CHAP.

I. The Prize

II. The Home of the Tarpon

III. An Indian Boatman

IV. At the Jungle River

V. The First Camp

VI. Wilderness Life

VII. Running the Rapids

VIII. The First Tiger-cat

IX. In the White Water

X. Lost!

XI. An Army of Snakes

XII. Catching Strange Fish

XIII. A Turkey-Hunt

XIV. A Fight with a Jaguar

XV. The Vicious Garrapatoes

XVI. Field Work of a Naturalist

XVII. A Mixed-up Tiger-hunt

XVIII. Watching a Runway

XIX. Adventures with Crocodiles

XX. Treed by Wild Pigs

XXI. The Leaping Tarpon

XXII. Stricken Down

XXIII. Out of the Jungle

*KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE*

*I*

*THE PRIZE*

“What a change from the Arizona desert!”

The words broke from the lips of Ken Ward as he leaned from the window

of the train which was bearing his brother and himself over the plateau

to Tampico in Tamaulipas, the southeastern state of Mexico. He had

caught sight of a river leaping out between heavily wooded slopes and

plunging down in the most beautiful waterfall he had ever seen.

“Look, Hal,” he cried.

The first fall was a long white streak, ending in a dark pool; below

came cascade after cascade, fall after fall, some wide, others narrow,

and all white and green against the yellow rock. Then the train curved

round a spur of the mountain, descended to a level, to be lost in a

luxuriance of jungle growth.

It was indeed a change for Ken Ward, young forester, pitcher of the

varsity nine at school, and hunter of lions in the Arizona cañons. Here

he was entering the jungle of the tropics. The rifles and the camp

outfit on the seat beside his brother Hal and himself spoke of coming

adventures. Before them lay an unknown wilderness--the semi-tropical

jungle. And the future was to show that the mystery of the jungle was

stranger even than their imaginings.

It was not love of adventure alone or interest in the strange new forest

growths that had drawn Ken to the jungle. His uncle, the one who had

gotten Ken letters from the Forestry Department at Washington, had been

proud of Ken’s Arizona achievements. This uncle was a member of the

American Geographical Society and a fellow of the New York Museum of

Natural History. He wanted Ken to try his hand at field work in the

jungle of Mexico, and if that was successful, then to explore the ruined

cities of wild Yucatan. If Ken made good as an explorer his reward was

to be a trip to Equatorial Africa after big game. And of course that

trip meant opportunity to see England and France, and, what meant more

to Ken, a chance to see the great forests of Germany, where forestry had

been carried on for three hundred years.

In spite of the fact that the inducement was irresistible, and that

Ken’s father was as proud and eager as Ken’s uncle to have him make a

name for himself, and that Hal would be allowed to go with him, Ken had

hesitated. There was the responsibility for Hal and the absolute

certainty that Hal could not keep out of mischief. Still Ken simply

could not have gone to Mexico leaving his brother at home

broken-hearted.

At last the thing had been decided. It was Hal’s ambition to be a

naturalist and to collect specimens, and the uncle had held out possible

recognition from the Smithsonian Institution at Washington. Perhaps he

might find a new variety of some animal to which the scientists would

attach his name. Then the lad was passionately eager to see Ken win

that trip to Africa. There had been much study of maps and books of

travel, science, and natural history. There had been the most careful

instruction and equipment for semi-tropical camp life. The uncle had

given Ken valuable lessons in map-drawing, in estimating distance and

topography, and he had indicated any one of several rivers in the jungle

belt of Mexico. Traversing one hundred miles of unknown jungle river,

with intelligent observation and accurate reports, would win the prize

for Ken Ward. Now the race was on. Would Ken win?

Presently the train crossed a bridge. Ken Ward had a brief glance at

clear green water, at great cypress-trees, gray and graceful with long,

silvery, waving moss, and at the tangled, colorful banks. A water-fowl

black as coal, with white-crested wings, skimmed the water in swift wild

flight, to disappear up the shady river-lane. Then the train clattered

on, and, a mile or more beyond the bridge, stopped at a station called

Valles. In the distance could be seen the thatched palm-leaf huts and

red-tiled roofs of a hamlet.

The boys got out to stretch their legs. The warm, sweet, balmy air was

a new and novel thing to them. They strolled up and down the gravel

walk, watching the natives. Hal said he rather liked the looks of their

brown bare feet and the thin cotton trousers and shirts, but he fancied

the enormous sombreros were too heavy and unwieldy. Ken spoke to

several pleasant-faced Mexicans, each of whom replied: “No sabe, Señor.”

The ticket agent at the station was an American, and from the way he

smiled and spoke Ken knew he was more than glad to see one of his own

kind. So, after Ken had replied to many questions about the States, he

began to ask some of his own.

“What’s the name of the waterfall we passed?”

“Micas Falls,” replied the agent.

“And the river?”

“It’s called the Santa Rosa.”

“Where does it go?”

The agent did not know, except that it disappeared in the jungle.

Southward the country was wild. The villages were few and all along the

railroad; and at Valles the river swung away to the southwest.

“But it must flow into the Panuco River,” said Ken. He had studied maps

of Mexico and had learned all that it was possible to learn before he

undertook the journey.

“Why, yes, it must find the Panuco somewhere down over the mountain,”

answered the agent.

“Then there are rapids in this little river?” asked Ken, in growing

interest.

“Well, I guess. It’s all rapids.”

“How far to Tampico by rail?” went on Ken.

“Something over a hundred miles.”

“Any game in the jungle hereabouts--or along the Santa Rosa?” continued

Ken.

The man laughed, and laughed in such a way that Ken did not need his

assertion that it was not safe to go into the jungle.

Whereupon Ken Ward became so thoughtful that he did not hear the talk

that followed between the agent and Hal. The engine bell roused him

into action, and with Hal he hurried back to their seats. And then the

train sped on. But the beauty of Micas Falls and the wildness of the

Santa Rosa remained with Ken. Where did that river go? How many

waterfalls and rapids did it have? What teeming life must be along its

rich banks! It haunted Ken. He wanted to learn the mystery of the

jungle. There was the same longing which had gotten him into the wild

adventures in Penetier Forest and the Grand Cañon country of Arizona.

And all at once flashed over him the thought that here was the jungle

river for him to explore.

“Why, that’s the very thing,” he said, thinking aloud.

“What’s wrong with you,” asked Hal, “talking to yourself that way?”

Ken did not explain. The train clattered between green walls of jungle,

and occasionally stopped at a station. But the thought of the jungle

haunted him until the train arrived at Tampico.

Ken had the name of an American hotel, and that was all he knew about

Tampico. The station was crowded with natives. Man after man accosted

the boys, jabbering excitedly in Mexican. Some of these showed brass

badges bearing a number and the word _Cargodore_.

“Hal, I believe these fellows are porters or baggage-men,” said Ken.

And he showed his trunk check to one of them. The fellow jerked it out

of Ken’s hand and ran off. The boys ran after him. They were relieved

to see him enter a shed full of baggage. And they were amazed to see

him kneel down and take their trunk on his back. It was a big trunk and

heavy. The man was small and light.

“It’ll smash him!” cried Hal.

But the little _cargodore_ walked off with the trunk on his back. Then

Ken and Hal saw other _cargodores_ packing trunks. The boys kept close

to their man and used their eyes with exceeding interest. The sun was

setting, and the square, colored buildings looked as if they were in a

picture of Spain.

“Look at the boats--canoes!” cried Hal, as they crossed a canal.

Ken saw long narrow canoes that had been hollowed out from straight

tree-trunks. They were of every size, and some of the paddles were

enormous. Crowds of natives were jabbering and jostling each other at a

rude wharf.

“Look back,” called Hal, who seemed to have a hundred eyes.

Ken saw a wide, beautiful river, shining red in the sunset. Palm-trees

on the distant shore showed black against the horizon.

“Hal, that’s the Panuco. What a river!”

“Makes the Susquehanna look like a creek,” was Hal’s comment.

The _cargodore_ led the boys through a plaza, down a narrow street to

the hotel. Here they were made to feel at home. The proprietor was a

kindly American. The hotel was crowded, and many of the guests were

Englishmen there for the tarpon-fishing, with sportsmen from the States,

and settlers coming in to take up new lands. It was pleasant for Ken

and Hal to hear their own language once more. After dinner they sallied

forth to see the town. But the narrow dark streets and the blanketed

natives stealing silently along were not particularly inviting. The

boys got no farther than the plaza, where they sat down on a bench. It

was wholly different from any American town. Ken suspected that Hal was

getting homesick, for the boy was quiet and inactive.

“I don’t like this place,” said Hal. “What ’d you ever want to drag me

way down here for?”

“Humph! drag you? Say, you pestered the life out of me, and bothered

Dad till he was mad, and worried mother sick to let you come on this

trip.”

Hal hung his head.

“Now, you’re not going to show a streak of yellow?” asked Ken. He knew

how to stir his brother.

Hal rose to the attack and scornfully repudiated the insinuation. Ken

replied that they were in a new country and must not reach conclusions

too hastily.

“I liked it back up there at the little village where we saw the green

river and the big trees with the gray streamers on them,” said Hal.

“Well, I liked that myself,” rejoined Ken. “I’d like to go back there

and put a boat in the river and come all the way here.”

Ken had almost unconsciously expressed the thought that had been forming

in his mind. Hal turned slowly and looked at his brother.

“Ken, that ’d be great--that’s what we came for!”

“I should say so,” replied Ken.

“Well?” asked Hal, simply.

That question annoyed Ken. Had he not come south to go into the jungle?

Had he come with any intention of shirking the danger of a wild trip?

There was a subtle flattery in Hal’s question.

“That Santa Rosa River runs through the jungle,” went on Hal. “It flows

into the Panuco somewhere. You know we figured out on the map that the

Panuco’s the only big river in this jungle. That’s all we want to know.

And, Ken, you know you’re a born boatman. Why, look at the rapids we’ve

shot on the Susquehanna. Remember that trip we came down the Juniata?

The water was high, too. Ken, you can take a boat down that Santa

Rosa!”

“By George! I believe I can,” exclaimed Ken, and he thrilled at the

thought.

“Ken, let’s go. You’ll win the prize, and I’ll get specimens. Think

what we’d have to tell Jim Williams and Dick Leslie when we go West next

summer!”

“Oh, Hal, I know--but this idea of a trip seems too wild.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so wild.”

In all fairness Ken could not deny this, so he kept silent.

“Ken, listen,” went on Hal, and now he was quite cool. “If we’d

promised the Governor not to take a wild trip I wouldn’t say another

word. But we’re absolutely free.”

“That’s why we ought to be more careful. Dad trusts me.”

“He trusts you because he knows you can take care of yourself, and me,

too. You’re a wonder, Ken. Why, if you once made up your mind, you’d

make that Santa Rosa River look like a canal.”

Ken began to fear that he would not be proof against the haunting call

of that jungle river and the flattering persuasion of his brother and

the ever-present ambition to show his uncle what he could do.

“Hal, if I didn’t have you with me I’d already have made up my mind to

tackle this river.”

That appeared to insult Hal.

“All I’ve got to say is I’d be a help to you--not a drag,” he said, with

some warmth.

“You’re always a help, Hal. I can’t say anything against your

willingness. But you know your weakness. By George! you made trouble

enough for me in Arizona. On a trip such as this you’d drive me crazy.”

“Ken, I won’t make any rash promises. I don’t want to queer myself with

you. But I’m all right.”

“Look here, Hal; let’s wait. We’ve only got to Tampico. Maybe such a

trip is impracticable--impossible. Let’s find out more about the

country.”

Hal appeared to take this in good spirit. The boys returned to the hotel

and went to bed. Hal promptly fell asleep. But Ken Ward lay awake a

long time thinking of the green Santa Rosa, with its magnificent

moss-festooned cypresses. And when he did go to sleep it was to dream

of the beautiful waterfowl with the white-crested wings, and he was

following it on its wild flight down the dark, mysterious river-trail

into the jungle.

*II*

*THE HOME OF THE TARPON*

Hal’s homesickness might never have been in evidence at all, to judge

from the way the boy, awakening at dawn, began to talk about the Santa

Rosa trip.

“Well,” said Ken, as he rolled out of bed, “I guess we’re in for it.”

“Ken, will we go?” asked Hal, eagerly.

“I’m on the fence.”

“But you’re leaning on the jungle side?”

