ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THE SERIES: Today’s great interest in the adventures of Tarzan and some of the many other exciting characters created by the master storyteller, Edgar Rice Burroughs, has brought a demand for new, fresh Tarzan stories. With this book, Gold Star Books begins to fill that demand. Gold Star Books asked a talented, young California writer,

  Barton Werper, to create new Tarzan adventures, based on some of the original Tarzan characters, “Tarzan and the Abominable Snowman” is the fourth of this series by Mr. Werper whose previous work includes several television scripts and magazine short stories.

  TARZAN

  AND THE

  ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN

  Fourth in The New Tarzan Series

  By Barton Werper

  A GOLD STAR BOOK

  Published by The New International Library, Inc

  Cover illustration by Jack Endeweldt

  Š Copyright 1965 by Barton Werper. All English Language rights throughout the world exclusively controlled by The New International Library, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  All Rights Reserved.

  GOLD STAR BOOKS are published by The New International Library, Inc., Capital International Building, Derby, Conn. Gold Star Books represent the best in reading entertainment by the world’s outstanding, best-selling authors.

  Chapter 1

  SAFARI PLANNED

  AS happened not too infrequently, John, Lord Greystoke, heir and scion of vast estates in England, was completely bored with so-called “civilization.” Jungle-bred, nurtured, suckled and trained by the giant apes of the African veldts and jungles, he felt much more at home in the crotch of a tree, wearing a loincloth, carrying spear, bow and the knife that had once belonged to his father, whom he’d never really known. To the denizens of these wild places, both friend and traditional foe, he was known simply as “Tarzan.”

  Tarzan of the Apes, and no man could ask for higher honor. At least, this was the opinion of Tarzan himself, and he cared surprisingly little for the opinion of others -except, perhaps, that of his mate, Jane, Jane Clayton, once the belle of society in Baltimore, Maryland. And Jane had adapted almost as quickly to the life in the jungle as had Tarzan, who, until he met her, had known no other. It was Jane who had taught him to speak English, who had insisted that he improve himself, take his rightful place in society. And Jane had allowed Tarzan to teach their son. Jack, the ways of the jungle, while she sat patiently in their bungalow amidst Tarzan’s vast African holdings, and gave him a bit more than the basic rudiments of an education, so that when the boy was finally to go off to England to acquire somewhat more polish and knowledge of the world outside Africa, he would not be handicapped. Nor was he. Now Jack was off at Oxford, and the bungalow was once again all theirs.

  All Jane’s, in fact, for Tarzan had decided to take a few days off for sport. With Basuli, trusted chieftain of the Waziri, and a handful of warriors, the giant ape-man had stripped off the habiliments of civilization and raced off through the trees, once again to pit his jungle-trained wits against the savage denizens of the African jungle. Jane, sighing, had accepted his decision with remarkable, restraint and accepted a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

  After all, it would only be for a few days. Jane was well provided for, well-guarded. Safer than in London traffic. And very lonely.

  In faraway London, matters were moving along. Had been for some months, in fact.

  The Hon. Freddy Keys-Smythe, a light-hearted soul and veteran of many an expedition to strange lands and places and a Fellow of the Royal Academy of Science, sat at a small table in company with three other persons. It was an oddly assorted group. Freddy was a fragile-appearing man, which was utter and complete nonsense, for his strength had been proved on many occasions. Strength of body, mind and character. What Freddy Keys-Smythe wanted, he usually wangled, one way or another. He stroked a small toothbrush of a moustache which he fondly believed made him look both older and wiser and did neither—and glanced at-the rather florid, imposing figure seated across the table.

  “Well, Sir Edward,” he said, almost too casually, for much depended on the other’s answer, “there it is. All laid out neat and tidy. Not a decimal point out of place. The Royal Academy has agreed to a grant of forty thousand quid for this expedition, providing, of course, that you’ll do the same. In return, you’re to have first publication rights and a daily wireless report once we’re actually in the field.”

