MYSTERIOUS SOUNDS
It was a down-hearted Johnny who bent over the fallen Carib champion and
strove as best he could to bring him back to consciousness. He had hoped
much. His interview with this man was to pave the way to certain success.
With this fearless chief as the leader of his men, with a faithful Carib
band behind him, he was to have gone triumphantly back up Rio Hondo and,
in spite of perils that lurk in the jungle, in spite of unscrupulous
Daego’s trickery and cunning, was to have brought back the richest
treasure that had ever floated upon the ebony waters of the Black River.
And now it had come to this.
What would the man do, once he was brought back from the world of strange
dreams where Johnny’s unintended and unfortunate blow had sent him.
Johnny’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. He might be obliged to flee
for his life. He had heard wild stories of these primitive people of
Honduras; how, when slightly wounded in play with machetes, a man flew
into a rage and at a single blow severed the offender’s head from his
body. These were simple people, men of the tropics, quick in love and
sudden in hate.
Since there was no answer to this, Johnny could but fan his victim and
await results.
He did not wait long. The man’s eyes opened and he sat up unsteadily,
staring wildly.
“Who—who did that?” he demanded. “Who—hi—hit me?”
“Unc-a,” the men grunted, pointing at Johnny.
Johnny put on as brave and friendly a face as he could command. Though
friendly enough, it was far from brave. His heart was in his toes.
“You—” the chief looked incredulous, “you hit me like that?”
Johnny nodded. He dared not trust his voice.
“Why! You—you little hammer!” exclaimed the chief.
At that there was a roaring burst of laughter. From that day on Johnny
was known among the Caribs as “Little Hammer.”
Tivoli joined heartily in the laugh and as it subsided, to Johnny’s great
surprise and joy, he exclaimed:
“You want men? I got men. All the men you want. How many men, you think?
Sixty men? Half work, half watch and fight? What you think? All right?”
At this sudden turn of fortune’s wheel, Johnny’s head was too much in a
whirl to permit of much clear thinking. He merely nodded. Then, seized by
a sudden inspiration, he invited Tivoli to join him in his feast of roast
peccary—an invitation which was promptly accepted.
“Hardgrave,” said Johnny, as the two sat in the hotel court after the
feast and Tivoli’s departure, “do these creatures, these jaguars which
the natives call ‘tigers,’ ever become man-eaters?”
“Once in a blue moon they do. I knew of one that did. That was on the
island of Riotan. And, by the way, it was only a month ago that an
Englishman, a chicle buyer, told me of actually seeing one stalking a
man—up the Rio Hondo, too. By all that’s good! Right up in your country!
It must have been!”
Johnny leaned forward in unconcealed interest.
“This ‘man-eater’ as they call him,” Hardgrave continued, “has a bad
reputation. You’ll see little settlements, two or three palm thatched
cabins along the river, deserted because of him. That’s what the chicle
buyer said.”
“Dead? The people dead?” the words stuck in Johnny’s throat.
“Probably not. The jaguar might have carried off a child, or even a man.
Those cats can kill an ox. They’re bad when they get old. And this tiger
is old, fairly gray bearded, the chicle buyer said. Said it made his
blood run cold to see him stalking that native. Of course he was armed;
all those Englishmen go armed. Only a pistol, but enough to scare that
spotted fury away.
“‘Just as I shot,’ that’s what he told me, ‘the creature turned its head
and I saw its marking. I had heard of it before. There was a broad white
stripe above the left eye. Someone had creased him with a bullet years
before. Pity it hadn’t killed him. Didn’t, though.’”
Hardgrave paused to look away at the moon that was just rising above the
cocoanut palms in the churchyard across the way. Wind stirred the
branches noisily. Johnny started. The story of that “tiger” had affected
his imagination strangely.
“So you’ll know if you see him,” Hardgrave concluded dryly. “A white
strip above his left ear. Guess I’ll turn in. You’re leaving before dawn?
Here’s luck!” He pressed the boy’s hand, and was gone.