“Yes, kid--I’m slipping.”

Hal opened his lips to let out a regular Hiram Bent yell, when Ken

clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Hold on--we’re in the hotel yet.”

It took the brothers long to dress, because they could not keep away

from the window. The sun was rising in rosy glory over misty lagoons.

Clouds of creamy mist rolled above the broad Panuco. Wild ducks were

flying low. The tiled roofs of the stone houses gleamed brightly, and

the palm-trees glistened with dew. The soft breeze that blew in was

warm, sweet, and fragrant.

After breakfast the boys went out to the front and found the hotel lobby

full of fishermen and their native boatmen. It was an interesting

sight, as well as a surprise, for Ken and Hal did not know that Tampico

was as famous for fishing as it was for hunting. The huge rods and

reels amazed them.

“What kind of fish do these fellows fish for?” asked Hal.

Ken was well enough acquainted with sport to know something about

tarpon, but he had never seen one of the great silver fish. And he was

speechless when Hal led him into a room upon the walls of which were

mounted specimens of tarpon from six to seven feet in length and half as

wide as a door.

“Say, Ken! We’ve come to the right place. Those fishermen are all

going out to fish for such whales as these here.”

“Hal, we never saw a big fish before,” said Ken. “And before we leave

Tampico we’ll know what it means to hook tarpon.”

“I’m with you,” replied Hal, gazing doubtfully and wonderingly at a fish

almost twice as big as himself.

Then Ken, being a practical student of fishing, as of other kinds of

sport, began to stroll round the lobby with an intent to learn. He

closely scrutinized the tackle. And he found that the bait used was a

white mullet six to ten inches long, a little fish which resembled the

chub. Ken did not like the long, cruel gaff which seemed a necessary

adjunct to each outfit of tackle, and he vowed that in his fishing for

tarpon he would dispense with it.

Ken was not backward about asking questions, and he learned that

Tampico, during the winter months, was a rendezvous for sportsmen from

all over the world. For the most part, they came to catch the leaping

tarpon; the shooting along the Panuco, however, was as well worth while

as the fishing. But Ken could not learn anything about the Santa Rosa

River. The _tierra caliente_, or hot belt, along the curve of the Gulf

was intersected by small streams, many of them unknown and unnamed. The

Panuco swung round to the west and had its source somewhere up in the

mountains. Ken decided that the Santa Rosa was one of its headwaters.

Valles lay up on the first swell of higher ground, and was distant from

Tampico some six hours by train. So, reckoning with the meandering

course of jungle streams, Ken calculated he would have something like

one hundred and seventy-five miles to travel by water from Valles to

Tampico. There were Indian huts strung along the Panuco River, and fifty

miles inland a village named Panuco. What lay between Panuco and

Valles, up over the wild steppes of that jungle, Ken Ward could only

conjecture.

Presently he came upon Hal in conversation with an American boy, who at

once volunteered to show them around. So they set out, and were soon

becoming well acquainted. Their guide said he was from Kansas; had been

working in the railroad offices for two years; and was now taking a

vacation. His name was George Alling. Under his guidance the boys spent

several interesting hours going about the city. During this walk Hal

showed his first tendency to revert to his natural bent of mind. Not

for long could Hal Ward exist without making trouble for something. In

this case it was buzzards, of which the streets of Tampico were full.

In fact, George explained, the buzzards were the only street-cleaning

department in the town. They were as tame as tame turkeys, and Hal

could not resist the desire to chase them. And he could be made to stop

only after a white-helmeted officer had threatened him. George

explained further that although Tampico had no game-laws it protected

these buzzard-scavengers of the streets.

The market-house at the canal wharf was one place where Ken thought Hal

would forget himself in the bustle and din and color. All was so strange

and new. Indeed, for a time Hal appeared to be absorbed in his

surroundings, but when he came to a stall where a man had parrots and

racoons and small deer, and three little yellow, black-spotted

tiger-cats, as George called them, then once more Ken had to take Hal in

tow. Outside along the wharf were moored a hundred or more canoes of

manifold variety. All had been hewn from solid tree-trunks. Some were

long, slender, graceful, pretty to look at, and easy to handle in

shallow lagoons, but Ken thought them too heavy and cumbersome for fast

water. Happening just then to remember Micas Falls, Ken had a momentary

chill and a check to his enthusiasm for the jungle trip. What if he

encountered, in coming down the Santa Rosa, some such series of cascades

as those which made Micas Falls!

It was about noon when George led the boys out to the banks of the broad

Panuco. Both Hal and Ken were suffering from the heat. They had removed

their coats, and were now very glad to rest in the shade.

“This is a nice cool day,” said George, and he looked cool.

“We’ve got on our heavy clothes, and this tropic sun is new to us,”

replied Ken. “Say, Hal--”

A crash in the water near the shore interrupted Ken.

“Was that a rhinoceros?” inquired Hal.

“Savalo,” said George.

“What’s that?”

“Silver king. A tarpon. Look around and you’ll see one break water.

There are some fishermen trolling down-stream. Watch. Maybe one will

hook a fish presently. Then you’ll see some jumping.”

It was cool in the shade, as the brothers soon discovered, and they

spent a delightful hour watching the river and the wild fowl and the

tarpon. Ken and Hal were always lucky. Things happened for their

benefit and pleasure. Not only did they see many tarpon swirl like bars

of silver on the water, but a fisherman hooked one of the great fish not

fifty yards from where the boys sat. And they held their breath, and

with starting eyes watched the marvelous leaps and dashes of the tarpon

till, as he shot up in a last mighty effort, wagging his head, slapping

his huge gills, and flinging the hook like a bullet, he plunged back

free.

“Nine out of ten get away,” remarked George.

“Did you ever catch one?” asked Hal.

“Sure.”

“Hal, I’ve got to have some of this fishing,” said Ken. “But if we

start at it now--would we ever get that jungle trip?”

“Oh, Ken, you’ve made up your mind to go!” exclaimed Hal, in glee.

“No, I haven’t,” protested Ken.

“Yes, you have,” declared Hal. “I know you.” And the whoop that he had

suppressed in the hotel he now let out with good measure.

Naturally George was interested, and at his inquiry Ken told him the

idea for the Santa Rosa trip.

“Take me along,” said George. There was a note of American spirit in

his voice, a laugh on his lips, and a flash in his eyes that made Ken

look at him attentively. He was a slim youth, not much Hal’s senior,

and Ken thought if ever a boy had been fashioned to be a boon comrade of

Hal Ward this George Alling was the boy.

“What do you think of the trip?” inquired Ken, curiously.

“Fine. We’ll have some fun. We’ll get a boat and a mozo--”

“What’s a mozo?”

“A native boatman.”

“That’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of a boatman to help row. But

the boat is the particular thing. I wouldn’t risk a trip in one of

those canoes.”

“Come on, I’ll find a boat,” said George.

And before he knew it George and Hal were leading him back from the

river. George led him down narrow lanes, between painted stone houses

and iron-barred windows, till they reached the canal. They entered a

yard where buzzards, goats, and razor-back pigs were contesting over the

scavenger rights. George went into a boat-house and pointed out a long,

light, wide skiff with a flat bottom. Ken did not need George’s praise,

or the shining light in Hal’s eyes, or the boat-keeper’s importunities

to make him eager to try this particular boat. Ken Ward knew a boat

when he saw one. He jumped in, shoved it out, rowed up the canal,

pulled and turned, backed water, and tried every stroke he knew. Then

he rested on the oars and whistled. Hal’s shout of delight made him

stop whistling. Those two boys would have him started on the trip if he

did not look sharp.

“It’s a dandy boat,” said Ken.

“Only a peso a day, Ken,” went on Hal. “One dollar Mex--fifty cents in

our money. Quick, Ken, hire it before somebody else gets it.”

“Sure I’ll hire the boat,” replied Ken; “but Hal, it’s not for that

Santa Rosa trip. We’ll have to forget that.”

“Forget your grandmother!” cried Hal. And then it was plain that he

tried valiantly to control himself, to hide his joy, to pretend to agree

with Ken’s ultimatum.

Ken had a feeling that his brother knew him perfectly, and he was

divided between anger and amusement. They returned to the hotel and

lounged in the lobby. The proprietor was talking with some Americans,

and as he now appeared to be at leisure he introduced the brothers and

made himself agreeable. Moreover, he knew George Alling well. They

began to chat, and Ken was considerably annoyed to hear George calmly

state that he and his new-found friends intended to send a boat up to

Valles and come down an unknown jungle river.

The proprietor laughed, and, though the laugh was not unpleasant,

somehow it nettled Ken Ward.

“Why not go?” he asked, quietly, and he looked at the hotel man.

“My boy, you can’t undertake any trip like that.”

“Why not?” persisted Ken. “Is there any law here to prevent our going

into the jungle?”

“There’s no law. No one could stop you. But, my lad, what’s the sense

of taking such a fool trip? The river here is full of tarpon right now.

There are millions of ducks and geese on the lagoons. You can shoot

deer and wild turkey right on the edge of town. If you want tiger and

javelin, go out to one of the ranches where they have dogs to hunt with,

where you’ll have a chance for your life. These tigers and boars will

kill a man. There’s all the sport any one wants right close to Tampico.”

“I don’t see how all that makes a reason why we shouldn’t come down the

Santa Rosa,” replied Ken. “We want to explore--map the river.”

The hotel man seemed nettled in return.

“You’re only kids. It ’d be crazy to start out on that wild trip.”

It was on Ken’s lips to mention a few of the adventures which he

believed justly gave him a right to have pride and confidence in his

ability. But he forbore.

“It’s a fool trip,” continued the proprietor. “You don’t know this

river. You don’t know where you’ll come out. It’s wild up in that

jungle. I’ve hunted up at Valles, and no native I ever met would go a

mile from the village. If you take a mozo he’ll get soaked with canya.

He’ll stick a knife in you or run off and leave you when you most need

help. Nobody ever explored that river. It’ll likely be full of

swamps, sandbars, bogs. You’d get fever. Then the crocodiles, the

boars, the bats, the snakes, the tigers! Why, if you could face these

you’d still have the ticks--the worst of all. The ticks would drive men

crazy, let alone boys. It’s no undertaking for a boy.”

The mention of all these dangers would have tipped the balance for Ken

in favor of the Santa Rosa trip, even if the hint of his callowness had

not roused his spirit.

“Thank you. I’m sure you mean kindly,” said Ken. “But I’m going to

Valles and I’ll come down that jungle river.”

*III*

*AN INDIAN BOATMAN*

The moment the decision was made Ken felt both sorry and glad. He got

the excited boys outside away from the critical and anxious proprietor.

And Ken decided it was incumbent upon him to adopt a serious and

responsible manner, which he was far from feeling. So he tried to be as

cool as Hiram Bent, with a fatherly interest in the two wild boys who

were to accompany him down the Santa Rosa.

“Now, George, steer us around till we find a mozo,” said Ken. “Then

we’ll buy an outfit and get started on this trip before you can say Jack

Robinson.”

All the mozos the boys interviewed were eager to get work; however, when

made acquainted with the nature of the trip they refused point blank.

“Tigre!” exclaimed one.

“Javelin!” exclaimed another.

The big spotted jaguar of the jungle and the wild boar, or peccary, were

held in much dread by the natives.

“These natives will climb a tree at sight of a tiger or pig,” said

George. “For my part I’m afraid of the garrapatoes and the pinilius.”

“What ’re they?” asked Hal.

“Ticks--jungle ticks. Just wait till you make their acquaintance.”

Finally the boys met a _mozo_ named Pepe, who had often rowed a boat for

George. Pepe looked sadly in need of a job; still he did not ask for it.

George said that Pepe had been one of the best boatmen on the river

until _canya_, the fiery white liquor to which the natives were

addicted, had ruined his reputation. Pepe wore an old sombrero, a

cotton, shirt and sash, and ragged trousers. He was barefooted. Ken

noted the set of his muscular neck, his brawny shoulders and arms, and

appreciated the years of rowing that had developed them. But Pepe’s

haggard face, deadened eyes, and listless manner gave Ken pause. Still,

Ken reflected, there was never any telling what a man might do, if

approached right. Pepe’s dejection excited Ken’s sympathy. So Ken

clapped him on the shoulder, and, with George acting as interpreter,

offered Pepe work for several weeks at three pesos a day. That was more

than treble the _mozo’s_ wage. Pepe nearly fell off the canal bridge,

where he was sitting, and a light as warm and bright as sunshine flashed

into his face.

