, nor had he advanced any considerable distance before his
keen nostrils were rewarded with the scent of man--a Tarmangani.

Sheeta paused. He was not a hunter of men. He was young and in his
prime; but always before he had avoided this hated presence. Of
late he had become more accustomed to it with the passing of many
soldiers through his ancient hunting ground, and as the soldiers
had frightened away a great part of the game Sheeta had been wont
to feed upon, the days had been lean, and Sheeta