Pepe’s place at the oars, and, as usual, turned the boat stern first
down-stream. The banks were low and shelved out in rocky points. This
relieved Ken, for he saw that he could land just above the falls. What
he feared was a narrow gorge impossible to portage round or go through.
As the boat approached the break the roar seemed to divide itself,
hollow and shallow near at hand, rushing and heavy farther on.
Ken rowed close to the bank and landed on the first strip of rock. He
got out and, walking along this ledge, soon reached the fall. It was a
straight drop of some twelve or fifteen feet. The water was shallow all
the way across.
“Boys, this is easy,” said Ken. “We’ll pack the outfit round the fall,
and slide the boat over.”
But Ken did not say anything about the white water extending below the
fall as far as he could see. From here came the sullen roar that had
worried him.
Portaging the supplies around that place turned out to be far from easy.
The portage was not long nor rugged, but the cracked, water-worn, rock
made going very difficult. The boys often stumbled. Pepe fell and broke
open a box, and almost broke his leg. Ken had a hard knock. Then, when
it came to carrying the trunk, one at each corner, progress was
laborious and annoying. Full two hours were lost in transporting the
outfit around the fall.
Below there was a wide, shelving apron, over which the water ran a foot
or so in depth. Ken stationed Pepe and the boys there, and went up to
get the boat. He waded out with it. Ken saw that his end of this
business was going to be simple enough, but he had doubts as to what
would happen to the boys.
“Brace yourselves, now,” he yelled. “When I drop her over she’ll come
a-humming. Hang on if she drags you a mile!”
Wading out deeper Ken let the boat swing down with the current till the
stern projected over the fall. He had trouble in keeping his footing,
for the rock was slippery. Then with a yell he ran the stern far out
over the drop, bore down hard on the bow, and shoved off.
The boat shot out and down, to alight with a heavy souse. Then it
leaped into the swift current. George got his hands on it first, and
went down like a ninepin. The boat floated over him. The bow struck
Hal, and would have dragged him away had not Pepe laid powerful hands on
the stern. They waded to the lower ledge.
“Didn’t ship a bucketful,” said Hal. “Fine work, Ken.”
“I got all the water,” added the drenched and dripping George.
“Bail out, boys, and repack, while I look below,” said Ken.
He went down-stream a little way to take a survey of the rapids. If
those rapids had been back in Pennsylvania, Ken felt that he could have
gone at them in delight. If the jungle country had been such that
damage to boat or supplies could have been remedied or replaced, these
rapids would not have appeared so bad. Ken walked up and down looking
over the long white inclines more than was wise, and he hesitated about
going into them. But it had to be done. So he went back to the boys.
Then he took the oars with gripping fingers.
“George, can you swim?” he asked.
“I’m a second cousin to a fish,” replied George.
“All right. We’re off. Now, if we upset, hang to the boat, if you can,
and hold up your legs. George, tell Pepe.”
Ken backed the boat out from the shore. To his right in the middle of
the narrow river was a racy current that he kept out of as long as
possible. But presently he was drawn into it, and the boat shot
forward, headed into the first incline, and went racing smoothly down
toward the white waves of the rapids.
This was a trying moment for Ken. Grip as hard as he might, the
oar-handles slipped in his sweaty hands.
The boys were yelling, but Ken could not hear for the din of roaring
waters. The boat sailed down with swift, gliding motion. When it
thumped into the back-lash of the first big waves the water threshed
around and over the boys. Then they were in the thick of rush and roar.
Ken knew he was not handling the boat well. It grazed stones that
should have been easy to avoid, and bumped on hidden ones, and got half
broadside to the current. Pepe, by quick action with an oar, pushed the
stern aside from collision with more than one rock. Several times Ken
missed a stroke when a powerful one was needed. He passed between
stones so close together that he had to ship the oars. It was all rapid
water, this stretch, but the bad places, with sunken rocks, falls, and
big waves, were strung out at such distances apart that Ken had time to
get the boat going right before entering them.
