“Ugh! Isn’t that a nasty looking spot!” cried Tom. “Say, have we got to cross that?”
Mr. Thorne nodded. “Yes, just sit tight and don’t jump and you’ll be all right,” he declared. “If a paddle doesn’t break we’ll get through safely. It’s the only way and the worst spot on the river.”
As he spoke the captain was testing each paddle, examining the blades and handles for possible cracks and at last, with the baggage stowed snugly, the Indians and Sam in their places, Colcord told them that all was ready.
With fast beating hearts the boys seated themselves, Mr. Thorne, Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and Rawlins took their accustomed places and with a “Yip-yi!” from the Boviander the paddles dug into the water and the coorial shot out upon the swirling black surface of the pool.
With every ounce of their strength, with their muscles straining under their bronze skins, the men plied their paddles and Colcord and the bowman swung their weight upon their huge paddles at bow and stern. For an instant the boat hung motionless, the bow quivered and vibrated to the drag of the current and then the craft darted ahead. High above the gunwales boiled the maelstrom as the centre of the whirlpool was reached, the boat seemed actually to stand on end, it slid up a hill of water and ere the boys realized it was accomplished the coorial had dashed beyond the danger point and was safe in a narrow, swiftly flowing channel above the pool. And at this instant, just as the boat had gained safety, there was a sharp report and one of the Indians tumbled head over heels as his paddle broke short at the blade!
“Gee!” cried Frank. “It was lucky that didn’t happen a minute sooner!”
“I’ll say ’twas!” agreed Rawlins. “We’d have been goners if it had, sure.”
“A miss is as good as a mile,” laughed Mr. Thorne. “You have to trust a lot to luck in this work.”
“Same as in diving,” remarked Rawlins.
“Well, Colcord, I guess we can call this a day’s work,” said the explorer as the boat swung into the broader river and tranquil water. “Find a good spot and we’ll make camp for the night.”
The boat was soon run ashore, the tarpaulin was quickly stretched and the crew lolled about, glad of a chance to rest their weary muscles.
“I suppose we might as well listen and see if we hear anything,” suggested Tom, as Sam busied himself with the cooking.
“Yes, take every chance you get,” said his father. “We’re getting nearer and nearer to the spot all the time.”
But no sound came into the receivers and with Sam’s call to dinner the instruments were laid aside.
But when dinner was over, the boys once more adjusted their receivers and prepared to listen to anything that might be passing through the air. Tom clamped the phones to his ears, Frank turned the resonance coil about and as it pointed towards the south, Tom fairly leaped from his seat.
“Jumping Jiminy!” he exclaimed. “They’re talking!”
“What?” cried Mr. Pauling. “Are you sure? Get what they say!”
Tense with excitement, leaning forward with breaths coming fast, all were silent, listening with straining ears to the faint buzzing sounds from the instrument while Tom rapidly jotted down the message. “They’ve stopped!” he announced at last. “I guess--Gosh! What’s that?”
As he had been speaking, Frank, thinking the signals over, had turned around and as he did so, sharp “dees and dahs” once more issued from the receiver. Instantly all were again silent, glancing at one another with wonder and amazement on their features, for the signals were coming in with the coil pointed to the east! A moment later the sounds ceased and Tom handed the slip of paper to his father.
“By glory!” ejaculated Rawlins. “Some one must have answered them!”
“Sounded like it,” agreed Mr. Henderson. “But it couldn’t be any one on the Devon. We know she’s captured.”
“And it did not come from the direction of Georgetown,” said Mr. Thorne. “Whoever was sending that message is to the east--in Dutch Guiana I think.”
“It’s meaningless gibberish,” declared Mr. Pauling who had been studying the sheet of paper. “Just numbers and nothing more.”
“Cipher, of course,” commented Mr. Henderson. “Well, that proves they were talking to some one who replied. Otherwise the two messages would not be in the same cipher.”
“I can decode it--if I take time,” declared Mr. Pauling. “But I suppose if I do, it will be of little use--probably in Russian.”
“Well it’s blamed good news anyway,” cried the diver. “It proves the old rascal and the plane are still ‘topside’ as the Indians say.”
“And also that we haven’t rounded up all the gang yet,” added Mr. Pauling.
“No doubt they landed some one from the Devon,” suggested Mr. Thorne, “or already had confederates in Surinam.”
“In a way I’m glad they have,” declared Mr. Pauling. “Otherwise they’d not have any one to talk with. Better listen a while longer, boys.”
But no other signals came in and at last, yawning and tired, the two boys put away their instruments and with the others crawled into their hammocks and fell instantly to sleep.
For the next three days the boat was worked steadily up the river; paddled swiftly through long stretches of tranquil water; hauled up falls; dragged through rapids and ever penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of the vast wilderness.
From time to time they had met Indians, sometimes individuals paddling silently close to shore in tiny canoes of bark which Mr. Thorne said were known as “wood skins”; sometimes families in big dugouts accompanied by flea-bitten, woefully thin dogs, naked brown children and all their household belongings, and once they had paddled up a creek and had visited a large Indian village where the boys had found a thousand things to interest them.
But while every Indian was questioned, few could give any information in regard to the plane, although many had seen or heard it as it had flown southward more than a week before.
Each day and every night too, the boys had listened at their radio sets, but no more messages from the plane had been heard and all had begun to think that the aircraft had departed and that the long journey would prove fruitless. The boys, however, had had the time of their lives. They had taken numerous trips into the bush with Joseph and the other Indians. They had shot deer, wild turkeys, peccaries and a tapir, while a splendid jaguar skin and two beautiful ocelot hides were safely stowed among their belongings as trophies of their prowess as hunters, and Rawlins treasured a huge snake skin from a twenty foot anaconda that he had secured.
Much of Mr. Pauling’s time had been spent trying to decipher the messages the boys had received from the plane and the “reds’” confederate, for it was his boast that there never had been a secret code which he could not interpret.
“I guess I’ve had my trouble for nothing,” he announced one afternoon. “I’ve got it, but as I expected, it’s in some foreign tongue--Russian most likely. Yet it doesn’t look exactly like Russian either. It’s not German, but whatever it is, it’s no value to us now. Of course, we can get it translated eventually, but I’d give a lot to know what it says.”
“May I see it?” asked the explorer. “Possibly I may be able to identify it, even if I can’t read it.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Pauling, handing him the sheet he had covered with writing.
Mr. Thorne glanced at the paper. “Why, it’s Dutch!” he exclaimed. “Here, Colcord, can you read this?”
