He’d got away. With every step run …. with every move waded through waist-high water …. Tarzan was putting miles between him and the slavers. Whitney and his men would come searching. Tarzan had used the river .. throwing the dogs off his scent.
Not yet a free man. He was still on the run .. a hunted man. No way off the island, he’d been told. The boats had all left. No way of escape. But he had fled their clutches. Clambering up the waterfall … in search of a cave .. looking for a bolthole to rest-out. Not out of danger. But not slaving his guts out every moment of his waking day.
Ambushed. Forced to his knees. Armed warriors surrounding him. Tarzan was thrown. Not expected any others. Totally focused on dodging Whitney’s dogs. Not expected to find anyone else. Not anticipating capture.
Fierce-looking. Aggressive. Spears jabbed at his front. Ordered up, ordered to his knees. Men’s faces creased with hostility and hate.
Had Tarzan fallen out of the pan into the fire?
Story continues in “Fugitives” ….. later ……..