Ken saw scarcely anything of the banks of the river. They blurred in
his sight. Sometimes they were near, sometimes far. The boat turned
corners where rocky ledges pointed out, constricting the stream and
making a curved channel. What lay around the curve was always a
question and a cause for suspense. Often the boat raced down a chute
and straight toward a rocky wall. Ken would pull back with all his
might, and Pepe would break the shock by striking the wall with his oar.
More than once Pepe had a narrow escape from being knocked overboard.
George tried to keep him from standing up. Finally at the end of a long
rapid, Pepe, who had the stern-seat, jumped up and yelled. Ken saw a
stone directly in the path of the boat, and he pulled back on the oars
with a quick, strong jerk. Pepe shot out of the stern as if he had been
flung from a catapult. He swam with the current while the boat drifted.
He reached smooth water and the shore before Ken could pick him up.
It was fun for everybody but Ken. There were three inches of water in
the boat. The canvas, however, had been arranged to protect guns,
grips, and supplies. George had been wet before he entered the rapids,
so a little additional water did not matter to him. Hal was almost as
wet as Pepe.
“I’m glad that’s past,” said Ken.
With that long rapid behind him he felt different. It was what he had
needed. His nervousness disappeared and he had no dread of the next
fall. While the boys bailed out the boat Ken rested and thought. He
had made mistakes in that rapid just passed. Luck had favored him. He
went over the mistakes and saw where he had been wrong, and how he could
have avoided them if he had felt right. Ken realized now that this was
a daredevil trip. And the daredevil in him had been shut up in dread.
It took just that nervous dread, and the hard work, blunders and
accidents, the danger and luck, to liberate the spirit that would make
the trip a success. Pepe and George were loud in their praises of Ken.
But they did not appreciate the real hazard of the undertaking, and if
Hal did he was too much of a wild boy to care.
“All aboard,” called George.
Then they were on their way again. Ken found himself listening for
rapids. It was no surprise to hear a dull roar round the next bend.
His hair rose stiffly under his hat. But this time he did not feel the
chill, the uncertainty, the lack of confidence that had before weakened
him.
At the head of a long, shallow incline the boys tumbled overboard, Ken
and Hal at the bow, Pepe and George at the stern. They waded with the
bow up-stream. The water tore around their legs, rising higher and
higher. Soon Pepe and George had to climb in the boat, for the water
became so deep and swift they could not wade.
“Jump in, Hal,” called Ken.
Then he held to the bow an instant longer, wading a little farther down.
This was ticklish business, and all depended upon Ken. He got the stern
of the boat straight in line with the channel he wanted to run, then he
leaped aboard and made for the oars. The boat sped down. At the bottom
of this incline was a mass of leaping green and white waves. The blunt
stern of the boat made a great splash and the water flew over the boys.
They came through the roar and hiss and spray to glide into a mill-race
current.
“Never saw such swift water!” exclaimed Ken.
This incline ended in a sullen plunge between two huge rocks. Ken saw
the danger long before it became evident to his companions. There was
no other way to shoot the rapid. He could not reach the shore. He must
pass between the rocks. Ken pushed on one oar, then on the other, till
he got the boat in line, and then he pushed with both oars. The boat
flew down that incline. It went so swiftly that if it had hit one of
the rocks it would have been smashed to kindling wood. Hal crouched
low. George’s face was white. And Pepe leaned forward with his big
arms outstretched, ready to try to prevent a collision.
Down! down with the speed of the wind! The boat flashed between the
black stones. Then it was raised aloft, light as a feather, to crash
into the back-lashers. The din deafened Ken; the spray blinded him.
The boat seemed to split a white pall of water, then, with many a
bounce, drifted out of that rapid into little choppy waves, and from
them into another long, smooth runway.
Ken rested, and had nothing to say. Pepe shook his black head. Hal
looked at his brother. George had forgotten his rifle. No one spoke.
Soon Ken had more work on hand. For round another corner lay more fast
water. The boat dipped on a low fall, and went down into the midst of
green waves with here and there ugly rocks splitting the current. The
stream-bed was continually new and strange to Ken, and he had never seen
such queer formation of rocks. This rapid, however, was easy to
navigate. A slanting channel of swift water connected it with another
rapid. Ken backed into that one, passed through, only to face another.
