King of Fang and Claw | Page 9

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," he answered.
She smiled weakly up at him. "I knew you'd say that." Her straying
fingers sought and found his. With the contented sigh of a tired child
going to sleep, she closed her eyes.
John Rand remained frozen at her side, holding the still figure in his
arms.

CHAPTER V
The End of the Rains
JOHN RAND never knew that the hyena and jackal were prowling
outside his rude shelter; never knew when the stealthy approach of Zar
sent them slinking into the brush.
If he had known, he would not have cared.
Morbidly he toyed with the idea of ending it all, there by the side of his
wife. He was tired, weary. Life held no meaning for him, had no
purpose now that Constance was gone.

Then the cry of his son calling out in his sleep for a mother who would
never answer again, brought him back to sanity. If not for himself, he
had to live for David. It was enough that he had the death of his wife on
his hands. The boy must live. For Constance's sake. It was her dying
wish. The boy's name had been the last to pass her lips before a
merciful God had taken her from her sufferings to the eternal peace of
heaven.
That thought--that conviction--fortified Rand, eased the poignant pain
of his grief. He would live for his son, dedicate his life to the boy. For
in him the flesh and blood of Constance were resurrected.
For the first time in many years John Rand prayed--prayed to the God,
who in his infinite wisdom had created man as well as the savage
beasts that roamed the jungle. His words were humble, penitent. He
asked nothing for himself; only for the strength, the courage and the
cunning to survive for his son and to eventually win back with him to
civilization.
Rand did not sleep that night and it was not until the first pale light of
dawn lit up the east that he stirred from the side of his wife. He had
much to do.
First was the heart breaking task of fashioning a coffin from the fabric
wings of the plane. It was crude at the very best, no more than a canvas
covering for the lovely body. But he could not bring himself to commit
his wife to the raw earth, uncovered.
David watched him from wide, scared eyes as he worked. "Mummy
sick?" he asked in a small, hushed voice.
Rand turned to him, placed a gentle hand on his touseled head. "No,
son," he answered softly. "Mummy is sick no longer. All her troubles
are over. She has gone to heaven. God has taken her from us."
Little David smiled happily at the mention of the Diety. "God is good,"
he said, expressing the fundamental philosophy behind all true religion.
"He won't let mummy cry any more."

Rand swept up the youngster in his arms and crushed him to his breast.
Emotion gripped him and it was a moment before he could speak.
"Amen to that, son," he cried reverently. "Yes, God is good. Mummy
will cry no more."
David was satisfied with that and scampered cheerily about the clearing
while his father labored over the grave. For a shovel he had nothing
better than the jagged end of a shattered spar from the plane, but the
ground was soft from the rains and his labor was one of love.
By noon his work was done. Calling David to him, he made his way
slowly to the lean-to. There, with tender arms he picked up the
shrouded body and with his son following after him, started back for
the shallow grave.
Never had the heart of darkest Africa witnessed such a strange funeral
procession. The jungle seemed to have stopped breathing while it
watched.
Before the raw hole in the ground, Rand crushed his wife to him, while
his lips