The Boviander fished a pair of battered spectacles from his pocket, adjusted them low on his nose and looking, as Tom said, as grave as if he were about to preach a sermon, he peered at the writing.
“Yes, sir, Chief,” he declared after a minute’s study. “I ’spec’ I can. I don’ comprehen’ Dutch too much, Chief; but I can tell yo’ what it mean.”
“All right, what is it?” replied Mr. Pauling.
“This firs’ one say as how they need help,” declared the Boviander, as he ran his blunt brown forefinger along the lines. “It say how they bus’ up the apperatix an’ can’t fly an’ don’ have food.”
“By Jove!” cried Mr. Pauling. “That’s good! Machine disabled, eh? Good for you, Colcord, we’ll get them yet. Go on, what’s next?”
The Boviander grinned and peered about over his spectacles vastly pleased to find himself the center of interest and able to exhibit his superior knowledge. Then, again studying the writing, he continued:
“I can’t ’lucidate all the words, Chief. But here ’bout it say something ’bout the ship bein’ los’ and some fellow makin’ afraid for to talk.”
“Jove! then they know the Devon’s taken,” ejaculated Mr. Henderson, “and whoever was talking has got cold feet and has quit. That’s the reason we heard nothing more. Is there anything else, Colcord?”
“Plenty else,” replied the captain, “but this specie of Dutch I don’ rightly know, Chief.”
“Well, by the great horn spoon, we’ve found out all we want to know!” exclaimed Rawlins. “They’re here; they’re helpless--at least as far as getting away is concerned--and they’re short of grub. By glory! my hunch is working out O. K., I’ll say.”
Only two days’ travel now lay between them and the Maipurisi district where the plane was supposed to be and as they gathered about the camp fire that night, plans were discussed and formed as to their actions and procedure when they neared the hiding place of the two fugitive criminals.
“I think the best plan is to run up Unuko Creek,” said Mr. Thorne. “It’s scarcely ten miles across from there to Maipurisi and we can send a couple of the Bucks over to scout and report. Then, when we locate the plane, we can go overland, surround them and call upon them to surrender while we are hidden in the bush. As they can’t get off in the plane and have no boat or canoe, they’ll be helpless.”
“Yes, that sounds like a good scheme,” agreed Mr. Pauling, “but can you be sure your Indians will manage to keep out of sight? Moreover, if by chance they were seen or captured, are you sure they would not give away our presence?”
The explorer smiled. “If you’d ever seen one of these Indians stalk game you would not ask the first question,” he replied. “Do you notice that they always use small bore, muzzle-loading guns and double ‘B’ shot and yet they kill tapir and jaguar? They could only do that by getting so close to their quarry that the light charge of shot acts like a solid ball. In other words, they creep within a dozen feet of the most wary creatures in the South American jungle and an Indian who can do that could sneak into those fellows’ camp and be within arm’s reach without being seen or heard. As for being captured, why there’s no more chance than of capturing a ghost! And if by a miracle they were seen why should those rascals ever suspect the Bucks knew anything about them or us, or had any connection with officers whom they probably imagine are hundreds of miles distant? No, don’t worry on that score.”
At this moment a low, plaintive, long-drawn whistle was borne faintly from the forest across the stream and instantly the Indians leaped up and stood motionless, listening intently and peering apprehensively across the river.
Once more, from the black depths of the jungle, came the mysterious sound and hastily gathering up their half-finished meal, the Indians came crowding close to the group of white men.
“Eh, eh, Joseph! Why makeum for ’fraid like so?” queried Mr. Thorne. “What you sabby?”
Joseph turned fear-wide eyes and terrified features towards the explorer. “Kenaima!” he exclaimed in a whisper.
Mr. Thorne whistled. “So that’s it!” he ejaculated. Then, turning to the Indians, “No makeum ’fraid, Joseph! Kenaima no makeum walk this side. No huntum you fellow Buckman same way!”
“Please tell us, what does he mean?” begged Tom, utterly at a loss to understand what had frightened the Indians or what the explorer was talking about. “What is a Kenaima?”
“The blood avenger,” replied Mr. Thorne in a low voice. “If an Indian is killed, tribal law demands that his slayer must be destroyed, and not only the assassin must pay the penalty but all his relatives as well. The man chosen to wreak vengeance is the ‘Kenaima’ or, as the Indians believe, a man in whom the spirit of vengeance takes up its abode until its mission is accomplished. Until the Kenaima kills his victim he cannot see or speak to any living being, but must live alone, ever trailing the one he seeks until he has wreaked vengeance. He may chose either one of two forms--the ‘tiger Kenaima’ or the snake or ‘camudi Kenaima.’ If the former, he must strike down his man with a short club, if the latter he must strangle him, but in either case he must not kill his victim outright at once. Instead he must disable him and then return three days later when the wounded man is put out of his misery by the Kenaima driving a wooden spear through his body. Then the avenger must lick the blood from the spear or--so they believe--the spirit of vengeance will not leave and the Kenaima will go mad, ranging the forests and killing all he meets.”
“Uugh! it makes me shiver,” cried Tom, edging closer to his father and the fire.
“And I thought these Indians were peaceable!” exclaimed Frank as he glanced nervously about.
“So they are--usually,” declared Mr. Thorne. “But they have their own laws and customs and the Kenaima is one of them. Nothing can stamp it out.”
“By glory, I’d hate to kill one of them!” exclaimed Rawlins. “But what happens if the fellow gets away--reaches civilization for instance?”
“He never gets away,” the explorer informed him gravely. “The Kenaima is tireless, relentless. If one is killed, another takes his place and there are two deaths to avenge. Why, I’ve known a Kenaima to trail his victim into Georgetown and strike him down on the street!”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “And these Indians think there’s one about, eh?”
“They think that whistle was one,” replied Mr. Thorne. “I can’t say, but I know the Bucks claim the Kenaima warns friends to keep away by uttering a whistling sound. He must not be seen and the Indians are deathly afraid when they hear it. No power on earth could induce one of these men to cross that river to-night or to enter the jungle over there to-morrow.”
“Great Scott, I don’t blame ’em!” declared the diver. “Say, I wonder who the poor devil is that he’s after!”
“Gosh I won’t be able to sleep to-night,” said Tom. “It makes my blood run cold, just to think of it.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed his father. “Probably that whistle was merely a night bird of some sort. These Indians are superstitious and imagine all sorts of things. Besides, we have nothing to fear. None of us has injured an Indian.”