“Si, Señor--Si, Señor,” he began to jabber, and waved his brown hands.

Ken suspected that Pepe needed a job and a little kind treatment. He

was sure of it when George said Pepe’s wife and children were in want.

Somehow Ken conceived a liking for Pepe, and believed he could trust

him. He thought he knew how to deal with poor Pepe. So he gave him

money, told him to get a change of clothes and a pair of shoes, and come

to the hotel next day.

“He’ll spend the money for canya, and not show up to-morrow,” said

George.

“I don’t know anything about your natives, but that fellow will come,”

declared Ken.

It appeared that the whole American colony in Tampico had been

acquainted with Ken Ward’s project, and made a business to waylay the

boys at each corner. They called the trip a wild-goose chase. They

declared it was a dime-novel idea, and could hardly take Ken seriously.

They mingled astonishment with amusement and concern. They advised Ken

not to go, and declared they would not let him go. Over and over again

the boys were assured of the peril from ticks, bats, boars, crocodiles,

snakes, tigers, and fevers.

“That’s what I’m taking the trip for,” snapped Ken, driven to

desperation by all this nagging.

“Well, young man, I admire your nerve,” concluded the hotel man. “If

you’re determined to go, we can’t stop you. And there’s some things we

would like you to find out for us. How far do tarpon run up the Panuco

River? Do they spawn up there? How big are the new-born fish? I’ll

furnish you with tackle and preserved mullet, for bait. We’ve always

wondered about how far tarpon go up into fresh water. Keep your eye

open for signs of oil. Also look at the timber. And be sure to make a

map of the river.”

When it came to getting the boat shipped the boys met with more

obstacles. But for the friendly offices of a Texan, an employee of the

railroad, they would never have been able to convince the native

shipping agent that a boat was merchandise. The Texan arranged the

matter and got Ken a freight bill. He took an entirely different view

of Ken’s enterprise, compared with that of other Americans, and in a

cool, drawling voice, which somehow reminded Ken of Jim Williams, he

said:

“Shore you-all will have the time of your lives. I worked at Valles for

a year. That jungle is full of game. I killed three big tigers.

You-all want to look out for those big yellow devils. One in every

three will jump for a man. There’s nothing but shoot, then. And the

wild pigs are bad. They put me up a tree more than once. I don’t know

much about the Santa Rosa. Its source is above Micas Falls. Never heard

where it goes. I know it’s full of crocodiles and rapids. Never saw a

boat or a canoe at Valles. And say--there are big black snakes in the

jungle. Look out for them, too. Shore you-all have sport a-comin’.”

Ken thanked the Texan, and as he went on up-street, for all his sober

thoughtfulness, he was as eager as Hal or George. However, his position

as their guardian would not permit any show of extravagant enthusiasm.

Ken bought blankets, cooking utensils, and supplies for three weeks.

There was not such a thing as a tent in Tampico. The best the boys

could get for a shelter was a long strip of canvas nine feet wide.

“That’ll keep off the wet,” said Ken, “but it won’t keep out the

mosquitoes and things.”

“Couldn’t keep ’em out if we had six tents,” replied George.

The remainder of that day the boys were busy packing the outfit.

Pepe presented himself at the hotel next morning an entirely different

person. He was clean-shaven, and no longer disheveled. He wore a new

sombrero, a white cotton shirt, a red sash, and blue trousers. He

earned a small bundle, a pair of shoes, and a long _machete_. The

dignity with which he approached before all the other _mozos_ was not

lost upon Ken Ward. A sharp scrutiny satisfied him that Pepe had not

been drinking. Ken gave him several errands to do. Then he ordered the

outfit taken to the station in Pepe’s charge.

The boys went down early in the afternoon. It was the time when the

_mozos_ were returning from the day’s tarpon-fishing on the river, and

they, with the _cargodores_, streamed to and fro on the platform. Pepe

was there standing guard over Ken’s outfit. He had lost his fame among

his old associates, and for long had been an outsider. Here he was in

charge of a pile of fine guns, fishing-tackle, baggage, and supplies--a

collection representing a fortune to him and his simple class. He had

been trusted with it. It was under his eye. All his old associates

passed by to see him there. That was a great time for Pepe. He looked

bright, alert, and supremely happy. It would have fared ill with

thieves or loafers who would have made themselves free with any of the

articles under his watchful eye.

The train pulled out of Tampico at five o’clock, and Hal’s “We’re off!”

was expressive.

The railroad lay along the river-bank, and the broad Panuco was rippling

with the incoming tide. If Ken and Hal had not already found George to

be invaluable as a companion in this strange country they would have

discovered it then. For George could translate Pepe’s talk, and explain

much that otherwise would have been dark to the brothers. Wild ducks

dotted the green surface, and spurts showed where playful _ravalo_ were

breaking water. Great green-backed tarpon rolled their silver sides

against the little waves. White cranes and blue herons stood like

statues upon the reedy bars. Low down over the opposite bank of the

river a long line of wild geese winged its way toward a shimmering

lagoon. And against the gold and crimson of the sunset sky a flight of

wild fowl stood out in bold black relief. The train crossed the Tamesi

River and began to draw away from the Panuco. On the right, wide

marshes, gleaming purple in the darkening light, led the eye far beyond

to endless pale lagoons. Birds of many kinds skimmed the weedy flats.

George pointed out a flock of aigrets, the beautiful wild fowl with the

priceless plumes. Then there was a string of pink flamingoes, tall,

grotesque, wading along with waddling stride, feeding with heads under

water.

“Great!” exclaimed Ken Ward.

“It’s all so different from Arizona,” said Hal.

At Tamos, twelve miles out of Tampico, the train entered the jungle.

Thereafter the boys could see nothing but the impenetrable green walls

that lined the track. At dusk the train reached a station called Las

Palmas, and then began to ascend the first step of the mountain. The

ascent was steep, and, when it was accomplished, Ken looked down and

decided that step of the mountain was between two and three thousand

feet high. The moon was in its first quarter, and Ken, studying this

tropical moon, found it large, radiant, and a wonderful green-gold. It

shed a soft luminous glow down upon the sleeping, tangled web of jungle.

It was new and strange to Ken, so vastly different from barren desert or

iron-ribbed cañon, and it thrilled him with nameless charm.

The train once more entered jungle walls, and as the boys could not see

anything out of the windows they lay back in their seats and waited for

the ride to end. They were due at Valles at ten o’clock, and the

impatient Hal complained that they would never get there. At length a

sharp whistle from the engine caused Pepe to turn to the boys with a

smile.

“Valles,” he said.

With rattle and clank the train came to a halt. Ken sent George and

Pepe out, and he and Hal hurriedly handed the luggage through the open

window. When the last piece had been passed into Pepe’s big hands the

boys made a rush for the door, and jumped off as the train started.

“Say, but it’s dark,” said Hal.

As the train with its lights passed out of sight Ken found himself in

what seemed a pitchy blackness. He could not see the boys. And he felt

a little cold sinking of his heart at the thought of such black nights

on an unknown jungle river.

*IV*

*AT THE JUNGLE RIVER*

Presently, as Ken’s eyes became accustomed to the change, the darkness

gave place to pale moonlight. A crowd of chattering natives, with wide

sombreros on their heads and blankets over their shoulders, moved round

the little stone station. Visitors were rare in Valles, as was

manifested by the curiosity aroused by the boys and the pile of luggage.

“Ask Pepe to find some kind of lodging for the night,” said Ken to

George.

Pepe began to question the natives, and soon was lost in the crowd.

Awhile after, as Ken was making up his mind they might have to camp on

the station platform, a queer low ’bus drawn by six little mules creaked

up. Pepe jumped off the seat beside the driver, and began to stow the

luggage away in the ’bus. Then the boys piled in behind, and were soon

bowling along a white moonlit road. The soft voices of natives greeted

their passing.

Valles appeared to be about a mile from the station, and as they entered

the village Ken made out rows of thatched huts, and here and there a

more pretentious habitation of stone. At length the driver halted

before a rambling house, partly stone and partly thatch. There were no

lights; in fact, Ken did not see a light in the village. George told

the boys to take what luggage each could carry and follow the guide.

Inside the house it was as dark as a dungeon. The boys bumped into

things and fell over each other trying to keep close to the barefooted

and mysterious guide. Finally they climbed to a kind of loft, where the

moonlight streamed in at the open sides.

“What do you think of this?” panted Hal, who had struggled with a heavy

load of luggage. Pepe and the guide went down to fetch up the remainder

of the outfit. Ken thought it best to stand still until he knew just

where he was. But Hal and George began moving about in the loft. It

was very large and gloomy, and seemed open, yet full of objects. Hal

jostled into something which creaked and fell with a crash. Then

followed a yell, a jabbering of a frightened native, and a scuffling

about.

“Hal, what ’d you do?” called Ken, severely.

“You can search me,” replied Hal Ward. “One thing--I busted my shin.”

“He knocked over a bed with some one sleeping in it,” said George.

Pepe arrived in the loft then and soon soothed the injured feelings of

the native who had been so rudely disturbed. He then led the boys to

their cots, which were no more than heavy strips of canvas stretched

over tall frameworks. They appeared to be enormously high for beds.

Ken’s was as high as his head, and Ken was tall for his age.

“Say, I’ll never get up into this thing,” burst out Hal. “These people

must be afraid to sleep near the floor. George, why are these cots so

high?”

“I reckon to keep the pigs and dogs and all that from sleeping with the

natives,” answered George. “Besides, the higher you sleep in Mexico the

farther you get from creeping, crawling things.”

Ken had been of half a mind to sleep on the floor, but George’s remark

had persuaded him to risk the lofty cot. It was most awkward to climb

into. Ken tried several times without success, and once he just escaped

a fall. By dint of muscle and a good vault he finally landed in the

center of his canvas. From there he listened to his more unfortunate

comrades. Pepe got into his without much difficulty. George, however,

in climbing up, on about the fifth attempt swung over too hard and

rolled off on the other side. The thump he made when he dropped jarred

the whole loft. From the various growls out of the darkness it

developed that the loft was full of sleepers, who were not pleased at

this invasion. Then Hal’s cot collapsed, and went down with a crash.

And Hal sat on the flattened thing and laughed.

“Mucho malo,” Pepe said, and he laughed, too. Then he had to get out

and put up Hal’s trestle bed. Hal once again went to climbing up the

framework, and this time, with Pepe’s aid, managed to surmount it.

“George, what does Pepe mean by _mucho malo_?” asked Hal.

“Bad--very much bad,” replied George.

“Nix--tell him nix. This is fine,” said Hal.

“Boys, if you don’t want to sleep yourselves, shut up so the rest of us

can,” ordered Ken.

He liked the sense of humor and the good fighting spirit of the boys,

and fancied they were the best attributes in comrades on a wild trip.

For a long time he heard a kind of shuddering sound, which he imagined

was Hal’s cot quivering as the boy laughed. Then absolute quiet

prevailed, the boys slept, and Ken felt himself drifting.

When he awakened the sun was shining through the holes in the thatched

roof. Pepe was up, and the other native sleepers were gone. Ken and the

boys descended from their perches without any tumbles, had a breakfast

that was palatable--although even George could not name what they

ate--and then were ready for the day.

Valles consisted of a few stone houses and many thatched huts of bamboo

and palm. There was only one street, and it was full of pigs, dogs, and

buzzards. The inhabitants manifested a kindly interest and curiosity,

which changed to consternation when they learned of the boys’ project.

Pepe questioned many natives, and all he could learn about the Santa

Rosa was that there was an impassable waterfall some few kilometers

below Valles. Ken gritted his teeth and said they would have to get

past it. Pepe did not encounter a man who had ever heard of the

headwaters of the Panuco River. There were only a few fields under

cultivation around Valles, and they were inclosed by impenetrable

jungle. It seemed useless to try to find out anything about the river.

But Pepe’s advisers in the village told enough about _tigre_ and

_javelin_ to make Hal’s hair stand on end, and George turn pale, and Ken

himself wish they had not come. It all gave Ken both a thrill and a

shock.

There was not much conversation among the boys on the drive back to the

station. However, sight of the boat, which had come by freight, stirred

Ken with renewed spirit, and through him that was communicated to the

others.