  Sir Edward Newhall had memorized the figures quoted as to passage, equipment, supplies and the rest of it, at first glance. He pushed the neat blue folder away from in front of his place at the table, reached thoughtfully for the bottle of dry sherry and poured a glass. He sipped thoughtfully. Sir Edward was not a man given to throwing his money about carelessly, although he could have probably done so without much discomfort. He was one of the wealthiest newspaper publishers in the world, with a whole string of them. He was tough, shrewd, unassuming and merciless in his business dealings. More, he had an unerring sense of news. He ran crusading newspapers, but would drop a crusade instantly if it did not materially aid circulation. He looked at the man on his left and Teddy’s right.“Mr. Burke?”

  Arthur Burke was a well-set-up man in his early thirties. He happened, at the moment, to have just concluded a campaign that had sharply increased circulation in nearly all the areas serviced by the Newhall “empire” (called so because it was, in fact, an empire with a great deal of influence in matters of government, and because the front-running newspaper in this mighty chain of newspapers was the London Daily Empire).

  Burke was excited by the idea, but had learned from bitter experience to never, never seem too eager to embark upon a circulation-building stunt. He shook his head slightly. “Well, Sir Edward, it all seems a bit ‘iffy’ to me. Of course, it would be a fantastically successful campaign ‘if’ successful, ‘if’ something other than hints and rumors could be brought out, ‘if’ one could get clear, distinct motion pictures of these creatures or, better still, bring back a live specimen or so.”

  Sir Edward nodded. “It’s also occurred to me, Mr. Keys-Smythe, that even the alleged ‘sightings’ of these beasts has been confined to the Himalayas. On what basis do you suggest Mount Kilimanjaro?”

  Freddy leaned back, appearing as nonchalant as possible. “There have been more sightings in the Himalayas, Sir Edward. But by no means have all been there. There have been sightings, some of them so documented as to be undeniable, from such diverse spots as the Urals, Northern California in the United States, Canada and so forth and so on. Including Kilimanjaro.” He bent forward again, earnestly. “Sir, I point out one other item. All sightings have been accidental. No expedition has ever set out, not to this day, with the deliberate intent of tracking one or more of the creatures down. The rest have been mountain-climbing expeditions and the like.”

  Sir Edward lit a cigar, let out a puff of smoke. “If the damned creatures even exist, eh?”

  “Sir Edward, the gorilla was believed by naturalists and scientists to be a myth. May I point out that the first gorilla was brought out of the Congo in 1931? The Panda bear was actually ‘discovered’ even later. Well, so much for that. Let me put it this way, sir: I believe in the yeti. And the Academy believes in me.”

  There was silence around the table as Sir Edward pulled the prospectus back before him, glancing through it again. He puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. “It occurs to me that you’re asking for a hell of a lot of money. Forty thousand pounds. Eh, Arthur?”

  Burke knew, right then, that the Old Map was going to go for the proposition. He knew, too, that he was going to be allowed to go along, to protect the publishing chain’s interests. He took the plunge, aware that his employer was waiting for some word of encouragement. “Oh, indeed. Yes. And still, the Royal Academy is willing to put that sum at the gentleman’s disposal if someone should match it. I daresay the other newspapers have wind of this. I should truly dislike losing all the circulation we’ve so recently gained, simply because of … well, let that go, sir. After all, that’s for the business office to say, isn’t it?”

  “It’s for me to say, by Gad, sir I All right, young Keys-Smythe, I have a few objections to this-ah-prospectus of yours. I’ll want a good reporter from my organization to accompany the expedition. Burke, will you be willing to accompany this safari?”

  “Of course, sir. Very happy to oblige.”

  “Um. And I also notice that you’ve no person listed who has actually seen one of the damned things. What about that, eh? You might be chasing some mountainside gorilla, eh? Or a bear, or whatever. What about that?”