And so it went for a long succession of shallow rapids.
A turn in the winding lane of cypresses revealed walls of gray, between
which the river disappeared.
“Aha!” muttered Ken.
“Ken, I’ll bet this is the place you’ve been looking for,” said Hal.
The absence of any roar of water emboldened Ken. Nearing the head of
the ravine, he stood upon the seat and looked ahead. But Ken could not
see many rods ahead. The ravine turned, and it was the deceiving turns
in the river that he had feared. What a strange sensation Ken had when
he backed the boat into the mouth of that gorge! He was forced against
his will. Yet there seemed to be a kind of blood-tingling pleasure in
the prospect.
The current caught the boat and drew it between the gray-green walls of
rock.
“It’s coming to us,” said the doubtful George.
The current ran all of six miles an hour. This was not half as fast as
the boys had traveled in rapids, but it appeared swift enough because of
the nearness of the overshadowing walls. In the shade the water took on
a different coloring. It was brown and oily. It slid along silently.
It was deep, and the swirling current suggested power. Here and there
long, creeping ferns covered the steep stone sides, and above ran a
stream of blue sky fringed by leaning palms. Once Hal put his hands to
his lips and yelled: “Hel-lo!” The yell seemed to rip the silence and
began to clap from wall to wall. It gathered quickness until it clapped
in one fiendish rattle. Then it wound away from the passage, growing
fainter and fainter, and at last died in a hollow echo.
“Don’t do that again,” ordered Ken.
He began to wish he could see the end of that gorge. But it grew
narrower, and the shade changed to twilight, and there were no long,
straight stretches. The river kept turning corners. Quick to note the
slightest change in conditions, Ken felt a breeze, merely a zephyr, fan
his hot face. The current had almost imperceptibly quickened. Yet it
was still silent. Then on the gentle wind came a low murmur. Ken’s
pulse beat fast. Turning his ear down-stream, he strained his hearing.
The low murmur ceased. Perhaps he had imagined it. Still he kept
listening. There! Again it came, low, far away, strange. It might
have been the wind in the palms. But no, he could not possibly persuade
himself it was wind. And as that faint breeze stopped he lost the sound
once more. The river was silent, and the boat, and the boys--it was a
silent ride. Ken divined that his companions were enraptured. But this
ride had no beauty, no charm for him.
There! Another faint puff of wind, and again the low murmur! He
fancied it was louder. He was beginning to feel an icy dread when all
was still once more. So the boat drifted swiftly on with never a gurgle
of water about her gunwales. The river gleamed in brown shadows. Ken
saw bubbles rise and break on the surface, and there was a slight rise
or swell of the water toward the center of the channel. This bothered
him. He could not understand it. But then there had been many other
queer formations of rock and freaks of current along this river.
The boat glided on and turned another corner, the sharpest one yet. A
long, shadowy water-lane, walled in to the very sides, opened up to
Ken’s keen gaze. The water here began to race onward, still wonderfully
silent. And now the breeze carried a low roar. It was changeable yet
persistent. It deepened.
Once more Ken felt his hair rise under his hat. Cold sweat wet his
skin. Despite the pounding of his heart and the throb of his veins, his
blood seemed to clog, to freeze, to stand still.
That roar was the roar of rapids. Impossible to go back! If there had
been four sets of oars, Ken and his comrades could not row the heavy
boat back up that swift, sliding river.
They must go on.
*X*
*LOST!*
“Ken, old man, do you hear that?” questioned Hal, waking from his
trance.
George likewise rose out of his lazy contentment. “Must be rapids,” he
muttered. “If we strike rapids in this gorge it’s all day with us. What
did I tell you!”
Pepe’s dark, searching eyes rested on Ken.
But Ken had no word for any of them. He was fighting an icy numbness,
and the weakness of muscle and the whirl of his mind. It was thought of
responsibility that saved him from collapse.
“It’s up to you, old man,” said Hal, quietly.
In a moment like this the boy could not wholly be deceived.