The hardest task, so far, developed in the matter of transporting boat

and supplies out to the river. Ken had hoped to get a handcar and haul

the outfit on the track down to where the bridge crossed the Santa Rosa.

But there was no hand-car. Then came the staggering information that

there was no wagon which would carry the boat, and then worse still in

the fact that there was no road. This discouraged Ken; nevertheless he

had not the least idea of giving up. He sent Pepe out to tell the

natives there must be some way to get the outfit to the river.

Finally Pepe found a fellow who had a cart. This fellow claimed he knew

a trail that went to a point from which it would be easy to carry the

boat to the river. Ken had Pepe hire the man at once.

“Bring on your old cart,” said the irrepressible Hal.

That cart turned out to be a remarkable vehicle. It consisted of a

narrow body between enormously high wheels. A trio of little mules was

hitched to it. The driver willingly agreed to haul the boat and outfit

for one _peso_, but when he drove up to the platform to be surrounded by

neighbors, he suddenly discovered that he could not possibly accommodate

the boys. Patiently Pepe tried to persuade him. No, the thing was

impossible. He made no excuses, but he looked mysterious.

“George, tell Pepe to offer him five pesos,” said Ken.

Pepe came out bluntly with the inducement, and the driver began to

sweat. From the look of his eyes Ken fancied he had not earned so much

money in a year. Still he was cunning, and his whispering neighbors

lent him support. He had the only cart in the village, and evidently it

seemed that fortune had come to knock at least once at his door. He

shook his head.

Ken held up both hands with fingers spread. “Ten pesos,” he said.

The driver, like a crazy man, began to jabber his consent.

The boys lifted the boat upon the cart, and tied it fast in front so

that the stern would not sag. Then they packed the rest of the outfit

inside.

Ken was surprised to see how easily the little mules trotted off with

such a big load. At the edge of the jungle he looked back toward the

station. The motley crowd of natives were watching, making excited

gestures, and all talking at once. The driver drove into a narrow

trail, which closed behind him. Pepe led on foot, brushing aside the

thick foliage. Ken drew a breath of relief as he passed into the cool

shade. The sun was very hot. Hal and George brought up the rear,

talking fast.

The trail was lined and overgrown with slender trees, standing very

close, making dense shade. Many birds, some of beautiful coloring,

flitted in the branches. In about an hour the driver entered a little

clearing where there were several thatched huts. Ken heard the puffing

of an engine, and, looking through the trees, he saw the railroad and

knew they had arrived at the pumping-station and the bridge over the

Santa Rosa.

Pepe lost no time in rounding up six natives to carry the boat. They

did not seem anxious to oblige Pepe, although they plainly wanted the

money he offered. The trouble was the boat, at which they looked

askance. As in the case with the driver, however, the weight and

clinking of added silver overcame their reluctance. They easily lifted

the boat upon their shoulders. And as they entered the trail, making a

strange procession in the close-bordering foliage, they encountered two

natives, who jumped and ran, yelling: “La diable! La diable!”

“What ails those gazabos?” asked Hal.

“They’re scared,” replied George. “They thought the boat was the

devil.”

If Ken needed any more than had already come to him about the wildness

of the Santa Rosa, he had it in the frightened cries and bewilderment of

these natives. They had never seen a boat. The Santa Rosa was a

beautiful wild river upon which boats were unknown. Ken had not hoped

for so much. And now that the die was cast he faced the trip with

tingling gladness.

“George and Hal, you stay behind to watch the outfit. Pepe and I will

carry what we can and follow the boat. I’ll send back after you,” said

Ken.

Then as he followed Pepe and the natives down the trail there was a deep

satisfaction within him. He heard the soft rush of water over stones

and the mourning of turtledoves. He rounded a little hill to come

abruptly upon the dense green mass of river foliage. Giant

cypress-trees, bearded with gray moss, fringed the banks. Through the

dark green of leaves Ken caught sight of light-green water. Birds rose

all about him. There were rustlings in the thick underbrush and the whir

of ducks. The natives penetrated the dark shade and came out to an

open, grassy point.

The Santa Rosa, glistening, green, swift, murmured at Ken’s feet. The

natives dropped the boat into the water, and with Pepe went back for the

rest of the outfit. Ken looked up the shady lane of the river and

thought of the moment when he had crossed the bridge in the train.

Then, as much as he had longed to be there, he had not dared to hope it.

And here he was! How strange it was, just then, to see a large black

duck with white-crested wings sweep by as swift as the wind! Ken had

seen that wild fowl, or one of his kind, and it had haunted him.

*V*

*THE FIRST CAMP*

In less than an hour all the outfit had been carried down to the river,

and the boys sat in the shade, cooling off, happily conscious that they

had made an auspicious start.

It took Ken only a moment to decide to make camp there and the next day

try to reach Micas Falls. The mountains appeared close at hand, and

were so lofty that, early in the afternoon as it was, the westering sun

hung over the blue summits. The notch where the Santa Rosa cut through

the range stood out clear, and at most it was not more than eighteen

miles distant. So Ken planned to spend a day pulling up the river, and

then to turn for the down-stream trip.

“Come, boys, let’s make camp,” said Ken.

He sent Pepe with his long _machete_ into the brush to cut fire-wood.

Hal he set to making a stone fireplace, which work the boy rather prided

himself upon doing well. Ken got George to help him to put up the strip

of canvas. They stretched a rope between two trees, threw the canvas

over it, and pegged down the ends.

“Say, how ’re we going to sleep?” inquired Hal, suddenly.

“Sleep? Why, on our backs, of course,” retorted Ken, who could read

Hal’s mind.

“If we don’t have some hot old times keeping things out of this tent,

I’m a lobster,” said George, dubiously. “I’m going to sleep in the

middle.”

“You’re a brave boy, George,” replied Ken.

“Me for between Ken and Pepe,” added Hal.

“And you’re twice as brave,” said Ken. “I dare say Pepe and I will be

able to keep things from getting at you.”

Just as Pepe came into camp staggering under a load of wood, a flock of

russet-colored ducks swung round the bend. They alighted near the shore

at a point opposite the camp. The way George and Hal made headers into

the pile of luggage for their guns gave Ken an inkling of what he might

expect from these lads. He groaned, and then he laughed. George came up

out of the luggage first, and he had a .22-caliber rifle, which he

quickly loaded and fired into the flock. He crippled one; the others

flew up-stream. Then George began to waste shells trying to kill the

crippled duck. Hal got into action with his .22. They bounced bullets

off the water all around the duck, but they could not hit it.

Pepe grew as excited as the boys, and he jumped into the boat and with a

long stick began to pole out into the stream. Ken had to caution George

and Hal to lower their guns and not shoot Pepe. Below camp and just

under the bridge the water ran into a shallow rift. The duck got onto

the current and went round the bend, with Pepe poling in pursuit and

George and Hal yelling along the shore. When they returned a little

later, they had the duck, which was of an unknown species to Ken. Pepe

had fallen overboard; George was wet to his knees; and, though Hal did

not show any marks of undue exertion, his eyes would have enlightened

any beholder. The fact was that they were glowing with the excitement

of the chase. It amused Ken. He felt that he had to try to stifle his

own enthusiasm. There had to be one old head in the party. But if he

did have qualms over the possibilities of the boys to worry him with

their probable escapades, he still felt happy at their boundless life

and spirit.

It was about the middle of the afternoon, and the heat had become

intense. Ken realized it doubly when he saw Pepe favoring the shade.

George and Hal were hot, but they appeared to be too supremely satisfied

with their surroundings to care about that.

During this hot spell, which lasted from three o’clock until five, there

was a quiet and a lack of life around camp that surprised Ken. It was

slumberland; even the insects seemed drowsy. Not a duck and scarcely a

bird passed by. Ken heard the mourning of turtle-doves, and was at once

struck with the singular deep, full tone. Several trains crossed the

bridge, and at intervals the engine at the pumping-tank puffed and

chugged. From time to time a native walked out upon the bridge to stare

long and curiously at the camp.

When the sun set behind the mountain a hard breeze swept down the river.

Ken did not know what to make of it, and at first thought there was

going to be a storm. Pepe explained that the wind blew that way every

day after sunset. For a while it tossed the willows, and waved the

Spaniard’s-beard upon the cypresses. Then as suddenly as it had come it

died away, taking the heat with it.

Whereupon the boys began to get supper.

“George, do you know anything about this water?” asked Ken. “Is it

safe?”

George supposed it was all right, but he did not know. The matter of

water had bothered Ken more than any other thing in consideration of the

trip. This river-water was cool and clear; it apparently was safe. But

Ken decided not to take any chances, and to boil all the water used.

All at once George yelled, “Canvasbacks!” and made a dive for his gun.

Ken saw a flock of ducks swiftly winging flight up-stream.

“Hold on, George; don’t shoot,” called Ken. “Let’s go a little slow at

the start.”

George appeared to be disappointed, though he promptly obeyed.

Then the boys had supper, finding the russet duck much to their taste.

Ken made a note of Pepe’s capacity, and was glad there were prospects of

plenty of meat. While they were eating, a group of natives gathered on

the bridge. Ken would not have liked to interpret their opinion of his

party from their actions.

Night came on almost before the boys were ready for it. They

replenished the camp-fire, and sat around it, looking into the red blaze

and then out into the flickering shadows. Ken thought the time

propitious for a little lecture he had to give the boys, and he

remembered how old Hiram Bent had talked to him and Hal that first night

down under the great black rim-wall of the Grand Cañon.

“Well, fellows,” began Ken, “we’re started, we’re here, and the trip

looks great to me. Now, as I am responsible, I intend to be boss. I want

you boys to do what I tell you. I may make mistakes, but if I do I’ll

take them on my shoulders. Let’s try to make the trip a great success.

Let’s be careful. We’re not game-hogs. We’ll not kill any more than we

can eat. I want you boys to be careful with your guns. Think all the

time where you’re pointing them. And as to thinking, we’d do well to

use our heads all the time. We’ve no idea what we’re going up against in

this jungle.”

Both boys listened to Ken with attention and respect, but they did not

bind themselves by any promises.

Ken had got out the mosquito-netting, expecting any moment to find it

very serviceable; however, to his surprise it was not needed. When it

came time to go to bed, Hal and George did not forget to slip in between

Pepe and Ken. The open-sided tent might keep off rain or dew, but for

all the other protection it afforded, the boys might as well have slept

outside. Nevertheless they were soon fast asleep. Ken awoke a couple

of times during the night and rolled over to find a softer spot in the

hard bed. These times he heard only the incessant hum of insects.

When he opened his eyes in the gray morning light, he did hear something

that made him sit up with a start. It was a deep booming sound,

different from anything that he had ever heard. Ken called Pepe, and

that roused the boys.

“Listen,” said Ken.

In a little while the sound was repeated, a heavy “boo-oom!...

boo-oom!” There was a resemblance to the first strong beats of a

drumming grouse, only infinitely wilder.

Pepe called it something like “_faisan real_.”

“What’s that?” asked Hal.

The name was as new to Ken as the noise itself. Pepe explained through

George that it was made by a huge black bird not unlike a turkey. It

had a golden plume, and could run as fast as a deer. The boys rolled

out, all having conceived a desire to see such a strange bird. The

sound was not repeated. Almost immediately, however, the thicket across

the river awoke to another sound, as much a contrast to the boom as

could be imagined. It was a bird medley. At first Ken thought of

magpies, but Pepe dispelled this illusion with another name hard to

pronounce.

“Chicalocki,” he said.

And that seemed just like what they were singing. It was a sharp, clear

song--“Chic-a-lock-i ... chic-a-lock-i,” and to judge from the full

chorus there must have been many birds.

“They’re a land of pheasant,” added George, “and make fine pot-stews.”

The _chicalocki_ ceased their salute to the morning, and then, as the

river mist melted away under the rising sun, other birds took it up.

Notes new to Ken burst upon the air. And familiar old songs thrilled

him, made him think of summer days on the Susquehanna--the sweet carol

of the meadow-lark, the whistle of the quail, the mellow, sad call of

the swamp-blackbird. The songs blended in an exquisite harmony.

“Why, some of them are our own birds come south for the winter,”

declared Hal.

“It’s music,” said Ken.

“Just wait,” laughed George.

It dawned upon Ken then that George was a fellow who had the mysterious

airs of a prophet hinting dire things.