It was a brave company that Johnny assembled at the postoffice dock next
day—sixty Caribs, all from Stann Creek. There had been no need that these
men go home for luggage. All that they had was on their boats. It was
little enough, too. The two most important items were the great
long-bladed machetes that hung at their belts and the cooking platforms
on the decks of their sailing crafts.
To the mouth of the Rio Hondo they would sail. After that Johnny would
give them a tow up the river.
Pant was in great spirits. He had lived much in the jungles of India.
There he had met the great yellow tiger and the treacherous black
leopard. He had heard of the “man-eater” up the river and was more than
eager to hunt out his lair and do him battle. Of course his days belonged
to Johnny, but nights were his own, and night is when the big cats prowl.
As for Johnny, as they went gliding up the dark river he thought of many
things—of the red lure and of his hopes to win with this new and more
trustworthy crew. He thought again of the mysterious brown girl who had
appeared in the trail on that memorable night spent alone in camp.
“She may belong to the company of that rascal Daego,” he told himself. “I
doubt it, though. Her face was too honest and frank for that. I wonder
who she may be, and if she will return.”
He wondered if their camp had been destroyed by their enemies, and
thought of Daego’s black boats which Hardgrave had spoken of, and the
trouble Daego was in which made him want to move back across the river.
He wondered if the trouble was in any way connected with the black boats.
He even gave a passing thought to Rip, the burro, who under Pant’s care
had learned to prick up his ears with an air of importance and had
actually taken on a little flesh.
“Didn’t bring any feed for him,” he thought. “Pant will have to hunt out
one of those bread-nut trees and gather some grass from it. Be an
interesting experience, mowing grass from the top of the forest. Like
cutting a giant’s hair,” he chuckled.
So they moved on up the river. Past the last banana plantation and
cocoanut grove, through thin settlements of bushmen, between groves of
cohune-nut trees, and on and on, up and up until night fell and the stars
came out.
Coming to the mouth of a small stream, they decided to camp for the
night. Boats were tied to overhanging mangrove branches, dry wood was
gathered and soon fires gleamed out brightly. Mingled with the crackle of
the blaze was the merry talk and laughter of these ever cheerful people.
While supper was being prepared, Pant shoved a dug-out from the deck of
his power boat and went paddling away up the small stream. He was going
on a little trip of exploration all his own. Not that he expected to find
anything of real interest. It was too dark for that. He wanted to be
alone for a time, and besides, there is a real thrill to be had from
poking the nose of your canoe straight away in the night up a stream you
have never seen.
As he moved slowly forward into the dark, the silent mystery of the night
was now and then broken by the splash of an alligator as he took to the
water. Nothing was to be feared from these so long as his canoe remained
in upright position.
On and on he glided. The light of cooking fires faded. Laughter died
away. Still he glided on. Then, of a sudden, he became conscious of a new
sound—a throbbing that, beating faintly against his eardrums, seemed to
come from nowhere. At first he thought it was the beating of his own
heart and wondered at his increased power to hear in that silence. Soon
enough he knew it was not that.
“But what is it?” he asked himself as he held his dripping paddle in
mid-air to listen.
Getting no satisfactory answer, he drove his paddle into the water and
sent his boat forward at renewed speed. This lasted for ten minutes.
Perspiration ran down his cheeks as he paused to listen.
“Yes, yes, there it is, louder!” he murmured. “Much louder. It’s up the
river. It’s a gasoline motor—a motor-boat. No, it can’t be.”
Dropping his paddle straight down, he touched bottom at eighteen inches.
In such a stream there were sunken logs. No motor-boat could ascend to
the spot where the motor was throbbing.
Swinging his boat about, he drove its prow against the shelving bank.
Leaping ashore, he bent over, and putting his ear to the ground,
listened.
“It can’t be,” he muttered, “and yet it is! It’s a stationary gasoline
engine going full swing up that creek. And what’s more”—his thoughts were
working rapidly now—“this creek runs up into our property. That engine is
on our land. What can they be doing there?”
Creeping back into his canoe he allowed it to drift downstream. He wanted
to go up and investigate, but it was too late. What that engine could be
doing up there he could not so much as guess.
“But I’ll find out,” he told himself stoutly. “Leave it to me!”