Ken got a grip upon himself. He looked down the long, narrow lane of
glancing water. Some hundred yards on, it made another turn round a
corner, and from this dim curve came the roar. The current was hurrying
the boat toward it, but not fast enough to suit Ken. He wanted to see
the worst, to get into the thick of it, to overcome it. So he helped
the boat along. A few moments sufficed to cover that gliding stretch of
river, yet to Ken it seemed never to have an end. The roar steadily
increased. The current became still stronger. Ken saw eruptions of
water rising as from an explosion beneath the surface. Whirlpools raced
along with the boat. The dim, high walls re-echoed the roaring of the
water.
The first thing Ken saw when he sailed round that corner was a widening
of the chasm and bright sunlight ahead. Perhaps an eighth of a mile
below the steep walls ended abruptly. Next in quick glance he saw a
narrow channel of leaping, tossing, curling white-crested waves under
sunlighted mist and spray.
Pulling powerfully back and to the left Ken brought the boat alongside
the cliff. Then he shipped his oars.
“Hold hard,” he yelled, and he grasped the stone. The boys complied,
and thus stopped the boat. Ken stood up on the seat. It was a bad
place he looked down into, but he could not see any rocks. And rocks
were what he feared most.
“Hold tight, boys,” he said. Then he got Pepe to come to him and sit on
the seat. Ken stepped up on Pepe’s shoulders and, by holding to the
rock, was able to get a good view of the rapid. It was not a rapid at
all, but a constriction of the channel, and also a steep slant. The
water rushed down so swiftly to get through that it swelled in the
center in a long frothy ridge of waves. The water was deep. Ken could
not see any bumps or splits or white-wreathed rocks, such as were
conspicuous in a rapid. The peril here for Ken was to let the boat hit
the wall or turn broadside or get out of that long swelling ridge.
He stepped down and turned to the white-faced boys. He had to yell
close to them to make them hear him in the roar.
“I--can--run--this--place. But--you’ve got--to help. Pull--the
canvas--up higher in the stern--and hold it.”
Then he directed Pepe to kneel in the bow of the boat with an oar and be
ready to push off from the walls.
If Ken had looked again or hesitated a moment he would have lost his
nerve. He recognized that fact. And he shoved off instantly. Once the
boat had begun to glide down, gathering momentum, he felt his teeth
grind hard and his muscles grow tense. He had to bend his head from
side to side to see beyond the canvas George and Hal were holding round
their shoulders. He believed with that acting as a buffer in the stern
he could go pounding through those waves. Then he was in the middle of
the channel, and the boat fairly sailed along. Ken kept his oars
poised, ready to drop either one for a stroke. All he wanted was to
enter those foaming, tumultuous waves with his boat pointed right. He
knew he could not hope to see anything low down after he entered the
race. He calculated that the last instant would give him an opportunity
to get his direction in line with some object.
Then, even as he planned it, the boat dipped on a beautiful glassy
incline, and glided down toward the engulfing, roaring waves. Above
them, just in the center, Ken caught sight of the tufted top of a
palm-tree. That was his landmark!
The boat shot into a great, curling, back-lashing wave. There was a
heavy shock, a pause, and then Ken felt himself lifted high, while a
huge sheet of water rose fan-shape behind the buffer in the stern.
Walls and sky and tree faded under a watery curtain. Then the boat shot
on again; the light came, the sky shone, and Ken saw his palm-tree. He
pulled hard on the right oar to get the stern back in line. Another
heavy shock, a pause, a blinding shower of water, and then the downward
rush! Ken got a fleeting glimpse of his guiding mark, and sunk the left
oar deep for a strong stroke. The beating of the waves upon the
upraised oars almost threw him out of the boat. The wrestling waters
hissed and bellowed. Down the boat shot and up, to pound and pound, and
then again shoot down. Through the pall of mist and spray Ken always
got a glimpse, quick as lightning, of the palm-tree, and like a demon he
plunged in his oars to keep the boat in line. He was only dimly
conscious of the awfulness of the place. But he was not afraid. He
felt his action as being inspirited by something grim and determined.
He was fighting the river.
All at once a grating jar behind told him the bow had hit a stone or a
wall. He did not dare look back. The most fleeting instant of time
might be the one for him to see his guiding mark. Then the boat lurched
under him, lifted high with bow up, and lightened. He knew Pepe had
been pitched overboard.
