Beyond the Black River. Robert E. Howard
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face of nightmare and death. The great ape had ceased to rend his dead victims and was slinking toward the living pair in the center of the glade. Blood oozed from the wound in its sloping skull that had maddened it.
McGrath sprang toward it, shielding the prostrate girl; his pistol spurted flame, pouring a stream of lead into the mighty breast as the beast charged.
On it came, and his confidence waned. Bullet after bullet he sent crashing into its vitals, but it did not halt. Now he dashed the empty gun full into the gargoyle face without effect, and with a lurch and a roll it had him in its grasp. As the giant arms closed crushingly about him, he abandoned all hope, but following his fighting instinct to the last, he drove his dagger hilt-deep in the shaggy belly.
But even as he struck, he felt a shudder run through the gigantic frame. The great arms fell away — and then he was hurled to the ground in the last death throe of the monster, and the thing was swaying, its face a death mask. Dead on its feet, it crumpled, toppled to the ground, quivered and lay still. Not even a man-eating ape of Zambebwei could survive that close-range volley of mushrooming lead.
As the man staggered up, Constance rose and reeled into his arms, crying hysterically.
“It’s all right now, Constance,” he panted, crushing her to him. “The Zemba’s dead; De Albor’s dead; Ballville’s dead; the Negroes have run away. There’s nothing to prevent us leaving now. The Moon of Zambebwei was the end for them. But it’s the beginning of life for us.”
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