But despite Mr. Pauling’s assurances and the fact that after a time the Indians gradually drifted back to their own fire and crawled into their hammocks, the boys tossed and remained wakeful for hours, starting up at each unusual sound and listening with straining ears for the uncanny, mysterious whistle. But it was not repeated and at last, worn out and sleepy, the boys’ drowsiness overcame their nervous fears and the gruesome blood avenger was forgotten in a dreamless slumber.
With the bright sunshine of the following day it seemed very silly to have been afraid of the supposed Kenaima and the boys discussed it without the least shivery sensations running up and down their spines as had been the case the night before. But they noticed that as the boat left camp, the Indian paddlers kept close to shore and glanced furtively across the river and that even Colcord seemed to feel relieved when they reached a bend and the locality of the strange whistling sound was left astern.
But even then the Indians acted strangely. Heretofore, they had laughed and joked or had sung rollicking chanteys in unison to the strokes of their paddles, but to-day they were quiet, talking together in low tones, constantly edging the boat towards the center of the river, despite Colcord’s efforts and commands, and plying their paddles more vigorously than ever before.
“I believe there’s something afoot,” declared Mr. Thorne. “I’ve lived a long time among these people and I’m convinced they have a sixth sense--mental telepathy or something--by which they know intuitively when there is danger near and I’m beginning to think that there may be a Kenaima about.”
“Why don’t you ask them?” inquired Mr. Henderson.
“Torture wouldn’t force them to tell,” responded the explorer. “Even to mention the avenger by name is considered dangerous--I’m surprised that Joseph dared utter the word last night.”
“But if he’s only after one person, why should they he afraid?” asked Frank. “They know he’s not after them.”
“Very true,” replied Mr. Thorne. “But they fear that he may not have driven the spirit of vengeance from his body--if he’s killed his man--and that being the case he is liable to kill and attack any one.”
“Hmm, uncomfortable sort of chap to have at large in the bush,” commented Mr. Pauling. “Does that ever occur?”
“Yes, frequently,” said Mr. Thorne. “It may seem preposterous to us, but the Indians believe so thoroughly in their superstitions that if a Kenaima does not succeed in carrying out his entire purpose he goes crazy and does run amuck.”
“Ah, I understand, sort of auto suggestion,” remarked Mr. Pauling.
It was now time to think of stopping for the noonday rest and lunch and at Mr. Thome’s orders, Colcord headed the boat towards shore.
Instantly, the Indians stopped paddling, jabbered excitedly together and then one of their number spoke vehemently to the Boviander in the Akawoia tongue.
“He say they not goin’ make camp ashore, Chief,” announced Colcord. “They boun’ for to make stop at a islan’.”
Mr. Thorne raised his eyebrows, “Oh, very well,” he replied. “It’s just the same as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not taking any chances, I see,” laughed Mr. Henderson as the mollified Indians again took up their paddles and headed for a small barren island in midstream.
While Sam was cooking lunch, the two boys and Rawlins strolled about the island, hunting for turtle eggs in the sand and amusing themselves by chasing the big lizards that ran scuttling across the pebbles.
As they reached the upper end of the island, the river beyond a sharp turn came in view and the boys called the diver’s attention to hundreds of great black birds, wheeling and circling above the trees half a mile distant.
Rawlins looked at them a moment. “They’re buzzards,” he announced. “Vultures--wonder what they’ve found up there.”
“Gee, but there’s a bunch of them!” exclaimed Tom.
Then, at Sam’s shout, they hurried back to the boat and busied themselves with their meal.
As the boat once more moved upstream and passed the island, the great flock of buzzards still soared in the clear blue sky above the forest.
“What do you suppose they’ve found?” Frank inquired of the explorer. “They were there when we walked about the island. Isn’t it funny they don’t go down and eat if they’ve found a dead animal?”
“Possibly it’s a wounded creature,” replied Mr. Thorne. “They often follow a sick or injured animal until it dies. Or again there may be a king vulture there. The black rascals won’t dare touch carrion until the king’s gorged himself.”
“King vulture!” exclaimed Tom. “What’s he?”
“It’s a large species of vulture--light colored--sort of creamy white with red and blue head, and nearly as big as a condor. They always go singly and if one of them alights near a carcass, the black vultures keep off until he’s finished. That’s why they’re called king vultures.”
“I’d like to see one,” declared Frank. “Let’s go over and see if he’s there and what they’ve found.”
“Very well,” laughed Mr. Thorne, glad to humor the boys’ curiosity. “Whatever it is, is near the river. Colcord, run over to that point and we’ll have a look at what the buzzards are after.”
As the boat approached the spot, the boys saw that trees and rocks were black with the loathsome birds which rose on flapping wings as the craft touched the shore and the boys and the others sprang on to the rocks.
Whatever had attracted the scavengers was evidently just within the verge of forest and climbing the bank, Rawlins, who was in advance, saw a huge white and black bird flap up from a clump of grass a few yards away.
“There goes the old king!” he exclaimed.
Anxious to catch a glimpse of the great bird, the boys stopped and craned their necks and the diver stepped forward towards the clump of coarse grass.
The next instant a cry of mingled horror and surprise rang through the forest and Rawlins, pale and with a strange expression on his face, came hurrying back.
“Don’t go in there!” he cried. “Come on back to the boat, boys!”
“But what--what is it?” cried Tom. “What did you see? You look as if you’d seen a ghost!”
“Worse!” exclaimed the diver. “It’s a man! A man staked out--”
“A man!” yelled Frank and then, seized with sudden terror, the two boys turned and fled headlong towards the boat.
“You mean there’s a human body in there?” demanded Mr. Pauling who, attracted by Rawlins’ excited tones, had hurried forward. “Come on, brace up, Rawlins! A dead man can’t hurt you! We can’t leave a human being to be eaten by vultures.”
With a great effort, Rawlins recovered himself. “Guess it was the shock of seeing him,” he declared, rather shamefacedly. “But by glory, it is a rotten sight!”
“Rotten or not we’ll have to bury him,” declared Mr. Pauling. “He’s an Indian I suppose.”
“Indian nothing!” cried Rawlins. “That’s the worst of it! It’s a white man!”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “Who could it be?”
The next instant they had reached the thicket and at the sight which greeted them, even Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and the explorer drew back filled with nauseating horror.
Stretched at full length upon the ground was the body of a man, with a long staff of wood driven between his shoulders and pinning him to the earth. And then, as they took a second glance, horror gave way to amazement, for fringing the dead man’s face pressed against the forest floor was a huge red beard!
“Jumping Jupiter, it’s he!” cried Rawlins. “Old Red Whiskers himself!”
“And killed by a Kenaima!” exclaimed Mr. Thorne.
“Jove, no wonder those Indians were nervous!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling.
