King of Fang and Claw | Page 8

their elbows, Rand and his family continued to survive in the heart of the African wilderness. Roots, berries, strange fruits and the game which was always plentiful fed them. Every day parts of the wrecked plane were added to the original lean-to, until they were housed in a safe and comfortable dwelling. Water and fuel were within easy reach. David's skin bronzed until in the tattered remnants of his clothing he resembled a sturdy young savage. And while his parents became merely reconciled to their strange environment. he fell more and more under its spell.
Boredom never exised there, for constant dangers kept them ever on the alert. There was the time when David's restless feet took him too close to a slender, emerald-green snake, sunning itself on a tangle of roots. The reptile hissed a sibilant warning and then uncoiled with the suddenness of a broken spring. Swift as it struck, John Rand was a fraction of a second faster. He knocked the youngster sprawling as be leaped forward and the snake buried its dripping fangs in the tough leather of his high boots. Snatching the automatic from his hip, he fired three times in rapid succession and the snake threshed wildly in its death throes.
Again David reproached his father and no graphic description of the reptile's deadliness could change the boy's attitude. He mourned the passing of a fellow denizen of the wild.
They heard the distant trumpeting of an elephant herd and one day Rand, hunting in the jungle depths for game, Was startled by a loud crashing through the lower branches of the trees. The sound was made by a tribe of great apes on their migration to new feeding grounds and twice he caught glimpses of dark, flat-nosed faces peering through the leafy boughs.
At night great cats prowled on padded feet around their dwelling. They could hear the sniffing of curious and hungry beasts and the loaded rifle was never far beyond Rand's reach.
Often they laid awake far into the night while in low voice Constance made plans for the day when she would be able to travel. To please her, Rand discussed in detail their possible routes, the equipment they would need and the minimum amount of provision they could carry. But he was grateful for the darkness that hid his face from hers, while she talked of Cairo, of friends in far-off London, and in Johannesburg.
For she was mending slowly--very slowly. And though the broken bones were knitting at last, she was growing wan and weak. Knowing the courage and the will within her slender body, he blamed it on the enervating climate. The damp, steaming miasma seemed to sap all strength from her. She grew thin and violet shadows made hollows under her eyes.
His fears for her were justified. The day came when she complained of a racking headache. And soon she was consumed by a raging fever.
Rand was dismayed. He had seen the ravages of mysterious tropical maladies before. He dosed her from the quinine supply of the medical kit that he had carefully guarded. But her weakened body did not respond. Shaken by alternate spells of burning fever and chills that made her tremble from head to foot, she grew steadily worse. Rand stayed constantly by her side and David listened wide-eyed when his mother began to ramble incoherently about the home that she had left.
Late one night, after a fitful, restless sleep, she woke to find her husband still keeping vigil beside her. She smiled up at him.
"Faithful John," she murmured.
Her voice was low and husky, but sane. Rand placed a cool hand on her fevered brow. "You're better," he said eagerly. "You know, I think you've passed the crisis."
Constance smiled again but shook her head. A strange soft light glowed in her deep-set eyes. "No, John. I-- I'm going to die--very soon."
An expression of anguish crossed his face, then he forced a laugh from his lips. "Nonsense." He leaned over and pressed his face to hers. "You're not going to die. You can't leave me--I need you," he said huskily.
She stroked his bearded cheek with tender fingers. "I don't want to leave you. It's God's will. I'm not afraid--for myself." She slipped the wedding ring from her wasted finger on to his. "My dearest possession. I want you to wear it for me, John, always," she said softly.
Rand felt of the smooth, gold band. Though he could not read the inscription engraved on the inside of it, he knew it by heart: "From John Rand to Constance Dean."
Constance went on, her voice sinking to a whisper, so weak that it was barely audible. It seemed to Rand's straining eyes as though a shadow flitted across her face. "John," she managed feebly, "You'll take good care of David--won't you?"
"With my life,"