The two stopped often, apparently in argument, as though one would proceed in the direction that they were going while the other demurred.But each time the smaller won reluctant consent from the other, and so they came closer and closer to the last line of workers toiling between the enclosure from which they had come and the hill where Gahan of Gathol lay watching, and then suddenly the smaller figure struck its companion full in the face.Gahan, horrified, saw the latter's head topple from its body, saw the body stagger and fall to the ground.The man half rose from his concealment the better to view the happening in the valley below.The creature that had felled its companion was dashing madly in the direction of the hill upon which he was hidden, it dodged one of the workers that sought to seize it.
Gahan hoped that it would gain its liberty, why he did not know other than at closer range it had every appearance of being a creature of his own race.Then he saw it stumble and go down and instantly its pursuers were upon it.Then it was that Gahan's eyes chanced to return to the figure of the creature the fugitive had felled.
What horror was this that he was witnessing? Or were his eyes playing some ghastly joke upon him? No, impossible though it was--it was true--the head was moving slowly to the fallen body.
It placed itself upon the shoulders, the body rose, and the creature, seemingly as good as new, ran quickly to where its fellows were dragging the hapless captive to its feet.
The watcher saw the creature take its prisoner by the arm and lead it back to the enclosure, and even across the distance that separated them from him he could note dejection and utter hopelessness in the bearing of the prisoner, and, too, he was half convinced that it was a woman, perhaps a red Martian of his own race.Could he be sure that this was true he must make some effort to rescue her even though the customs of his strange world required it only in case she was of his own country; but he was not sure; she might not be a red Martian at all, or, if she were, it was as possible that she sprang from an enemy people as not.
His first duty was to return to his own people with as little personal risk as possible, and though the thought of adventure stirred his blood he put the temptation aside with a sigh and turned away from the peaceful and beautiful valley that he longed to enter, for it was his intention to skirt its eastern edge and continue his search for Gathol beyond.
As Gahan of Gathol turned his steps along the southern slopes of the hills that bound Bantoom upon the south and east, his attention was attracted toward a small cluster of trees a short distance to his right.The low sun was casting long shadows.It would soon be night.The trees were off the path that he had chosen and he had little mind to be diverted from his way; but as he looked again he hesitated.There was something there besides boles of trees, and underbrush.There were suggestions of familiar lines of the handicraft of man.Gahan stopped and strained his eyes in the direction of the thing that had arrested his attention.No, he must be mistaken--the branches of the trees and a low bush had taken on an unnatural semblance in the horizontal rays of the setting sun.He turned and continued upon his way; but as he cast another side glance in the direction of the object of his interest, the sun's rays were shot back into his eyes from a glistening point of radiance among the trees.
Gahan shook his head and walked quickly toward the mystery, determined now to solve it.The shining object still lured him on and when he had come closer to it his eyes went wide in surprise, for the thing they saw was naught else than the jewel-encrusted emblem upon the prow of a small flier.Gahan, his hand upon his short-sword, moved silently forward, but as he neared the craft he saw that he had naught to fear, for it was deserted.Then he turned his attention toward the emblem.As its significance was flashed to his understanding his face paled and his heart went cold --it was the insignia of the house of The Warlord of Barsoom.Instantly he saw the dejected figure of the captive being led back to her prison in the valley just beyond the hills.
Tara of Helium! And he had been so near to deserting her to her fate.The cold sweat stood in beads upon his brow.
A hasty examination of the deserted craft unfolded to the young jed the whole tragic story.The same tempest that had proved his undoing had borne Tara of Helium to this distant country.Here, doubtless, she had landed in hope of obtaining food and water since, without a propellor, she could not hope to reach her native city, or any other friendly port, other than by the merest caprice of Fate.The flier seemed intact except for the missing propellor and the fact that it had been carefully moored in the shelter of the clump of trees indicated that the girl had expected to return to it, while the dust and leaves upon its deck spoke of the long days, and even weeks, since she had landed.
Mute yet eloquent proofs, these things, that Tara of Helium was a prisoner, and that she was the very prisoner whose bold dash for liberty he had so recently witnessed he now had not the slightest doubt.