“I’ll say they had reason to be!” declared Rawlins. “But what in blazes started a Kenaima after this guy do you suppose?”
Mr. Thorne had stepped to the edge of the trees. “Come here, Colcord,” he called, “and bring a couple of shovels along. Better bring Sam too. No use trying to get one of the Bucks.”
But when the Boviander arrived, he took one glance at the body and then, throwing down the shovels raced back to the boat. Too much Indian blood flowed in his veins for him to approach a victim of the Kenaima and as he reached the boat a low, terrified wail arose from the throats of the Indians: “Kenaima! Kenaima! Kenaima!”
Leaping into the craft they seized their paddles.
“Come on!” shouted Mr. Thorne. “Run for your lives! They’re crazed with fear! They’re going off!”
Shouting to Colcord and the Indians, the explorer tore down the bank and across the rocks with the others at his heels. Already the boat was several yards from land, but as he heard Mr. Thorne’s commands and realized what he was doing, Colcord checked the boat, uttered sharp orders to the Indians and with Sam’s help swung the boat ashore. The four men and the boys leaped in and instantly the terrified Indians dug their paddles into the stream and drove the boat madly from the accursed spot.
“Too bad, but it can’t be helped,” muttered Mr. Thorne. “I hate to leave him, but there’s nothing to be done.”
“Well, he’s tossed many a poor devil to the sharks!” exclaimed Rawlins. “So I guess it kind of evens up things. But by glory, I’d like to know where his mate is.”
Far up in the Guiana jungles and strangely incongruous and out of place in the heart of the bush, a seaplane rested half drawn upon the shore of a small lake. High above the mighty trees it had flown from Georgetown, following the course of the great river stretching like a silver ribbon through the endless jungle and like a giant bird it had circled and swooped to the surface of Maipurisi Lake. For a hundred miles and more its occupants had seen no break in the forest, no sign of civilization, no house or clearing save the scattered thatched benabs of Indians or the small, half-cleared patches of forest that marked the red mens’ gardens. Hounded from one secret rendezvous to another, their submarine wrecked and many of her crew killed in a collision; with their own steamship blown up in St. John’s harbor and with a destroyer hot on their trail, the master mind of the gang of international rogues and his trusted assistant had sought refuge in the heart of unknown Guiana. Confident that they had thrown their pursuers off their track; certain that their fellows had hoodwinked their enemies and had wrecked the destroyer in the Bocas, and congratulating themselves on their clever ruse of boldly entering Denierara and departing in an airship while posing as explorers, yet the two rascals were taking no chances.
They well knew that the men trailing them were no amateurs; that they were matching wits with the most resourceful members of the Secret Service and they also knew that their enemies, by almost uncanny intuition, had foreseen and had checkmated their every move for weeks past. There was a chance that in some way their well-laid plans had miscarried: that the destroyer had escaped destruction, and that finding--as they inevitably must--that the story of the Devonshire was a myth and that an aircraft had left the Devon, Mr. Pauling and the others would leave no stone unturned to capture the ship and her crew. The two arch fiends had no desire to be present when this took place.
Months before this they had kept British Guiana in view as a last resort in case of just such an emergency as had arisen, for Van Brunt had told of an ancient ruined city hidden in the heart of the unexplored district. A city of a prehistoric race upon the shores of a great lake and within the ruins of which were vast stores of golden ornaments and bullion. But he had never divulged the exact locality of this lost and supposedly fabulous golden city of Manoa--the El Dorado that sent Sir Walter Raleigh on his travels. Van Brunt was no fool and he knew his fellow rogues too well to trust them with his secret, but he had sworn that, should occasion arise, he would accompany them and guide them to the lost city.
But Van Brunt had met a sudden and violent death upon the tramp and his secret had died with him. Not until the two men in the plane had looked down from the clouds upon that vast, illimitable sea of green stretching away in billowing hills to the distant mountains, did they realize what a hopeless task it would be to locate the city by the lake. That mattered little, however. For the present, they planned merely to hide for a short time, to await word from confederates in Dutch Guiana that the coast was clear and then, by an easy flight, travel into the Dutch colony, gather their men together to resume their interrupted activities and wreak vengeance on those who had relentlessly hunted them down. So, having left every trace of civilization far behind, and feeling confident that even the Americans would never dream of attempting to trail them into the heart of the hush, they selected Maipurisi as a promising spot and swiftly dropped to the smooth surface of the lake.
But fate was against them. As their great plane dropped below the tree tops and, with the cessation of the motor’s exhaust, skittered across the black surface of the forest lake, an unseen, undreamed of snag lay hidden among the lily pads and with a rending, sickening sound, the thin skin of their boat was ripped open for a dozen feet. The propeller had not ceased to revolve and realizing their one chance lay in making the shore, the pilot switched on the motor and slowly the crippled plane dragged across the few hundred feet of water until its bow grated on the sand.
With the after half of its hull submerged, injured beyond repair, but safe from sinking, the now useless aircraft rested like some huge wounded bird in the shelter of the overhanging trees.
Cursing and raging, the two men clambered out. Their plight was indeed serious and none realized it better than they. The machine in which they had expected to fly so easily to the Dutch colony was absolutely useless; they had no boat, canoe or other craft and to tramp through the bush to civilization would, they knew, be practically impossible, even had they known the way. They were as effectually stranded as though marooned on a desert island in mid-ocean and, worst of all, they were not over supplied with provisions. They had counted on staying but a few days in hiding and had carried supplies accordingly and now, for all they knew, they might be weeks in the jungle. They had no firearms save their automatic pistols and as neither was familiar with the bush or an experienced hunter, they felt sure that they would starve before they could secure enough game to keep them provided with food if they had to do their killing with their pistols.
Their only hope was in their radio. With this they could communicate with their friends and make known their plight, but even if their fellows in Surinam started out to rescue them they knew it would be many days--weeks perhaps--before their friends could traverse the country and paddle up the rivers to the spot where they were stranded. Moreover, they did not know their exact position. They had followed the courses of the Demerara and Essequibo rivers in a general way, but they had cut across forests between the streams and their map showed no lake to correspond with Maipurisi. And worst of all there was no one at fault, no one to blame but fate and so, to relieve their feelings, they cursed their pursuers, cursed their luck, cursed everything and everybody until they could curse no more.
But swearing did no good. The parrots screamed and the monkeys chattered mockingly from the tangled tree tops. A bold carrion hawk cocked his head on one side and screeched derisively and a big alligator, lifting his head cautiously above the surface of the lake, cast a baleful eye upon them and promptly submerged.