Ken did not know what to wait for, but he enjoyed the suggestion and

anticipated much. Ducks began to whir by; flocks of blackbirds alighted

in the trees across the river. Suddenly Hal jumped up, and Ken was

astounded at a great discordant screeching and a sweeping rush of

myriads of wings. Ken looked up to see the largest flock of birds he had

ever seen.

“Parrots,” he yelled.

Indeed they were, and they let the boys know it. They flew across the

river, wheeled to come back, all the time screeching, and then they

swooped down into the tops of the cypress-trees.

“Red-heads,” said George. “Just wait till you see the yellow-heads!”

At the moment the red-heads were quite sufficient for Ken. They broke

out into a chattering, screaming, cackling discordance. It was plainly

directed at the boys. These intelligent birds were curious and

resentful. As Pepe put it, they were scolding. Ken enjoyed it for a

full half-hour and reveled in the din. That morning serenade was worth

the trip. Presently the parrots flew away, and Ken was surprised to

find that most of the other birds had ceased singing. They had set

about the business of the day--something it was nigh time for Ken to

consider.

Breakfast over, the boys broke camp, eager for the adventures that they

felt to be before them.

*VI*

*WILDERNESS LIFE*

“Now for the big job, boys,” called Ken. “Any ideas will be welcome, but

don’t all talk at once.”

And this job was the packing of the outfit in the boat. It was a study

for Ken, and he found himself thanking his lucky stars that he had

packed boats for trips on rapid rivers. George and Hal came to the fore

with remarkable advice which Ken was at the pains of rejecting. And as

fast as one wonderful idea emanated from the fertile minds another one

came in. At last Ken lost patience.

“Kids, it’s going to take brains to pack this boat,” he said, with some

scorn.

And when Hal remarked that in that case he did not see how they ever

were going to pack the boat, Ken drove both boys away and engaged Pepe

to help.

The boat had to be packed for a long trip, with many things taken into

consideration. The very best way to pack it must be decided upon and

thereafter held to strictly. Balance was all-important; comfort and

elbow-room were not to be overlooked; a flat surface easy to crawl and

jump over was absolutely necessary. Fortunately, the boat was large and

roomy, although not heavy. The first thing Ken did was to cut out the

narrow bow-seat. Here he packed a small bucket of preserved mullet,

some bottles of kerosene and _canya_, and a lantern. The small, flat

trunk, full of supplies, went in next. Two boxes with the rest of the

supplies filled up the space between the trunk and the rowing-seat. By

slipping an extra pair of oars, coils of rope, the ax, and a few other

articles between the gunwales and the trunk and boxes Ken made them fit

snugly. He cut off a piece of the canvas, and, folding it, he laid it

with the blankets lengthwise over the top. This made a level surface,

one that could be gotten over quickly, or a place to sleep, for that

matter, and effectually disposed of the bow half of the boat. Of course

the boat sank deep at the bow, but Ken calculated when they were all

aboard their weight would effect an even balance.

The bags with clothing Ken put under the second seat. Then he arranged

the other piece of canvas so that it projected up back of the stern of

the boat. He was thinking of the waves to be buffeted in going stern

first down-stream through the rapids. The fishing-tackle and guns he

laid flat from seat to seat. Last of all he placed the ammunition on

one side next the gunwale, and the suit-case carrying camera, films,

medicines, on the other.

“Come now, fellows,” called Ken. “Hal, you and George take the second

seat. Pepe will take the oars. I’ll sit in the stern.”

Pepe pushed off, jumped to his place, and grasped the oars. Ken was

delighted to find the boat trim, and more buoyant than he had dared to

hope.

“We’re off,” cried Hal, and he whooped. And George exercised his already

well-developed faculty of imitating Hal.

Pepe bent to the oars, and under his powerful strokes the boat glided

up-stream. Soon the bridge disappeared. Ken had expected a long, shady

ride, but it did not turn out so. Shallow water and gravelly rapids made

rowing impossible.

“Pile out, boys, and pull,” said Ken.

The boys had dressed for wading and rough work, and went overboard with

a will. Pulling, at first, was not hard work. They were fresh and

eager, and hauled the boat up swift, shallow channels, making nearly as

good time as when rowing in smooth water. Then, as the sun began to get

hot, splashing in the cool river was pleasant. They passed little

islands green with willows and came to high clay-banks gradually wearing

away, and then met with rocky restrictions in the stream-bed. From

round a bend came a hollow roar of a deeper rapid. Ken found it a

swift-rushing incline, very narrow, and hard to pull along. The margin

of the river was hidden and obstructed by willows so that the boys could

see very little ahead.

When they got above this fall the water was deep and still. Entering

the boat again, they turned a curve into a long, beautiful stretch of

river.

“Ah! this ’s something like,” said Hal.

The green, shady lane was alive with birds and water-fowl. Ducks of

various kinds rose before the boat. White, blue, gray, and speckled

herons, some six feet tall, lined the low bars, and flew only at near

approach. There were many varieties of bitterns, one kind with a purple

back and white breast. They were very tame and sat on the overhanging

branches, uttering dismal croaks. Everywhere was the flash and glitter

and gleam of birds in flight, up and down and across the river.

Hal took his camera and tried to get pictures.

The strangeness, beauty, and life of this jungle stream absorbed Ken.

He did not take his guns from their cases. The water was bright green

and very deep; here and there were the swirls of playing fish. The

banks were high and densely covered with a luxuriant foliage. Huge

cypress-trees, moss-covered, leaned half-way across the river. Giant

gray-barked ceibas spread long branches thickly tufted with aloes,

orchids, and other jungle parasites. Palm-trees lifted slender stems

and graceful broad-leaved heads. Clumps of bamboo spread an enormous

green arch out over the banks. These bamboo-trees were particularly

beautiful to Ken. A hundred yellow, black-circled stems grew out of the

ground close together, and as they rose high they gracefully leaned

their bodies and drooped their tips. The leaves were arrowy, exquisite

in their fineness.

He looked up the long river-lane, bright in the sun, dark and still

under the moss-veiled cypresses, at the turning vines and blossoming

creepers, at the changeful web of moving birds, and indulged to the

fullest that haunting sense for wild places.

“Chicalocki,” said Pepe, suddenly.

A flock of long-tailed birds, resembling the pheasant in body, was

sailing across the river. Again George made a dive for a gun. This one

was a sixteen-gage and worn out. He shot twice at the birds on the wing.

Then Pepe rowed under the overhanging branches, and George killed three

_chicalocki_ with his rifle. They were olive green in color, and the

long tail had a brownish cast. Heavy and plump, they promised fine

eating.

“Pato real!” yelled Pepe, pointing excitedly up the river.

Several black fowl, as large as geese, hove in sight, flying pretty low.

Ken caught a glimpse of wide, white-crested wings, and knew then that

these were the birds he had seen.

“Load up and get ready,” he said to George. “They’re coming fast--shoot

ahead of them.”

How swift and powerful they were on the wing! They swooped up when they

saw the boat, and offered a splendid target. The little sixteen-gage

rang out. Ken heard the shot strike. The leader stopped in midair,

dipped, and plunged with a sounding splash. Ken picked him up and found

him to be most beautiful, and as large and heavy as a goose. His black

feathers shone with the latent green luster of an opal, and the pure

white of the shoulder of the wings made a remarkable contrast.

“George, we’ve got enough meat for to-day, more than we can use. Don’t

shoot any more,” said Ken.

Pepe resumed rowing, and Ken told him to keep under the overhanging

branches and to row without splashing. He was skilled in the use of the

oars, so the boat glided along silently. Ken felt he was rewarded for

this stealth. Birds of rare and brilliant plumage flitted among the

branches. There was one, a long, slender bird, gold and black with a

white ring round its neck. There were little yellow-breasted

kingfishers no larger than a wren, and great red-breasted kingfishers

with blue backs and tufted heads. The boat passed under a leaning

ceiba-tree that was covered with orchids. Ken saw the slim, sharp head

of a snake dart from among the leaves. His neck was as thick as Ken’s

wrist.

“What kind of a snake, Pepe?” whispered Ken, as he fingered the trigger

of George’s gun. But Pepe did not see the snake, and then Ken thought

better of disturbing the silence with a gunshot. He was reminded,

however, that the Texan had told him of snakes in this jungle, some of

which measured more than fifteen feet and were as large as a man’s leg.

Most of the way the bank was too high and steep and overgrown for any

animal to get down to the water. Still there were dry gullies, or

arroyos, every few hundred yards, and these showed the tracks of

animals, but Pepe could not tell what species from the boat. Often Ken

heard the pattering of hard feet, and then he would see a little cloud

of dust in one of these drinking-places. So he cautioned Pepe to row

slower and closer in to the bank.

“Look there! lemme out!” whispered Hal, and he seemed to be on the point

of jumping overboard.

“Coons,” said George. “Oh, a lot of them. There--some young ones.”

Ken saw that they had come abruptly upon a band of racoons, not less

than thirty in number, some big, some little, and a few like tiny balls

of fur, and all had long white-ringed tails. What a scampering the big

ones set up! The little ones were frightened, and the smallest so tame

they scarcely made any effort to escape. Pepe swung the boat in to the

bank, and reaching out he caught a baby racoon and handed it to Hal.

“Whoop! We’ll catch things and tame them,” exclaimed Hal, much

delighted, and he proceeded to tie the little racoon under the seat.

“Sure, we’ll get a whole menagerie,” said George.

So they went on up-stream. Often Ken motioned Pepe to stop in dark,

cool places under the golden-green canopy of bamboos. He was as much

fascinated by the beautiful foliage and tree growths as by the wild

life. Hal appeared more taken up with the fluttering of birds in the

thick jungle, rustlings, and soft, stealthy steps. Then as they moved

on Ken whispered and pointed out a black animal vanishing in the

thicket. Three times he caught sight of a spotted form slipping away in

the shade. George saw it the last time, and whispered: “Tiger-cat!

Let’s get him.”

“What’s that, Ken, a kind of a wildcat?” asked Hal.

“Yes.” Ken took George’s .32-caliber and tried to find a way up the

bank. There was no place to climb up unless he dragged himself up

branches of trees or drooping bamboos, and this he did not care to

attempt encumbered with a rifle. Only here and there could he see over

the matted roots and creepers. Then the sound of rapids put hunting out

of his mind.

“Boys, we’ve got Micas Falls to reach,” he said, and told Pepe to row

on.

The long stretch of deep river ended in a wide, shallow, noisy rapid.

Fir-trees lined the banks. The palms, cypresses, bamboos, and the

flowery, mossy growths were not here in evidence. Thickly wooded hills

rose on each side. The jungle looked sear and yellow.

The boys began to wade up the rapid, and before they had reached the

head of it Pepe yelled and jumped back from where he was wading at the

bow. He took an oar and began to punch at something in the water, at

the same time calling out.

“Crocodile!” cried George, and he climbed in the boat. Hal was not slow

in following suit. Then Ken saw Pepe hitting a small crocodile, which

lashed out with its tail and disappeared.

“Come out of there,” called Ken to the boys. “We can’t pull you

up-stream.”

“Say, I don’t want to step on one of those ugly brutes,” protested Hal.

“Look sharp, then. Come out.”

Above the rapid extended a quarter-mile stretch where Pepe could row,

and beyond that another long rapid. When the boys had waded up that it

was only to come to another. It began to be hard work. But Ken kept

the boys buckled down, and they made fair progress. They pulled up

through eighteen rapids, and covered distance that Ken estimated to be

about ten miles. The blue mountain loomed closer and higher, yet Ken

began to have doubts of reaching Micas Falls that day.

Moreover, as they ascended the stream, the rapids grew rougher.

“It’ll be great coming down,” panted Hal.

Finally they reached a rapid which had long dinned in Ken’s ears. All

the water in the river rushed down on the right-hand side through a

channel scarcely twenty feet wide. It was deep and swift. With the aid

of ropes, and by dint of much hard wading and pulling, the boys got the

boat up. A little farther on was another bothersome rapid. At last

they came to a succession of falls, steps in the river, that barred

farther advance up-stream.

Here Ken climbed up on the bank, to find the country hilly and open,

with patches of jungle and palm groves leading up to the mountains.

Then he caught a glint of Micas Falls, and decided that it would be

impossible to get there. He made what observations he could, and

returned to camp.

“Boys, here’s where we stop,” said Ken. “It’ll be all down-stream now,

and I’m glad.”

