chest. His hair, roughly cut, was flung back from his broad forehead, secured with a thong, and was the colour of honey. The hilt of a crude-looking knife projected from the leopard-pelt.
Still Moon stared, unable to credit his senses. Rita backed away and hurried over to her groaning husband. Moon made a half move to follow her but the white giant moved also with one foot, barring the way. Moon peered at him, studying the well-cut features—then as fast as thought his hand blurred down to his gun, and he yanked it out.
Before he could fire the stranger’s right hand shot out and closed round his wrist. The trader gasped as steel fingers tightened relentlessly and all but broke the bone. Then, heavy man though he was, he was lifted in the air and flung with savage force. He struck the bole of a baobab tree on the edge of the clearing, and dropped with half the senses knocked out of him. His gun had gone—so he did the only thing he could. He crept into the jungle and kept on going, completely unable to understand what had happened.
The white stranger turned at last to where Rita was making ineffectual efforts to drag her husband into the tent. With perfect ease the giant lifted the wounded Perrivale in his mighty arms and bore him to the camp bed, laying him down. Rita was too intent on trying to ease her husband’s pain to pay any attention to the white man who now stood with folded arms, watching impassively.
“He—he got me—in the leg,” Perrivale panted, his face sweating. “I don’t know if the bullet’s still there. Take a look.”
He relaxed again on the bed, setting his teeth. Rita looked at him helplessly, her knowledge of first-aid and anatomy practically negligible. Then she seemed to become aware of the silent white man watching her. His advent should have startled her, and indeed it had at the time, but just at the moment her whole attention was given over to her husband.
“Can’t you do something?” she entreated. “He’s been hit in the leg. Look at it.”
The finger pointing towards Perrivale’s blood-soaked trouser leg was enough to get the white giant on the move. He went down on his knees beside the camp bed and tore Perrivale’s trouser leg up the side, then he examined the leg itself, wiping away the blood with a piece of trouser leg. The injury looked worse than it was really, but even so Perrivale had suffered a wound that had gouged deep into the calf and only just missed the bone. The bullet itself had apparently passed on.
Rita, seeing the extent of the damage, turned aside, and heated water on the oil cooker. Then she bathed the wound and bound it up with wadding from the medical kit. Perrivale gave a taut little nod of thanks, the pain of the injury still pretty considerable.
“Thanks, Rita,” he said—and, glancing up at the white giant, “and thanks to you, too. Just who are you, anyway? You’re white.”
Rita eyed the giant with his rippling muscles, keen blue eyes, and finely cut chin. He had blond hair tied back with a thong.
“He’s wonderfully developed,” Rita murmured, admiringly.
The giant made no comment and turned to go, but Rita caught his arm.
“Please—don’t go yet! We want to learn more about you. And besides, Moon might return. If he does, I don’t want to be left to tackle him by myself, as I should be with my husband like this. It will be quite a while before he can be up and about.”
The giant listened in puzzled interest, obviously trying to understand. Rita sighed, but she kept her small hand on his mighty forearm.
“Rita,” she said, pointing to herself, then nodding to the watching man on the camp bed she added, “Harry. Now what is your name?” and, her eyebrows lifting inquiringly, she tapped the giant’s broad chest.
“Rita—Harry,” he repeated in a grave, deep voice that had none of the guttural intonation of a native. And, seeming to grasp the point, he added, “Anjani,” and indicated himself.
“Anjani?” Rita looked interested.
“It means ‘White God’ in some native tongues,” Harry said from the bed. “Don’t let the fellow go, Rita—there’s something queer about him being here in the jungle.”
Rita increased her grip on Anjani’s arm and tugged a little. Finally he seemed to understand, and, smiling, moved back into the tent and waited for what might happen next.
“We must teach him English,” Harry said, relaxing again. “He certainly doesn’t belong in this hell-hole, and I think we ought to find out why. But don’t let him go, Rita—he’s too useful.”
Rita said nothing. It was just beginning to occur to her that, now her husband was wounded, a new cowardice would be added, strengthening the old, and weakening the man. With Anjani at his right hand, there was nothing to stop him keeping in the background whilst the mysterious white giant faced all the dangers.
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