Then, realizing that whatever the future held they must live for the present, the two men ceased their futile ravings and busied themselves salvaging everything possible from the crippled plane. The radio set was unhurt, their pistols and ammunition were safe; they found matches in watertight containers and there was a small ax. But much of their food was ruined. It had been stowed in the hull and while the canned goods were of course uninjured, the flour, sugar, salt and dry provisions were water soaked and ruined.
Between them and starvation were provisions for less than three days, aside from what game they might be lucky enough to obtain, and as they once more commenced to curse in half a dozen languages, the rain came down in torrents. Their only shelter was the plane and splashing through the water they clambered aboard and shivering and drenched cowered in the protection of the broad wings. Chilled to the bone, utterly miserable they sat there, until at last, unable to endure it any longer, the huge red-bearded giant jerked out an oath and leaping ashore, gathered wood and pouring gasoline over it succeeded in starting a fire.
Encouraged by the warmth, both fell to work and ruthlessly cutting struts and stays, dragged the wings of their machine ashore and by dint of hard work managed to brace and guy them into position to form a water-tight shed. A portion of another wing served to keep their bodies from the sodden ground and had they been well supplied with food their predicament would not have been so bad.
Misfortunes seldom come singly, however, and when, in somewhat more cheerful mood, they attempted to get into communication with their friends by radio, they discovered that the apparatus would not work. Fortunately for them, the red-bearded man was an expert mechanic and electrician and he diligently set to work. The motor was still in good condition and after he had overhauled the instruments and had set them up on shore the motor was started and the batteries recharged.
All this took time, however, and in the meantime the slender stock of provisions was dwindling at an alarming rate. They tried adding to their larder by hunting, but with no success. The birds kept high in the trees, the pheasants and wild turkeys they flushed gave them no chance of a standing shot and the only animals they saw were agoutis that flashed out of sight like streaks of brown light and a few monkeys romping among the branches far above their heads. They had no knowledge of trapping, they possessed no fishing tackle and when, in desperation, they succeeded in shooting an alligator, the creature promptly sank and was lost. Knowing nothing of the bush and fearing to poison themselves, they refrained from eating the berries, fruits, and nuts which they found. Had they but known it, they could have sustained life for weeks on the Souari nuts and palm berries that were abundant all about their improvised camp.
Even the narrow trails and paths through the forest were meaningless to them and their untrained eyes could not distinguish between the game trails and an Indian pathway which led to a large Akuria village less than five miles distant. And when at last their radio was in working order and they sent out their first message calling for help and the answer came back, their worst fears were realized. The Devon had been taken, those on board were prisoners and their friends in Surinam not only stated that they were suspected and dared not attempt an expedition, but added that the Americans had left for the bush, that they were even now in the interior and that to attempt to communicate by radio would be merely to divulge their whereabouts to Mr. Pauling and his party.
Resourceful, bold and self-confident as the two were, yet now they could see nothing but death or capture in store for them. Indeed, if some miracle did not intervene, death would most certainly be their portion, for they well knew that to be taken prisoners meant an end on the gallows or in the electric chair for them and both vowed to take their own lives before submitting to their pursuers.
But as long as they were alive there still remained a chance that they might escape. The Americans might fail to locate them--although knowing that the boys possessed the latest devices in the way of radio instruments they were confident the messages which had passed between themselves and their confederates had been heard--and in the past they had always managed to slip out of the tightest places by some means.
Their one hope was in a boat, in a craft of some sort in which to navigate the lake and the rivers. They swore and racked their brains striving to devise some means of constructing a raft or a makeshift which would float. With their single, short-handled ax it was an impossible task to cut trees large enough to support their weight--and even had it been possible this would require so much time that the last of the food would be gone ere they could embark. Then they attempted to make use of the plane’s wings and although these floated, the men’s weight sank them so low that the hollow surfaces were ankle deep with water. Moreover, they were too clumsy and unwieldy to navigate.
In every effort, every plan, they were balked and then, when their case seemed utterly hopeless, fate suddenly seemed to favor them. In a despairing attempt to secure something to eat, the two had pushed through the forest until, a mile or more from their stranded aircraft, they had come out at a small, dark creek and there, drawn upon the bank, was a canoe. Beside it a naked Indian was squatting, cleaning a string of fish and the next instant the two desperate men had leaped from cover and had seized the dug-out. The Indian, startled at this sudden and unexpected appearance of the unkempt, wild-looking men, had uttered a frightened cry, and dropping his fish, had sprung away. But as he saw the strangers taking possession of his craft and realized they were human beings and not spirits or “bush devils” he rushed to the canoe, jabbering excitedly in his native tongue and strove to prevent the rascals from shoving his boat into the stream.
But he might as well have essayed to stem the flow of the river or to argue or plead with the forest trees. The “reds” were desperate; a human life more or less meant nothing to them and the red-bearded giant whipped out his pistol and fired. With a gurgling moan the Akuria staggered back, swayed drunkenly and dropped limply upon the muddy shore. The murderer, seizing a paddle swung the canoe into the creek and headed it towards the lake.
But their crime had been witnessed. Unseen among the trees, a mere brown shadow in the jungle, the dead Indian’s companion had peered from his hiding place and had seen all. And although the two in the canoe never dreamed of it, they were nearer to death at that instant than ever before in their lives of crime.
Slipping a tiny arrow into his long blowpipe, the watching Indian rested the deadly weapon across a low-growing branch and with a puff of his breath the fatal dart flashed silently through the air straight at the red-bearded fellow’s chest. But at the same instant the man leaned backward to avoid an overhanging limb and the tiny messenger of death sped by and dropped harmlessly into the water unseen and unsuspected by the intended victim. Before another dart could be fired, the canoe had slipped behind a bend and the Indian, baffled, stepped from his hiding place and hurried to the side of his dead tribesman. A single glance sufficed to show that he was beyond human help and only stopping to cover the body with broad palm leaves, the Akuria sprang into the jungle and silently as a shadow raced along a dim and indistinct trail toward the distant Akuria village.
As he came into the clearing and uttered the moaning wail that told of death, the Akurias swarmed about like a hive of angry bees. Instantly two men were despatched in a canoe to bring in the body of the murdered Indian and with scowling brows, flashing eyes and vehement gestures, the villagers gathered about their wrinkled old chief, demanding vengeance. Gravely the old man spoke, promising that tribal law and tribal customs would be followed to the letter and as the women and boys drifted back to their huts, the chief and the older men entered the great, conical-roofed house in the center of the village and seated themselves in a circle with the younger men standing about.