There was no doubt that the boys were equally glad. They made camp on a

grassy bench above a foam-flecked pool. Ken left the others to get

things in shape for supper, and, taking his camera, he hurried off to

try to get a picture of Micas Falls. He found open places and by-paths

through the brushy forest. He saw evidences of forest fire, and then

knew what had ruined that part of the jungle. There were no birds. It

was farther than he had estimated to the foothill he had marked, but,

loath to give up, he kept on and finally reached a steep, thorny ascent.

Going up he nearly suffocated with heat. He felt rewarded for his

exertions when he saw Micas Falls glistening in the distance. It was

like a string of green fans connected by silver ribbons. He remained

there watching it while the sun set in the golden notch between the

mountains.

On the way back to camp he waded through a flat overgrown with coarse

grass and bushes. Here he jumped a herd of deer, eight in number. These

small, sleek, gray deer appeared tame, and if there had been sufficient

light, Ken would have photographed them. It cost him an effort to

decide not to fetch his rifle, but as he had meat enough in camp there

was nothing to do except let the deer go.

When he got back to the river Pepe grinned at him, and, pointing to

little red specks on his shirt, he said:

“Pinilius.”

“Aha! the ticks!” exclaimed Ken.

They were exceedingly small, not to be seen without close scrutiny.

They could not be brushed off, so Ken began laboriously to pick them

off. Pepe and George laughed, and Hal appeared to derive some sort of

enjoyment from the incident.

“Say, these ticks don’t bother me any,” declared Ken.

Pepe grunted; and George called out, “Just wait till you get the big

fellows--the garrapatoes.”

It developed presently that the grass and bushes on the camp-site

contained millions of the ticks. Ken found several of the larger

ticks--almost the size of his little finger-nail--but he did not get

bitten. Pepe and George, however, had no such good luck, as was

manifested at different times. By the time they had cut down the bushes

and carried in a stock of fire-wood, both were covered with the little

pests. Hal found a spot where there appeared to be none, and here he

stayed.

Pepe and George had the bad habit of smoking, and Ken saw them burning

the ticks off shirt-sleeves and trousers-legs, using the fiery end of

their cigarettes. This feat did not puzzle Ken anything like the one

where they held the red point of the cigarettes close to their naked

flesh. Ken, and Hal, too, had to see that performance at close range.

“Why do you do that?” asked Ken.

“Popping ticks,” replied George. He and Pepe were as sober as judges.

The fact of the matter was soon clear to Ken. The ticks stuck on as if

glued. When the hot end of the burning cigarette was held within a

quarter of an inch of them they simply blew up, exploded with a pop.

Ken could easily distinguish between the tiny pop of an exploding

_pinilius_ and the heavier pop of a _garrapato_.

“But, boy, while you’re taking time to do that, half a dozen other ticks

can bite you!” exclaimed Ken.

“Sure they can,” replied George. “But if they get on me I’ll kill ’em.

I don’t mind the little ones--it’s the big boys I hate.”

On the other hand, Pepe seemed to mind most the _pinilius_.

“Say, from now on you fellows will be Garrapato George and Pinilius

Pepe.”

“Pretty soon you’ll laugh on the other side of your face,” said George.

“In three days you’ll be popping ticks yourself.”

Just then Hal let out a yell and began to hunt for a tick that had bit

him. If there was anything that could bother Hal Ward it was a crawling

bug of some kind.

“I’ll have to christen you too, brother,” said Ken, gurgling with mirth.

“A very felicitous name--Hollering Hal!”

Despite the humor of the thing, Ken really saw its serious side. When

he found the grass under his feet alive with ticks he cast about in his

mind for some way to get rid of them. And he hit upon a remedy. On the

ridge above the bench was a palm-tree, and under it were many dead palm

leaves. These were large in size, had long stems, and were as dry as

tinder. Ken lighted one, and it made a flaming hot torch. It did not

take him long to scorch all the ticks near that camp.

The boys had supper and enjoyed it hugely. The scene went well with the

camp-fire and game-dinner. They gazed out over the foaming pool, the

brawling rapids, to the tufted palm-trees, and above them the dark-blue

mountain. At dusk Hal and George were so tired they went to bed and at

once dropped into slumber. Pepe sat smoking before the slumbering fire.

And Ken chose that quiet hour to begin the map of the river, and to set

down in his note-book his observations on the mountains and in the

valley, and what he had seen that day of bird, animal, and plant life in

the jungle.

*VII*

*RUNNING THE RAPIDS*

Some time in the night a yell awakened Ken. He sat up, clutching his

revolver. The white moonlight made all as clear as day. Hal lay deep in

slumber. George was raising himself, half aroused. But Pepe was gone.

Ken heard a thrashing about outside. Leaping up he ran out, and was

frightened to see Pepe beating and clawing and tearing at himself like a

man possessed of demons.

“Pepe, what’s wrong?” shouted Ken.

It seemed that Pepe only grew more violent in his wrestling about. Then

Ken was sure Pepe had been stung by a scorpion or bitten by a snake.

But he was dumfounded to see George bound like an apparition out of the

tent and begin evolutions that made Pepe’s look slow.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you jumping-jacks?” yelled Ken.

George was as grimly silent as an Indian running the gantlet, but Ken

thought it doubtful if any Indian ever slapped and tore at his body in

George’s frantic manner. To add to the mystery Hal suddenly popped out

of the tent. He was yelling in a way to do justice to the name Ken had

lately given him, and, as for wild and whirling antics, his were simply

marvelous.

“Good land!” ejaculated Ken. Had the boys all gone mad? Despite his

alarm, Ken had to roar with laughter at those three dancing figures in

the moonlight. A rush of ideas went through Ken’s confused mind. And

the last prompted him to look in the tent.

He saw a wide bar of black crossing the moonlit ground, the grass, and

the blankets. This bar moved. It was alive. Bending low Ken descried

that it was made by ants. An army of jungle ants on a march! They had

come in a straight line along the base of the little hill and their

passageway led under the canvas. Pepe happened to be the first in line,

and they had surged over him. As he had awakened, and jumped up of

course, the ants had begun to bite. The same in turn happened to George

and then Hal.

Ken was immensely relieved, and had his laugh out. The stream of ants

moved steadily and quite rapidly, and soon passed from sight. By this

time Pepe and the boys had threshed themselves free of ants and into

some degree of composure.

“Say, you nightmare fellows! Come back to bed,” said Ken. “Any one

would think something had really happened to you.”

Pepe snorted, which made Ken think the native understood something of

English. And the boys grumbled loudly.

“Ants! Ants as big as wasps! They bit worse than helgramites,”

declared Hal. “Oh, they missed you. You always are lucky. I’m not

afraid of all the old jaguars in this jungle. But I can’t stand biting,

crawling bugs. I wish you hadn’t made me come on this darn trip.”

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Ken.

“Just wait, Hal,” put in George, grimly. “Just wait. It’s coming to

him!”

The boys slept well the remainder of the night and, owing to the break

in their rest, did not awaken early. The sun shone hot when Ken rolled

out; a creamy mist was dissolving over the curve of the mountain-range;

parrots were screeching in the near-by trees.

After breakfast Ken set about packing the boat as it had been done the

day before.

“I think we’ll do well to leave the trunk in the boat after this, unless

we find a place where we want to make a permanent camp for a while,”

said Ken.

Before departing he carefully looked over the ground to see that nothing

was left, and espied a heavy fish-line which George had baited, set, and

forgotten.

“Hey, George, pull up your trot-line. It looks pretty much stretched to

me. Maybe you’ve got a fish.”

Ken happened to be busy at the boat when George started to take in the

line. An exclamation from Pepe, George’s yell, and a loud splash made

Ken jump up in double-quick time. Hal also came running.

George was staggering on the bank, leaning back hard on the heavy line.

A long, angry swirl in the pool told of a powerful fish. It was likely

to pull George in.

“Let go the line!” yelled Ken.

But George was not letting go of any fish-lines. He yelled for Pepe,

and went down on his knees before Pepe got to him. Both then pulled on

the line. The fish, or whatever it was at the other end, gave a mighty

jerk that almost dragged the two off the bank.

“Play him, play him!” shouted Ken. “You’ve got plenty of line. Give him

some.”

Hal now added his weight and strength, and the three of them, unmindful

of Ken’s advice, hauled back with might and main. The line parted and

they sprawled on the grass.

“What a sockdologer!” exclaimed Hal.

“I had that hook baited with a big piece of duck meat,” said George.

“We must have been hooked to a crocodile. Things are happening to us.”

“Yes, so I’ve noticed,” replied Ken, dryly. “But if you fellows hadn’t

pulled so hard you might have landed that thing, whatever it was. All

aboard now. We must be on the move--we don’t know what we have before

us.”

When they got into the boat Ken took the oars, much to Pepe’s surprise.

It was necessary to explain to him that Ken would handle the boat in

swift water. They shoved off, and Ken sent one regretful glance up the

river, at the shady aisle between the green banks, at the white rapids,

and the great colored dome of the mountain. He almost hesitated, for he

desired to see more of that jungle-covered mountain. But something

already warned Ken to lose no time in the trip down the Santa Rosa.

There did not seem to be any reason for hurry, yet he felt it necessary.

But he asked Pepe many questions and kept George busy interpreting names

of trees and flowers and wild creatures.

Going down-stream on any river, mostly, would have been pleasure, but

drifting on the swift current of the Santa Rosa and rowing under the

wonderful moss-bearded cypresses was almost like a dream. It was too

beautiful to seem real. The smooth stretch before the first rapid was

short, however, and then all Ken’s attention had to be given to the

handling of the boat. He saw that George and Pepe both expected to get

out and wade down the rapids as they had waded up. He had a surprise in

store for them. The rapids that he could not shoot would have to be

pretty bad.

“You’re getting close,” shouted George, warningly.

With two sweeps of the oars Ken turned the boat stern first down-stream,

then dipped on the low green incline, and sailed down toward the waves.

They struck the first wave with a shock, and the water flew all over the

boys. Pepe was tremendously excited; he yelled and made wild motions

with his hands; George looked a little frightened. Hal enjoyed it.

Whatever the rapid appeared to them, it was magnificent to Ken; and it

was play to manage the boat in such water. A little pull on one oar and

then on the other kept the stern straight down-stream. The channel he

could make out a long way ahead. He amused himself by watching George

and Pepe. There were stones in the channel, and the water rose angrily

about them. A glance was enough to tell that he could float over these

without striking. But the boys thought they were going to hit every

stone, and were uneasy all the time. Twice he had to work to pass

ledges and sunken trees upon which the current bore down hard. When Ken

neared one of these he dipped the oars and pulled back to stop or lessen

the momentum; then a stroke turned the boat half broadside to the

current. That would force it to one side, and another stroke would turn

the boat straight. At the bottom of this rapid they encountered a long

triangle of choppy waves that they bumped and splashed over. They came

through with nothing wet but the raised flap of canvas in the stern.

Pepe regarded Ken with admiring eyes, and called him _grande mozo_.

“Shooting rapids is great sport,” proclaimed George.

They drifted through several little rifts, and then stopped at the head

of the narrow chute that had been such a stumbling-block on the way up.

Looked at from above, this long, narrow channel, with several S curves,

was a fascinating bit of water for a canoeist. It tempted Ken to shoot

it even with the boat. But he remembered the four-foot waves at the

bottom, and besides he resented the importunity of the spirit of daring

so early in the game. Risk, and perhaps peril, would come soon enough.

So he decided to walk along the shore and float the boat through with a

rope.

The thing looked a good deal easier than it turned out to be. Half-way

through, at the narrowest point and most abrupt curve, Pepe

misunderstood directions and pulled hard on the bow-rope, when he should

have let it slack.

The boat swung in, nearly smashing Ken against the bank, and the

sweeping current began to swell dangerously near the gunwale.

“Let go! Let go!” yelled Ken. “George, make him let go!”

But George, who was trying to get the rope out of Pepe’s muscular hands,

suddenly made a dive for his rifle.

“Deer! deer!” he cried, hurriedly throwing a shell into the chamber. He

shot downstream, and Ken, looking that way, saw several deer under the

firs on a rocky flat. George shot three more times, and the bullets

went “spinging” into the trees. The deer bounded out of sight.

When Ken turned again, water was roaring into the boat. He was being

pressed harder into the bank, and he saw disaster ahead.

“Loosen the rope--tell him, George,” yelled Ken.

Pepe only pulled the harder.

“Quick, or we’re ruined,” cried Ken.

