THE SPANISH GIRL REAPPEARS
For three nights Pant had not visited Daego’s camp. Nor had he in all
this time seen Johnny’s ghost walking out upon the air. That it had
walked, he felt quite sure. The night before, a large dugout, loaded with
the half-caste’s men, had been seen to go slipping down the river.
“Just go gliding about up there in my dugout,” Pant told himself an hour
after darkness set in.
He pushed his boat some distance up the river, then, lying flat down in
it, allowed it to drift downstream.
“Might see that ghost again to-night,” he said, chuckling.
In this position it was impossible for him to see perils ahead. A
slanting snag caught his drifting boat and set it tilting. Before he
could realize what was happening he found himself struggling in the black
waters.
Striking out with both hands, he made a grab for the overturned boat. To
his dismay he heard it give forth a sucking sound, then saw it sink, prow
first, in ten feet of water.
“Darn!” he muttered. “Old dugout. Waterlogged. What now?”
There was only one answer to this: shore as quickly as possible. What if
it were the enemy’s shore? There were alligators in these waters, great
scaly creatures ten feet long. He had heard one barking not three rods
from him but a moment before.
“Here for the night,” he groaned, as he reached a leaning tree trunk and
climbed upon it.
This seemed true enough. The tree grew at the edge of a marsh. There were
alligators in the marsh. To travel that marsh in the dark was to court
death.
Imagine his relief when, just as he had resigned himself to this hard
fate, he saw the dark form of a canoe drift into the shadows.
So surprised and overjoyed was he that, casting caution to the winds, he
hailed the solitary boatman.
To his surprise, the answer that came back was in the high-pitched notes
of a girl.
“Who—who are you?” came in the same girlish voice as the canoe halted,
twice its length from the tree.
“Pant—Panther Eye,” replied the boy, not knowing what else to say.
“Oh!”
To the boy’s immense surprise, there was something in the girl’s tone
that told plainer than words that to her his name was not strange. More
surprising still was the manner in which, at sound of this name, she
threw all reserve aside and paddled quickly to the tree and invited him
to drop into the stern.
Once he was aboard, she sent her boat shooting away across the river.
Ignoring the entrance to the river trail, she drove on down the river and
entered the creek, at last bringing her canoe up with a bump at the
entrance of the creek trail.
Pant remembered Johnny’s story of the strange Spanish girl who had
visited their camp. Something seemed to tell him that this was the same
girl. He did not have long to wait.
During all their journey the girl had remained silent. Now she spoke:
“I was here before.”
“I—I thought so,” said Pant. “Why?”
“I wanted to speak to you, or your friend. You had been deserted by your
crew. We knew why. We—we might have helped you.”
“Who are ‘we’?”
“Father and I. What brought you up to the Rio Hondo?” the girl asked
quickly.
“The red lure.”
“The red——”
“Mahogany.”
“And is that all?” There was a searching note in her words.
“Quite all. Believe me, it is quite enough. Perhaps you’ve never felt the
charm of it. Precious, priceless, perfect wood—mahogany, the red lure.
That’s Johnny’s name for it.”
“I know,” said the girl, “I, too, have felt it. I told father that was
all. He was not sure. My friend,” the girl’s voice dropped to a whisper,
“I have helped you a little to-night.”
“A lot.”
“A little. You may be able to help us a great deal, father and me. We’re
in trouble, not our trouble, but our country’s trouble.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you,” she hesitated, “but I guess it’s right I
should. My father is deputy for this territory. It is his duty to see
that the laws are obeyed. Someone is breaking our laws and we cannot
catch them. Not little things that do not matter much, but big things
that mean certain death to many.” She paused for a moment. To their ears
came the silent rush of water. There is something dreadfully solemn about
the rush of black waters through the dark.
“These laws-breakers,” the girl continued, “are smuggling two things to
our people—rifles and rum. You know what that means in Mexico. Rifles and
rum mean revolution; cruel, senseless revolution! The Governor of the
state of Quintanaroo is a good, kind man. Revolution could never bring a
better government. But the people are simple-minded. Rum maddens their
hearts. Rifles make them want to fight. Someone is selling them both at a
great price, and we cannot catch them. One man is suspected, and that one
is——”
“Daego?”
“Daego. But we can prove nothing. Every motor boat is searched, but each
one brings only food, clothing and tools for his camp.”
All at once, as Pant sat there listening to this girl, so earnest, yet so
young, so eager to help her people, he realized that a Divine will,
higher than his own, had sent him here and that his greatest mission, a
moral mission, was just before him.
“I—I think I can help you,” he whispered. “I know I can.”
Before his mind’s eye a black shadow crept up the river and in his memory
there echoed still the pop-pop of that stationary engine away in the
bush.
“Give me a day, two days,” he said. “Come back here day after to-morrow,
two hours after dark.”
“All right, my friend, and may God prosper you! We are your friends.
Good-bye!”
Pant stepped upon the shore and the canoe shot silently away in the
night.
“We are your friends.” How sweet were those words spoken to a lonely boy
in the heart of a wilderness!