Presently, from his sacred hut, the “peaiman” or medicine man approached, his face concealed by a baltata mask, a gorgeous feather crown upon his head, strings of tinkling seeds about his neck, his body hideously painted and bearing a calabash rattle in one hand and a carved and decorated staff in the other.
Prancing and dancing, chanting a low, monotonous dirge, the peaiman moved through the silent throng of Indians to the side of the fire in the center of the immense house. Squatting beside the flames, the medicine man made mystic figures in the air with his wand, muttering in a low voice meanwhile, and punctuating his words with angry shaking of his calabash rattle. At last he straightened up, fumbled in the monkey-skin pouch at his side and drew forth a bundle of feathers tightly wrapped with bark fiber so that only the ends of the quills were visible. Holding the bundle forth, the medicine man spoke and gravely and silently the men approached, each in turn drawing a feather from the bundle.
As the plumes were drawn from their covering and showed green, red, yellow or blue, sighs or low moans came from the lips of those who drew them, until at last, the Indian who had witnessed the murder of his fellow approached and drawing a feather, uttered a cry of triumph as he held it up for all to see. The plume he had drawn was black as night!
The next second he had slipped away and the gathering Indians, preceded by the medicine man, filed from the house and squatted on the bare ground without; all eyes fixed upon a small hut near the edge of the forest. Presently from this, a weird figure emerged. Upon its head was a halo-like crown of macaw feathers, and about its shoulders and waist were mantles of ink black plumes of the Curassow or “powi.” From head to foot the copper brown skin was hidden under a coat of scarlet paint striped and spotted with black and white, with two staring eyes and a grinning, fang-filled mouth painted upon the chest. In one hand he held a long bow and arrows, in the other a short, carved, paddle-shaped club of dark, heavy wood.
Stepping to the edge of the jungle, the man turned and faced the silent waiting tribesmen. For a moment he stood there, motionless as a statue, and then, with a swift movement, he tore off his feather headdress, cast it on the ground, tossed his bow and arrows beside it, whirled his club about his head and with a ringing, blood-curdling scream, leaped into the forest and disappeared.
The tiger Kenaima was on the murderer’s trail!
With hopes revived the red-bearded man and his companion paddled their stolen canoe up the creek and after some trouble reached the lake where their dismantled plane was drawn upon the shore.
Now that they had a craft all their cocksureness had returned to them, for they knew that in the maze of waterways they could escape from their pursuers. Now that luck had again turned in their favor they had no fears but what they would ultimately reach some port where they would be safe. Moreover, the matter of food did not trouble them. They knew that there were Indians scattered through the forest. Van Brunt had told them that all the Guiana tribes were mild, peaceable people and they felt confident that they could wrest supplies from the red men even if they had to shoot them down to accomplish their ends.
But they were not such fools as to start out without some supplies and necessities. There were still a few provisions remaining in their shelter, as well as matches and other necessities, and beaching their canoe, they hastily gathered what belongings they desired and pushing off deserted their hapless airship with a curse and paddled towards the nearest river. Before they had started, however, they had studied their maps and had laid their plans. Although the Maipurisi Lake was not shown, they knew in a general way where they were and they judged that Mr. Pauling and his companions would follow the shortest and most direct route, for they did not delude themselves with the idea that the Americans were ignorant of their hiding place. In fact, they felt confident that their radio conversation had been overheard and while it had been in cipher and in Dutch at that, they had too much respect for their enemies’ intelligence and experience to assume that the Secret Service men had been unable to translate their messages.
The leader, like all successful crooks, always acted on the theory that those who sought him knew far more than he planned to have them and he invariably made his plans accordingly. So now he reasoned that they would have information that the plane had passed over Wismar headed southward, that they would follow up the Demerara River and that having heard his radio signals and thus having located him, they would cut across by one of the streams that led towards Maipurisi. Accordingly, he decided that the only safe route was to make their way to the Essequibo, descend that river and then, before they reached the outskirts of civilization, follow some tributary that led westward to the Venezuelan boundary. Once in that republic they would be far more secure than even in Dutch Guiana, and, moreover, in order to reach the Dutch colony they would be obliged to cross districts where Mr. Pauling’s party had already passed and where, no doubt, watch would be kept for them.
But for once the crafty master mind of the cutthroat gang had reasoned erroneously. He had not taken the Indians into consideration; he did not dream that these primitive savages were the most observant of people; that an airplane, even flying thousands of feet above their villages, would be heard and seen and would cause such wonder and fear that the news of its passage would be spread far and wide. It never entered his mind that the Americans were accompanied by Indians and were guided by a man who had spent years in the bush and was thoroughly familiar with Indian ways and Indian character. And so, as, mightily pleased at the good fortune which had fallen them, the two men headed their canoe westward towards the Essequibo, they were running straight into the clutches of their enemies.
Had they but known of the sharp eyes that watched their every movement and of the sinister being who, armed with the sacred Kenaima club, was threading the jungle in their direction, they gladly would have sought the Americans, for the punishment which awaited them in the Courts of Justice was nothing compared to the awful vengeance that lurked in that hideously painted savage on their trail.
In their aircraft, speeding through the sky at eighty miles an hour, the distance from the great river to the lake had seemed nothing. From far aloft, the country had been spread like a map beneath them and from the height of a few thousand feet the lake had appeared close to the big river with only a few miles of winding, forest-fringed creeks connecting the two. But they soon realized that what seemed a short run by aircraft was interminably long when paddling along the twisting waterways in a canoe. They had expected to come out upon the bosom of the Essequibo by nightfall at the latest, but sundown found them still upon the dark and dismal creek surrounded by jungle. As they knew that they could not go on in the darkness, they were compelled to stop and camp for the night.
Fortunately the red-bearded fellow had had the foresight to strip some of the waterproof linen covering from the plane’s wings and this they erected for a tent. They built a rousing fire and tired out with their unaccustomed labor of paddling, stretched themselves on another strip of linen and prepared to sleep. They were no longer worried, all their self-confidence had returned and they joked and laughed to think how the Americans would have all their long trip for nothing and would find only the useless, deserted aircraft at the end of their journey. Their one regret was that they could not be present to gloat over the discomfiture of their enemies and to see their puzzled looks and hear their comments when they found the fugitives flown and were utterly at a loss to fathom the means of their escape.
But despite their feeling of security, they were uneasy. They had nothing to fear for they knew there were no hostile Indians in the country; they had the utmost contempt for any wild animals and they were armed and could protect themselves even if they were attacked. Yet as the hours passed and the myriad strange noises and calls and cries of the wild things shrilled and grunted and croaked through the jungle, the slender highly strung leader tossed uneasily on his hard couch and found himself staring, wide-eyed and sleepless into the blackness of the night. His companion--brutal, phlegmatic and absolutely without nerves, was snoring lustily, and ashamed of his ridiculous fears, the other tried to follow his example.