  “All laid on,” Freddy said, blithely. “I’ve engaged the services of Teemu, a Sherpa ‘Tiger.’ Been up and down the slopes of the Himalayas more often than I’ve been to Charing Cross. He’s seen them, tracked them, fought with them. When he was a lad, he and his father spent a wretched night in a small stone hut at the twenty thousand-foot level, fighting off one or more. He says they threw stones, climbed on the roof, ripping out huge logs and brush. He also says they fear fire. Extremely strong beasts, if beasts they arc. Shy, though. And quite large. Never see them in daylight.”

  “Should have bagged one of the blighters. Right then and there.”

  Keys-Smythe smiled, faintly. “All very well and good, sir. Unfortunately, the Sherpa know nothing of killing. Nor crime. They have no weapons, and their entire psychological make-up would make them helpless to attack anything or anyone. The y live in peace with each other and the world. When they need meat, they call in a man who is both publicly and privately shunned. He kills their beasts quickly, leaves them to hang, taking his pay in choice cuts of meat. Their only form of punishment is banishment, which, I might add, is fairly lethal on the high slopes.”

  Arthur Burke nodded in agreement. “Read something of that, myself. I take it you know Kilimanjaro?”

  Freddy shook his head. “Not really. However, I know someone who does. Lord Greystoke.”

  “John Clayton? Now, that’s something like it. He’s going along?”

  Freddie smiled with a confidence he didn’t really feel. “I’m almost sure he will. After all, he makes his home not too awfully far from Mount Kilimanjaro. And he has a faithful band of African warriors, the Waziri, who will not only make excellent bearers but who should guard our little expedition against all sorts of dangers that we can scarcely imagine at this state of the game, eh?”

  “You’ve contacted him?” This question was asked from under beetled brows. The eyes beneath were sharp, penetrating.

  “Six-no, seven days ago, I talked to his son. Jack, who’s up at Oxford. Jack promised to cable that very day. In fact. Jack is anxious to join the expedition himself. I’m sure it’s all set.”

  For the first time, the fourth person at the table spoke. It was a girl, an attractive, green-eyed, aristocratic girl. The daughter, to be specific, of Sir Edward, who both adored and distrusted her. She was, to be honest, a hoyden. Not her fault, really. She was his only child. He, like so many others of the peerage, had hoped fondly for sons, but it was not to be. Her mother had died in childbirth, and Patricia had had a rather haphazard rearing. “I’m going with the expedition, daddy!”

  “Nonsense. A young girl like you going off to God knows where, surrounded by all those-those savages? And wild animals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impossible. Utterly and absolutely and completely impossible.” He stared about the table. “You understand that, gentlemen? Under no circumstances is she to be included in this plan.” The Honorable Freddy Keys-Smythe broke into the conversation eagerly. “Then-there is to be an expedition?”

  “Depends upon Lord Greystoke, I should say. Yes. It definitely depends upon Lord Greystoke. He’s to share the leadership with you. Agreed?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Sir Edward. May I say, you’ll never regret this!”

  “That remains to be seen,” Newhall sniffed.

  Arthur Burke, reporter extraordinary, smiled inwardly. He had been quietly engaged to the beauteous Pat Newhall for some months. He had long ago discovered that whatever Patricia wanted, Patricia got. He hoped they could make comfortable accommodations for her. Inevitably, Miss Newhall would be a member of the expedition to search for the elusive, half-mythical yeti.