George shouted in Spanish, and Pepe promptly dropped the rope in the

water. That was the worst thing he could have done.

“Grab the rope!” ordered Ken, wildly. “Grab the bow! Don’t let it swing

out! Hal!”

Before either boy could reach it the bow swung out into the current.

Ken was not only helpless, but in a dangerous position. He struggled to

get out from where the swinging stern was wedging him into the bank, but

could not budge. Fearing that all the outfit would be lost in the

river, he held on to the boat and called for some one to catch the rope.

George pushed Pepe head first into the swift current. Pepe came up,

caught the rope, and then went under again. The boat swung round and,

now half full of water, got away from Ken. It gathered headway. Ken

leaped out on the ledge and ran along with the boat. It careened round

the bad curve and shot down-stream. Pepe was still under water.

“He’s drowned! He’s drowned!” cried George.

Hal took a header right off the ledge, came up, and swam with a few

sharp strokes to the drifting boat. He gained the bow, grasped it, and

then pulled on the rope.

Ken had a sickening feeling that Pepe might be drowned. Suddenly Pepe

appeared like a brown porpoise. He was touching bottom in places and

holding back on the rope. Then the current rolled him over and over. The

boat drifted back of a rocky point into shallow water. Hal gave a haul

that helped to swing it out of the dangerous current. Then Pepe came up,

and he, too, pulled hard. Just as Ken plunged in the boat sank in two

feet of water. Ken’s grip, containing camera, films, and other

perishable goods, was on top, and he got it just in time. He threw it

out on the rocks. Then together the boys lifted the boat and hauled the

bow well up on the shore.

“Pretty lucky!” exclaimed Ken, as he flopped down.

“Doggone it!” yelled Hal, suddenly. And he dove for the boat, and

splashed round in the water under his seat, to bring forth a very limp

and drenched little racoon.

“Good! he’s all right,” said Ken.

Pepe said “Mucho malo,” and pointed to his shins, which bore several

large bumps from contact with the rocks in the channel.

“I should say mucha malo,” growled George.

He jerked open his grip, and, throwing out articles of wet clothing--for

which he had no concern--he gazed in dismay at his whole store of

cigarettes wet by the water.

“So that’s all you care for,” said Ken, severely. “Young man, I’ll have

something to say to you presently. All hands now to unpack the boat.”

Fortunately nothing had been carried away. That part of the supplies

which would have been affected by water was packed in tin cases, and so

suffered no damage. The ammunition was waterproof. Ken’s Parker

hammerless and his 351 automatic rifle were full of water, and so were

George’s guns and Hal’s. While they took their weapons apart, wiped

them, and laid them in the sun, Pepe spread out the rest of the things

and then baled out the boat. The sun was so hot that everything dried

quickly and was not any the worse for the wetting. The boys lost

scarcely an hour by the accident. Before the start Ken took George and

Pepe to task, and when he finished they were both very sober and quiet.

Ken observed, however, that by the time they had run the next rapid they

were enjoying themselves again. Then came a long succession of rapids

which Ken shot without anything approaching a mishap. When they drifted

into the level stretch Pepe relieved him at the oars. They glided

down-stream under the drooping bamboo, under the silken streamers of

silvery moss, under the dark, cool bowers of matted vine and blossoming

creepers. And as they passed this time the jungle silence awoke to the

crack of George’s .22 and the discordant cry of river fowl. Ken’s guns

were both at hand, and the rifle was loaded, but he did not use either.

He contented himself with snapping a picture here and there and watching

the bamboo thickets and the mouths of the little dry ravines.

That ride was again so interesting, so full of sound and action and

color, that it seemed a very short one. The murmur of the water on the

rocks told Ken that it was time to change seats with Pepe. They drifted

down two short rapids, and then came to the gravelly channels between

the islands noted on the way up. The water was shallow down these

rippling channels; and, fearing they might strike a stone, Ken tumbled

out over the bow and, wading slowly, let the boat down to still water

again. He was about to get in when he espied what he thought was an

alligator lying along a log near the river. He pointed it out to Pepe.

That worthy yelled gleefully in Mexican, and reached for his _machete_.

“Iguana!” exclaimed George. “I’ve heard it’s good to eat.”

The reptile had a body about four feet long and a very long tail. Its

color was a steely blue-black on top, and it had a blunt, rounded head.

Pepe slipped out of the boat and began to wade ashore. When the iguana

raised itself on short, stumpy legs George shot at it, and missed, as

usual. But he effectually frightened the reptile, which started to

climb the bank with much nimbleness. Pepe began to run, brandishing his

long _machete_. George plunged into the water in hot pursuit, and then

Hal yielded to the call of the chase. Pepe reached the iguana before it

got up the bank, aimed a mighty blow with his _machete_, and would

surely have cut the reptile in two pieces if the blade had not caught on

an overhanging branch. Then Pepe fell up the bank and barely grasped

the tail of the iguana. Pepe hauled back, and Pepe was powerful. The

frantic creature dug its feet in the clay-bank and held on for dear

life. But Pepe was too strong. He jerked the iguana down and flung it

square upon George, who had begun to climb the bank.

George uttered an awful yell, as if he expected to be torn asunder, and

rolled down, with the reptile on top of him. Ken saw that it was as

badly frightened as George. But Hal did not see this. And he happened

to have gained a little sand-bar below the bank, in which direction the

iguana started with wonderful celerity. Then Hal made a jump that Ken

believed was a record.

Remarkably awkward as that iguana was, he could surely cover ground with

his stumpy legs. Again he dashed up the bank. Pepe got close enough

once more, and again he swung the _machete_. The blow cut off a piece

of the long tail, but the only effect this produced was to make the

iguana run all the faster. It disappeared over the bank, with Pepe

scrambling close behind. Then followed a tremendous crashing in the dry

thickets, after which the iguana could be heard rattling and tearing

away through the jungle. Pepe returned to the boat with the crestfallen

boys, and he was much concerned over the failure to catch the big

lizard, which he said made fine eating.

“What next?” asked George, ruefully, and at that the boys all laughed.

“The fun is we don’t have any idea what’s coming off,” said Hal.

“Boys, if you brave hunters had thought to throw a little salt on that

lizard’s tail you might have caught him,” added Ken.

Presently Pepe espied another iguana in the forks of a tree, and he

rowed ashore. This lizard was only a small one, not over two feet in

length, but he created some excitement among the boys. George wanted

him to eat, and Hal wanted the skin for a specimen, and Ken wanted to

see what the lizard looked like close at hand. So they all clamored for

Pepe to use caution and to be quick.

When Pepe started up the tree the iguana came down on the other side,

quick as a squirrel. Then they had a race round the trunk until Pepe

ended it with a well-directed blow from his _machete_.

Hal began to skin the iguana.

“Ken, I’m going to have trouble preserving specimens in this hot place,”

he said.

“Salt and alum will do the trick. Remember what old Hiram used to say,”

replied Ken.

Shortly after that the boat passed the scene of the first camp, and then

drifted under the railroad bridge.

Hal and George, and Pepe too, looked as if they were occupied with the

same thought troubling Ken--that once beyond the bridge they would

plunge into the jungle wilderness from which there could be no turning

back.

*VIII*

*THE FIRST TIGER-CAT*

The Santa Rosa opened out wide, and ran swiftly over smooth rock. Deep

cracks, a foot or so wide, crossed the river diagonally, and fish darted

in and out.

The boys had about half a mile of this, when, after turning a hilly

bend, they entered a long rapid. It was a wonderful stretch of river to

look down.

“By George!” said Ken, as he stood up to survey it. “This is great!”

“It’s all right _now_,” added George, with his peculiar implication as

to the future.

“What gets me is the feeling of what might be round the next bend,” said

Hal.

This indeed, Ken thought, made the fascination of such travel. The

water was swift and smooth and shallow. There was scarcely a wave or

ripple. At times the boat stuck fast on the flat rock, and the boys

would have to get out to shove off. As far ahead as Ken could see

extended this wide slant of water. On the left rose a thick line of

huge cypresses all festooned with gray moss that drooped to the water;

on the right rose a bare bluff of crumbling rock. It looked like blue

clay baked and cracked by the sun. A few palms fringed the top.

“Say, we can beat this,” said Ken, as for the twentieth time the boys

had to step out and shove off a flat, shallow place. “Two of you in the

bow and Pepe with me in the stern, feet overboard.”

The little channels ran every way, making it necessary often to turn the

boat. Ken’s idea was to drift along and keep the boat from grounding by

an occasional kick.

“Ken manages to think of something once in a while,” observed Hal.

Then the boat drifted down-stream, whirling round and round. Here Pepe

would drop his brown foot in and kick his end clear of a shallow ledge;

there George would make a great splash when his turn came to ward off

from a rock; and again Hal would give a greater kick than was necessary

to the righting of the boat. Probably Hal was much influenced by the

fact that when he kicked hard he destroyed the lazy equilibrium of his

companions.

It dawned upon Ken that here was a new and unique way to travel down a

river. It was different from anything he had ever tried before. The

water was swift and seldom more than a foot deep, except in diagonal

cracks that ribbed the river-bed. This long, shut-in stretch appeared

to be endless. But for the quick, gliding movement of the boat, which

made a little breeze, the heat would have been intolerable. When one of

Hal’s kicks made Ken lurch overboard to sit down ludicrously, the cool

water sent thrills over him. Instead of retaliating on Hal, he was glad

to be wet. And the others, soon discovering the reason for Ken’s

remarkable good-nature, went overboard and lay flat in the cool ripples.

Then little clouds of steam began to rise from their soaked clothes.

Ken began to have an idea that he had been wise in boiling the water

which they drank. They all suffered from a parching thirst. Pepe scooped

up water in his hand; George did likewise, and then Hal.

“You’ve all got to stop that,” ordered Ken, sharply. “No drinking this

water unless it’s boiled.”

The boys obeyed, for the hour, but they soon forgot, or deliberately

allayed their thirst despite Ken’s command. Ken himself found his

thirst unbearable. He squeezed the juice of a wild lime into a cup of

water and drank that. Then he insisted on giving the boys doses of

quinine and anti-malaria pills, which treatment he meant to continue

daily.

Toward the lower part of that rapid, where the water grew deeper, fish

began to be so numerous that the boys kicked at many as they darted

under the boat. There were thousands of small fish and some large ones.

Occasionally, as a big fellow lunged for a crack in the rock, he would

make the water roar. There was a fish that resembled a mullet, and

another that Hal said was some kind of bass with a blue tail. Pepe

chopped at them with his _machete_; George whacked with an oar; Hal

stood up in the boat and shot at them with his .22 rifle.

“Say, I’ve got to see what that blue-tailed bass looks like,” said Ken.

“You fellows will never get one.”

Whereupon Ken jointed up a small rod and, putting on a spinner, began to

cast it about. He felt two light fish hit it. Then came a heavy shock

that momentarily checked the boat. The water foamed as the line cut

through, and Ken was just about to jump off the boat to wade and follow

the fish, when it broke the leader.

“That was a fine exhibition,” remarked the critical Hal.

“What’s the matter with you?” retorted Ken, who was sensitive as to his

fishing abilities. “It was a big fish. He broke things.”

“Haven’t you got a reel on that rod and fifty yards of line?” queried

Hal.

Ken did not have another spinner, and he tried an artificial minnow, but

could not get a strike on it. He took Hal’s gun and shot at several of

the blue-tailed fish, but though he made them jump out of the water like

a real northern black-bass, it was all of no avail.

Then Hal caught one with a swoop of the landing net. It was a beautiful

fish, and it did have a blue tail. Pepe could not name it, nor could

Ken classify it, so Hal was sure he had secured a rare specimen.

When the boat drifted round a bend to enter another long, wide, shallow

rapid, the boys demurred a little at the sameness of things. The bare

blue bluffs persisted, and the line of gray-veiled cypresses and the

strange formation of stream-bed. Five more miles of drifting under the

glaring sun made George and Hal lie back in the boat, under an

improvised sun-shade. The ride was novel and strange to Ken Ward, and

did not pall upon him, though he suffered from the heat and glare. He

sat on the bow, occasionally kicking the boat off a rock.

All at once a tense whisper from Pepe brought Ken round with a jerk.

Pepe was pointing down along the right-hand shore. George heard, and,

raising himself, called excitedly: “Buck! buck!”