Then, just as he was dozing off, a low unearthly cry reverberated through the forest, a blood-curdling moan, rising and falling in weird cadence like the wail of a Banshee. At the sound, the noises of frogs, insects and night birds ceased as with one accord and an awful deathly silence followed. With a sharp cry of terror the man sprang up, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin, shivers running up and down his spine and yet his companion slumbered on.
Never in his life had this unprincipled, heartless villain known the meaning of fear, but like all of his sort he was an arrant coward at heart and, though he would be the last to admit it, thoroughly superstitious, and that awful cry, ringing through the midnight forest, was enough to bring terror to the bravest man.
In a vague way he knew that jaguars dwelt in the forest, but Van Brunt had often talked of the bush and had laughed at the idea of a jaguar attacking a human being. It never entered his mind that the moaning scream, like that of a tortured soul, was merely the hunting cry of the big spotted cat. To him it was supernatural, something that could not come from a form of flesh and blood, and trembling and shaking he cowered there under his shelter with straining ears listening for a repetition of the awful sound. For a space he was tempted to arouse his sleeping comrade, but pride stopped him. The red-bearded fellow had not heard the cry, he would scoff at the story, would claim his comrade had been dreaming or had had a nightmare and would curse at being aroused, and so he kept his vigil alone, starting at each sound of crackling twig or rustling leaf, gasping when a frog plumped with a splash into the creek and shivering as he crouched beside the fire.
But the minutes passed, the cry was not repeated, the frogs and creeping things resumed their chorus and at last, utterly exhausted, the man threw himself upon the rough couch and slept.
With daylight the memories of the terrors of the night seemed scarcely more than a dream and, indeed, the man tried to convince himself that it had been a dream and forebore mentioning it to his companion. But all through the day, as they paddled down the creek, he was nervous. He had a strange unaccountable sensation of being followed and from time to time he glanced back, half expecting to see something--he did not, could not imagine what--behind them. So strong was this feeling that when noon came and they stopped for lunch, he insisted upon landing at a small island in the creek and as the red-bearded man had long been accustomed to obeying his chief without question, he made no comment and followed commands.
Throughout the afternoon they paddled on and again sunset found them upon the creek and they began to fear that they had lost their way, that through some error they were following the wrong watercourse and that they would not reach the river by continuing. And yet they could not see how this could be. They had passed no branches or other creeks of any size, the water still flowed in the direction they were going and reasoning that it must eventually empty into a larger stream, they dismissed their fears on this score, decided that they had miscalculated the distance and the speed of their canoe and prepared to camp.
The leader, however, had no desire to repeat his terrifying experiences of the preceding night and once more he headed the canoe for a tiny islet in the stream. Leaving his companion to start the fire and prepare for the night, he followed about the shore of the island, pushed through the tangle of brash, investigated it thoroughly, and convinced that there was nothing on the place which could possibly be feared, he returned with an easier mind to the camp.
Feeling perfectly secure, he soon fell asleep beside his comrade, but his slumber was uneasy; he awoke from a fearful nightmare shaking as if with fever and tossing an armful of dry wood on the dying fire, he squatted near it. Suddenly, from a tree above his head, an owl uttered its mournful cry and so frazzled were the man’s nerves that he jumped and yelled in alarm. Drowsily the red-bearded fellow opened his eyes, mumbled an oath when the other confusedly tried to explain and was soon snoring again. Ashamed of his fright at the owl, the leader threw himself down and closed his eyes, blaming his own foolishness. But though the monotonous chirping of insects and the soft gurgle of the water lulled and soothed, he found himself still straining his ears for any unusual sound and was as nervous as ever.
Once he thought he heard the sound of a cautious footstep and instantly he sprang up, cocked pistol in hand and peered anxiously into the shadows. For a brief instant he seemed to glimpse a moving, shapeless form and raising his weapon he was about to fire, but his hand shook and trembled so he could not aim. Before he could steady himself by an almost superhuman effort, there was nothing to be seen but the dark sluggishly flowing creek and the ghostly outlines of the trees.
But sleep was out of the question. For hour after hour he sat wide awake and with every sense alert until the gray dawn broke and the shadows of the night gave way to the faint morning light. Rising, he stepped towards the canoe and as he crossed the narrow strip of muddy shore between the water’s edge and the fire he halted in his tracks, staring with unbelieving eyes at the ground. Plainly visible in the oozy soil were the imprints of naked human feet!
Some one had been there in the darkness! Some one had crept about the camp, and with fears once more aroused, but with murder in his heart, the fellow cocked his pistol and hurriedly strode about the islet. But there was no sign of a human being. No boat, no mark of a canoe having been drawn ashore; only those footprints near the fire, footprints which came from nowhere and led nowhere. As far as appearances went the being who made them might have dropped from the sky and afterwards have taken flight on wings.
All of the man’s superstitions were now aroused and regardless of his companion’s possible sneers and scoffings, he shook the slumbering red-bearded fellow awake and showed him the footprints. But the burly rascal gave little heed to them, declaring they were merely footprints of some Indian and might have been there for days. Swearing vociferously that he didn’t see what there was about an Indian’s track to cause worry anyway, he vowed that he for one would be glad to run across an Indian or an Indian village in order to get food, for unless they gained the river and managed to secure provisions they would be facing starvation as there were barely two days’ rations remaining.
But even with this very real and pressing danger confronting them, the memory of the mysterious footprints were uppermost in the leader’s mind. He was brave enough in the face of real danger; as long as tangible enemies were to be met he had nerves of steel, and he had never quailed when peril threatened. But this nerve-wracking, haunting fear of an unknown, invisible something was beyond his control and somehow he could not avoid connecting the terrible wailing cry he had heard with the strange footprints on the island. And then, just before noon, the creek widened and, through the trees ahead, the broad river came into view and a great weight seemed lifted from his mind as the dismal creek was left behind.
Just below the mouth of the creek they stopped for their midday rest on a jutting, wooded point. The meal over, the red-bearded man yawned prodigiously, vowed he was going to have a nap before going farther and lighting his pipe, threw himself down in the shade of a tree. The other, all his fears flown, now they were on the big river and with the bright sunshine all about, remarked that he would wander off in the hope of finding game and filling the magazine of his pistol with cartridges, he fastened the canoe securely, and puffing contentedly at his pipe strolled up the bank into the forest.