  Chapter 2

  WOMEN’S WILES

  TARZAN sat lazily in a comfortable nest in the middle terrace of the forest, a few miles from the thorn boma where he and the six Waziri who’d come away with him on this little holiday had spent the night. That is, the Waziri had spent the night there, rather uneasily, one of them standing guard at all times, replenishing the fire which served the dual purpose of keeping the five sleeping figures warm, and keeping out the predators of the night, for this was lion country, and Samba had oft been known to relish a succulent native almost as well as a young Bara, the deer. Yes, only six figures were in the boma; Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle, was also a predator. On these little trips, he hunted at night with the other predators, and, having made his kill, lazed through the warm African mornings. This was the finest time of all, with the sun midway up the horizon. Tarzan’s nostrils twitched as he caught the scent of cooking topi, which he’d pounced upon just after daybreak and dropped into the boma for his crew. He’d saved a small haunch for himself, which he had stuck into the fork of the tree beside him and from which, with great content, he cut a strip now and again, wolfing it down. This habit was reprehensible to the natives and absolutely intolerable to Jane; hence these little expeditions. At the bungalow on his estate. Lord Greystoke politely gave way to the civilized method of preparing food, although it was noted that he could hardly abide the sight of a well-done roast. It was all right, it filled one’s belly, he ruminated, chewing with appreciation on his raw strip of meat, but as for food-well. Jane, understanding his problem, because she knew her lord and master had been raised as a wild jungle beast, always saw to it that his meat was rare, even a little bloody, but she insisted that for the sake of appearances it must be at least seared. Nor could he abide what is popularly known as “hung” meat, that is, game which was allowed to cool for several days to make it more tender. The degree of tenderness mattered not at all to the ape-man, who utterly and completely failed to fathom this nicety of so-called civilization. Why did one have teeth, if not to bite and tear? Such nonsense! For that matter, why have “civilization” at all? Tarzan had sampled civilization, and held it, for the most part, in contempt. Jungle beasts, on the whole, were far superior to Man. If they fought, it was for the sport of it, not because of some vague political or economical concept. If they killed, they killed to fill their bellies. A leader of a pack led the pack; he didn’t relegate his duties to underlings. The leader was the strongest, the most cunning, the swiftest. He personally meted out justice, and swiftly, without mercy. Each beast had a sworn enemy, and whenever the two met, there was a battle, but this was part of nature’s plan, to keep the jungle population constant. On the infrequent occasions that Tarzan, as Lord Greystoke, was compelled to don the trappings of civilization and journey to London, he did so with the greatest reluctance. As a member of the nobility, he was invited to a round of boring teas and dinners (where the beef was invariably overdone!), and listened to conversations and confidences which he did not particularly care to hear and which he usually did not understand. At one of these affairs, Jane had learned to recognize the danger signals. Lord and Lady Greystoke customarily left the proceedings early, and Lord Greystoke would be in one of his black moods which even his beloved Jane found it difficult to overcome.

  Factually, had it not been for Jane, who loved all such social functions, it is highly doubtful that Tarzan would ever have gone to England to claim his heritage and his title.

  Ah, well, the ape-man mused, munching on his strip of meat, it was little enough to ask, he supposed. His beloved Jane spent the greater part of the year in the jungle with him, and was well-schooled in the ways of the jungle. She was almost as adept as the tarmangani himself in living there. She was a worthy mate for the Lord of the Jungle. And she didn’t begrudge him these little forays from time to time, so long as the bean crops were in, and the kaffir corn had been harvested, so that the natives who formed Tarzan’s retinue would not know want.

  Suddenly, Tarzan tensed-he sniffed the breeze. Almost certainly his keen nostrils sensed the approach of Numa, the lion, whom the natives called “Simba.” Numa was certainly approaching, and Tarzan, with his unerring jungle knowledge, knew it would be an old beast, gone kill-less for the night, perhaps many nights, and drawn by the scent of Tarzan’s fresh kill. The ape-man dropped from his perch in the middle terrace to the lower terrace, teeth bared, poised for the kill. He loosened the knife in its sheath, looking about the small glade beneath the tree for a tell-tale motion of the scrub and underbrush … there it was!

  Numa slunk, belly low, into the little clearing, seeking the meat he’d smelled. Tarzan looked at the lion with contempt. It was a very old lion, gaunt, scrawny, with a mangy-looking mane, greying muzzle and an obvious limp. The ape-man watched with slitted grey eyes. Hardly a worthy opponent, but possibly the most dangerous of all beasts to the unwary native, for lions such as this were the sort which, unable to catch the fleet zebra or hartebeest, lay in wait for the solitary hunter, or raided native villages, carrying off children or old people. No need for a challenge here, and a standup fight, which the ape-man loved best of all in the world; no, this would almost be a mercy killing.

 

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