Ken saw a fine deer leap back from the water and start to climb the side

of a gully that indented the bluff. Snatching up the .351 rifle, he

shoved in the safety catch. The distance was far--perhaps two hundred

yards--but without elevating the sights he let drive. A cloud of dust

puffed up under the nose of the climbing deer.

“Wow!” yelled George, and Pepe began to jabber. Hal sprang up, nearly

falling overboard, and he shouted: “Give it to him, Ken!”

The deer bounded up a steep, winding trail, his white flag standing, his

reddish coat glistening. Ken fired again. The bullet sent up a white

puff of dust, this time nearer still. That shot gave Ken the range, and

he pulled the automatic again--and again. Each bullet hit closer. The

boys were now holding their breath, watching, waiting. Ken aimed a

little firmer and finer at the space ahead of the deer--for in that

instant he remembered what the old hunter on Penetier had told him--and

he pulled the trigger twice.

The buck plunged down, slipped off the trail, and, raising a cloud of

dust, rolled over and over. Then it fell sheer into space, and whirled

down to strike the rock with a sodden crash.

It was Ken’s first shooting on this trip, and he could not help adding a

cry of exultation to the yells of his admiring comrades.

“Guess you didn’t plug him!” exclaimed Hal Ward, with flashing eyes.

Wading, the boys pulled the boat ashore. Pepe pronounced the buck to be

very large, but to Ken, remembering the deer in Coconino Forest, it

appeared small. If there was an unbroken bone left in that deer, Ken

greatly missed his guess. He and Pepe cut out the haunch least crushed

by the fail.

“There’s no need to carry along more meat than we can use,” said George.

“It spoils overnight. That’s the worst of this jungle, I’ve heard

hunters say.”

Hal screwed up his face in the manner he affected when he tried to

imitate old Hiram Bent. “Wal, youngster, I reckon I’m right an’ down

proud of thet shootin’. You air comin’ along.”

Ken was as pleased as Hal, but he replied, soberly: “Well, kid, I hope I

can hold as straight as that when we run up against a jaguar.”

“Do you think we’ll see one?” asked Hal.

“Just you wait!” exclaimed George, replying for Ken. “Pepe says we’ll

have to sleep in the boat, and anchor the boat in the middle of the

river.”

“What for?”

“To keep those big yellow tigers from eating us up.”

“How nice!” replied Hal, with a rather forced laugh.

So, talking and laughing, the boys resumed their down-stream journey.

Ken, who was always watching with sharp eyes, saw buzzards appear, as if

by magic. Before the boat was half a mile down the river buzzards were

circling over the remains of the deer. These birds of prey did not fly

from the jungle on either side of the stream. They sailed, dropped down

from the clear blue sky where they had been invisible. How wonderful

that was to Ken! Nature had endowed these vulture-like birds with

wonderful scent or instinct or sight, or all combined. But Ken believed

that it was power of sight which brought the buzzards so quickly to the

scene of the killing. He watched them circling, sweeping down till a

curve in the river hid them from view.

And with this bend came a welcome change. The bluff played out in a

rocky slope below which the green jungle was relief to aching eyes. As

the boys made this point, the evening breeze began to blow. They

beached the boat and unloaded to make camp.

“We haven’t had any work to-day, but we’re all tired just the same,”

observed Ken.

“The heat makes a fellow tired,” said George.

They were fortunate in finding a grassy plot where there appeared to be

but few ticks and other creeping things. That evening it was a little

surprise to Ken to realize how sensitive he had begun to feel about

these jungle vermin.

Pepe went up the bank for fire-wood. Ken heard him slashing away with

his _machete_. Then this sound ceased, and Pepe yelled in fright. Ken

and George caught up guns as they bounded into the thicket; Hal started

to follow, likewise armed. Ken led the way through a thorny brake to

come suddenly upon Pepe. At the same instant Ken caught a glimpse of

gray, black-striped forms slipping away in the jungle. Pepe shouted out

something.

“Tiger-cats!” exclaimed George.

Ken held up his finger to enjoin silence. With that he stole cautiously

forward, the others noiselessly at his heels. The thicket was lined

with well-beaten trails, and by following these and stooping low it was

possible to go ahead without rustling the brush. Owing to the gathering

twilight Ken could not see very far. When he stopped to listen he heard

the faint crackling of dead brush and soft, quick steps. He had not

proceeded far when pattering footsteps halted him. Ken dropped to his

knee. The boys knelt behind him, and Pepe whispered. Peering along the

trail Ken saw what he took for a wildcat. Its boldness amazed him.

Surely it had heard him, but instead of bounding into the thicket it

crouched not more than twenty-five feet away. Ken took a quick shot at

the gray huddled form. It jerked, stretched out, and lay still. Then a

crashing in the brush, and gray streaks down the trail told Ken of more

game.

“There they go. Peg away at them,” called Ken.

George and Hal burned a good deal of powder and sent much lead whistling

through the dry branches, but the gray forms vanished in the jungle.

“We got one, anyway,” said Ken.

He advanced to find his quarry quite dead. It was bigger than any

wildcat Ken had ever seen. The color was a grayish yellow, almost

white, lined and spotted with black. Ken lifted it and found it heavy

enough to make a good load.

“He’s a beauty,” said Hal.

“Pepe says it’s a tiger-cat,” remarked George. “There are two or three

kinds besides the big tiger. We may run into a lot of them and get some

skins.”

It was almost dark when they reached camp. While Pepe and Hal skinned

the tiger-cat and stretched the pelt over a framework of sticks the

other boys got supper. They were all very hungry and tired, and pleased

with the events of the day. As they sat round the camp-fire there was a

constant whirring of water-fowl over their heads and an incessant hum of

insects from the jungle.

“Ken, does it feel as wild to you here as on Buckskin Mountain?” asked

Hal.

“Oh yes, much wilder, Hal,” replied his brother. “And it’s different,

somehow. Out in Arizona there was always the glorious expectancy of

to-morrow’s fun or sport. Here I have a kind of worry--a feeling--”

But he concluded it wiser to keep to himself that strange feeling of

dread which came over him at odd moments.

“It suits me,” said Hal. “I want to get a lot of things and keep them

alive. Of course, I want specimens. I’d like some skins for my den,

too. But I don’t care so much about killing things.”

“Just wait!” retorted George, who evidently took Hal’s remark as a

reflection upon his weakness. “Just wait! You’ll be shooting pretty

soon for your life.”

“Now, George, what do you mean by that?” questioned Ken, determined to

pin George down to facts. “You said you didn’t really know anything

about this jungle. Why are you always predicting disaster for us?”

“Why? Because I’ve heard things about the jungle,” retorted George.

“And Pepe says wait till we get down off the mountain. He doesn’t _know_

anything, either. But it’s his instinct--Pepe’s half Indian. So I say,

too, wait till we get down in the jungle!”

“Confound you! Where are we now?” queried Ken.

“The real jungle is the lowland. There we’ll find the tigers and the

crocodiles and the wild cattle and wild pigs.”

“Bring on your old pigs and things,” replied Hal.

But Ken looked into the glowing embers of the camp-fire and was silent.

When he got out his note-book and began his drawing, he forgot the worry

and dread in the interest of his task. He was astonished at his memory,

to see how he could remember every turn in the river and yet not lose

his sense of direction. He could tell almost perfectly the distance

traveled, because he knew so well just how much a boat would cover in

swift or slow waters in a given time. He thought he could give a fairly

correct estimate of the drop of the river. And, as for descriptions of

the jungle life along the shores, that was a delight, all except trying

to understand and remember and spell the names given to him by Pepe.

Ken imagined Pepe spoke a mixture of Toltec, Aztec, Indian, Spanish, and

English.

*IX*

*IN THE WHITE WATER*

Upon awakening next morning Ken found the sun an hour high. He was

stiff and sore and thirsty. Pepe and the boys slept so soundly it

seemed selfish to wake them.

All around camp there was a melodious concourse of birds. But the

parrots did not make a visit that morning. While Ken was washing in the

river a troop of deer came down to the bar on the opposite side. Ken

ran for his rifle, and by mistake took up George’s .32. He had a

splendid shot at less than one hundred yards. But the bullet dropped

fifteen feet in front of the leading buck. The deer ran into the deep,

bushy willows.

“That gun’s leaded,” muttered Ken. “It didn’t shoot where I aimed.”

Pepe jumped up; George rolled out of his blanket with one eye still

glued shut; and Hal stretched and yawned and groaned.

“Do I have to get up?” he asked.

“Shore, lad,” said Ken, mimicking Jim Williams, “or I’ll hev to be

reconsiderin’ that idee of mine about you bein’ pards with me.”

Such mention of Hal’s ranger friend brought the boy out of his lazy bed

with amusing alacrity.

“Rustle breakfast, now, you fellows,” said Ken, and, taking his rifle,

he started off to climb the high river bluff.

It was his idea to establish firmly in mind the trend of the

mountain-range, and the relation of the river to it. The difficulty in

mapping the river would come after it left the mountains to wind away

into the wide lowlands. The matter of climbing the bluff would have

been easy but for the fact that he wished to avoid contact with grass,

brush, trees, even dead branches, as all were covered with ticks. The

upper half of the bluff was bare, and when he reached that part he soon

surmounted it. Ken faced south with something of eagerness.

Fortunately the mist had dissolved under the warm rays of the sun,

affording an unobstructed view. That scene was wild and haunting, yet

different from what his fancy had pictured. The great expanse of jungle

was gray, the green line of cypress, palm, and bamboo following the

southward course of the river. The mountain-range some ten miles

distant sloped to the south and faded away in the haze. The river

disappeared in rich dark verdure, and but for it, which afforded a

water-road back to civilization, Ken would have been lost in a dense

gray-green overgrowth of tropical wilderness. Once or twice he thought

he caught the faint roar of a waterfall on the morning breeze, yet could

not be sure, and he returned toward camp with a sober appreciation of

the difficulty of his enterprise and a more thrilling sense of its

hazard and charm.

“Didn’t see anything to peg at, eh?” greeted Hal. “Well, get your teeth

in some of this venison before it’s all gone.”

Soon they were under way again, Pepe strong and willing at the oars.

This time Ken had his rifle and shotgun close at hand, ready for use.

Half a mile below, the river, running still and deep, entered a shaded

waterway so narrow that in places the branches of wide-spreading and

leaning cypresses met and intertwined their moss-fringed foliage. This

lane was a paradise for birds, that ranged from huge speckled cranes,

six feet high, to little yellow birds almost too small to see.

Black squirrels were numerous and very tame. In fact, all the creatures

along this shaded stream were so fearless that it was easy to see they

had never heard a shot. Ken awoke sleepy cranes with his fishing-rod and

once pushed a blue heron off a log. He heard animals of some species

running back from the bank, out could not see them. All at once a soft

breeze coming up-stream bore a deep roar of tumbling rapids. The

sensation of dread which had bothered Ken occasionally now returned and

fixed itself in his mind. He was in the jungle of Mexico, and knew not

what lay ahead of him. But if he had been in the wilds of unexplored

Brazil and had heard that roar, it would have been familiar to him. In

his canoe experience on the swift streams of Pennsylvania Ken Ward had

learned, long before he came to rapids, to judge what they were from the

sound. His attention wandered from the beautiful birds, the moss-shaded

bowers, and the overhanging jungle. He listened to the heavy, sullen

roar of the rapids.

“That water sounds different,” remarked George.

“Grande,” said Pepe, with a smile.

“Pretty heavy, Ken, eh?” asked Hal, looking quickly at his brother.

But Ken Ward made his face a mask, and betrayed nothing of the grim

nature of his thought. Pepe and the boys had little idea of danger, and

they had now a blind faith in Ken.

“I dare say we’ll get used to that roar,” replied Ken, easily, and he

began to pack his guns away in their cases.

Hal forgot his momentary anxiety; Pepe rowed on, leisurely; and George

lounged in his seat. There was no menace for them in that dull,

continuous roar.

But Ken knew they would soon be in fast water and before long would drop

down into the real wilderness. It was not now too late to go back up

the river, but soon that would be impossible. Keeping a sharp lookout

ahead, Ken revolved in mind the necessity for caution and skilful

handling of the boat. But he realized, too, that overzealousness on the

side of caution was a worse thing for such a trip than sheer

recklessness. Good judgment in looking over rapids, a quick eye to pick

the best channel, then a daring spirit--that was the ideal to be striven

for in going down swift rivers.