There was little undergrowth, the huge trees, with their outjutting roots and their drapery of trailing vines and lianas, stood well apart and treading softly and glancing here and there, the man walked among the trees with pistol cocked and ready.
From the lofty branches bits of falling fruit and nuts told of birds or other creatures feeding among the leaves; the hoarse yelping of toucans sounded from the foliage; occasionally, a macaw uttered its raucous scream and unseen parrots screeched and squawked. Once too, a troop of great, red, howling monkeys crashed off through the tree tops, leaping from branch to branch and uttering hoarse barks of protest at the intruder. But no creature appeared within pistol shot and at last, thoroughly disgusted and realizing that he and his comrade were wasting valuable time and should be on their way, he turned about and started to retrace his steps towards the river.
The next moment he halted in his tracks, shaking with nameless terror. His thin-lipped cruel mouth gaped, the ever present monocle dropped unnoticed from his eye, the hand that grasped his weapon trembled, for once again that awful, blood curdling scream had echoed through the jungle.
For a moment he stood, as though frozen to the spot, and then, thinking only to escape from the shadowy mysterious forest, to reach his companion and the canoe, he dashed forward and raced panting towards the river. Once again, and seeming close behind him, came that maniacal wail and madly he tore downstream, leaping from rock to rock, plunging to his knees through the shoal water, while from the depths of the jungle wavered and rose and fell the tiger’s call with a note of triumph and mockery in its unearthly cadence.
As the terrifying sound ceased and the fear-mad man came in sight of the point, he gasped and halting stared about with unbelieving eyes. The canoe was gone!
Instantly, his unreasoning terror of the screaming cry was forgotten, for here was something real and tangible, a calamity so great it drove all superstitious fears, all imaginary dangers from his overwrought mind. He had left the boat securely fastened and he could not imagine how it had gone adrift. But the fact had to be faced, the only chance was to hurry down stream in the hopes that they might find the canoe stranded on a bar or point, and cursing his companion for sleeping and thus permitting the craft to drift away unnoticed, he shouted to the other at the top of his lungs. But there was no response, no answering cry, and swearing at the soundness of the fellow’s sleep, he raced up the bank to arouse him by more forcible methods.
Then once again he stood staring in incredulous amazement. The red-bearded man was not there! Beside the tree his pipe was lying on the ground, the imprint of his bulky body still showed upon the soft ferns and tender leaves, but the man himself had vanished.
Then the master criminal burst out with such a torrent of abuse, oaths, curses and epithets as should have caused the very leaves to shrivel, for now he realized what had happened. It came over him in a flash, goading him into a frenzy of anger. His companion had deserted him. His nap had been but an excuse, a ruse, and taking advantage of his leader’s absence, he had made off with the boat and the slender stock of food, leaving his comrade to perish there in the heart of the wilderness.
Then, his stock of expletives and profanity exhausted, realizing the utter uselessness of raving at the empty air and with his ungovernable temper somewhat relieved, his reason returned and calmly, with determined mind, he looked the matter squarely in the face.
His case seemed utterly hopeless, but was it? Was it not possible for him to win out? Back there by the lake their predicament had seemed equally without hope. They had thought that only by a miracle could they escape and the miracle, in the form of an Indian and a canoe, had happened. And with the thought of Indians new hope surged through him. To attempt to make his way downstream over the rough and rocky shores and without food or shelter was, he knew, impossible; but there was a chance, a slender chance, that there might be an Indian camp in the vicinity. He could do without food for a day or two he felt sure, and perhaps, by summoning all his strength, all his indomitable will power to the effort, he could manage to reach an Indian village. To be sure he did not know if such existed, he had no idea in which direction to go, but even if he perished from hunger and exhaustion in the forest, it would be preferable to standing here beside the river and cursing the villain who had deserted him and who was now, no doubt, miles down the stream.
Possibly, he thought, he might find a trail or a path and feeling that action of any sort was better than inaction, he started into the forest, searching the ground for a trail. A moment later he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, for there, faintly visible among the weeds and broad-leaved plants, was a narrow pathway leading inland.
Encouraged and not stopping to think that it might be a game trail leading nowhere, he stepped forward along the almost indistinguishable path. A score of paces ahead was a tangled thicket of high grass into which the trail led and hurrying along, he pressed through the herbage. The next instant a piercing cry of horror rang through the jungle, startling the birds in the tree tops and silencing the chattering monkeys.
Lying face down upon the grass, his head resting in a pool of blood, was the body of the red-bearded man pinned to the forest floor by a spear driven between his shoulder blades!
The horrified man gave a single glance at the lifeless, bleeding form and then, utterly bereft of his senses, crazed with terror of the unseen, mysterious assassin, he turned and dashed blindly, madly, from the spot.
Unheeding, unreasoning, he raced among the trees, stumbling over rocks, tripping on upjutting roots, ripping his clothes as he tore through thorny vines and palms, barking his shins, crashing into trees in his headlong flight, until utterly exhausted, he sank limply to the earth.
How long he lay there he did not know. Possibly he lost consciousness, possibly his half-crazed mind was incapable of judging time; but when at last he raised himself and glanced about, the sun was low in the west and new terrors filled him as he realized that he must remain in the jungle throughout the night. But his first nameless, unreasoning, mad fright had passed and while he was still weak and trembling, his mind was clear and he knew that if he ever was to escape from this dread forest he must have shelter and a fire. Near him a huge mora tree spread twenty-feet, slablike, buttressed roots and between two of these he would be somewhat protected. Gathering a quantity of dead branches and twigs, he piled them near the tree and after a few futile attempts had a roaring fire going. He was desperately hungry, but food was out of the question, and seated between the mora roots in the grateful warmth of the blaze, he steeled himself to withstand the gnawing pangs of his famished stomach.
Presently there was a scratching sound above him, a bit of bark dropped upon his head and glancing quickly up he saw a squirrel clinging to the trunk of the tree and gazing wonderingly at the intruder. Quickly raising his pistol and taking careful aim, the man fired and at the echoing report, the little creature dropped lifeless at his feet. Quickly he skinned and cleaned the animal and ere the flesh was cold had spitted it on a pointed stick and was broiling it over the fire. It was a pitifully small morsel for a hungry, tired man, but it was far better than nothing and ravenously he devoured the half-cooked, blackened flesh. And as he did so the thin lips smiled and a look of satisfaction spread across his features. If he could kill one squirrel he could kill more--or perhaps larger game. He had learned a lesson of the bush; he had discovered that by sitting motionless the wild things could be found more readily than by moving about. He vowed that he would yet win out, that he would escape and would reach civilization despite fate and his enemies.