In spite of the horror of the moment, Ken realized that the lightening
of the boat made it more buoyant, easier to handle. That weight in the
bow had given him an unbalanced craft. But now one stroke here and one
there kept the stern straight. The palm-tree loomed higher and closer
through the brightening mist. Ken no longer felt the presence of the
walls. The thunderous roar had begun to lose some of its volume. Then
with a crash through a lashing wave the boat raced out into the open
light. Ken saw a beautiful foam-covered pool, down toward which the
boat kept bumping over a succession of diminishing waves.
He gave a start of joy to see Pepe’s black head bobbing in the choppy
channel. Pepe had beat the boat to the outlet. He was swimming easily,
and evidently he had not been injured.
Ken turned the bow toward him. But Pepe did not need any help, and a
few more strokes put him in shallow water. Ken discovered that the
boat, once out of the current, was exceedingly loggy and hard to row.
It was half full of water. Ken’s remaining strength went to pull
ashore, and there he staggered out and dropped on the rocky bank.
The blue sky was very beautiful and sweet to look at just then. But Ken
had to close his eyes. He did not have strength left to keep them open.
For a while all seemed dim and obscure to him. Then he felt a
dizziness, which in turn succeeded to a racing riot of his nerves and
veins. His heart gradually resumed a normal beat, and his bursting
lungs seemed to heal. A sickening languor lay upon him. He could not
hold little stones which he felt under his fingers. He could not raise
his hands. The life appeared to have gone from his legs.
All this passed, at length, and, hearing Hal’s voice, Ken sat up. The
outfit was drying in the sun; Pepe was bailing out the boat; George was
wiping his guns; and Hal was nursing a very disheveled little racoon.
“You can bring on any old thing now, for all I care,” said Hal. “I’d
shoot Lachine Rapids with Ken at the oars.”
“He’s a fine boatman,” replied George. “Weren’t you scared when we were
in the middle of that darned place?”
“Me? Naw!”
“Well, I was scared, and don’t you forget it,” said Ken to them.
“You were all in, Ken,” replied Hal. “Never saw you so tuckered out.
The day you and Prince went after the cougar along that cañon
precipice--you were all in that time. George, it took Ken six hours to
climb out of that hole.”
“Tell me about it,” said George, all eyes.
“No stories now,” put in Ken. “The sun is still high. We’ve got to be
on our way. Let’s look over the lay of the land.”
Below the pool was a bold, rocky bluff, round which the river split.
What branch to take was a matter of doubt and anxiety to Ken. Evidently
this bluff was an island. It had a yellow front and long bare ledges
leading into the river.
Ken climbed the bluff, accompanied by the boys, and found it covered
with palm-trees. Up there everything was so dry and hot that it did not
seem to be jungle at all. Even the palms were yellow and parched. Pepe
stood the heat, but the others could not endure it. Ken took one long
look at the surrounding country, so wild and dry and still, and then led
the way down the loose, dusty shelves.
Thereupon he surveyed the right branch of the river and followed it a
little distance. The stream here foamed and swirled among jagged rocks.
At the foot of this rapid stretched the first dead water Ken had
encountered for miles. A flock of wild geese rose from under his feet
and flew down-stream.
“Geese!” exclaimed Ken. “I wonder if that means we are getting down
near lagoons or big waters. George, wild geese don’t frequent little
streams, do they?”
“There’s no telling where you’ll find them in this country,” answered
George. “I’ve chased them right in our orange groves.”
They returned to look at the left branch of the river. It was open and
one continuous succession of low steps. That would have decided Ken
even if the greater volume of water had not gone down on this left side.
As far as he could see was a wide, open river running over little
ledges. It looked to be the easiest and swiftest navigation he had come
upon, and so indeed it proved. The water was swift, and always dropped
over some ledge in a rounded fall that was safe for him to shoot. It
was great fun going over these places. The boys hung their feet over
the gunwales most of the time, sliding them along the slippery ledge or
giving a kick to help the momentum. When they came to a fall, Ken would
drop off the bow, hold the boat back and swing it straight, then jump
in, and over it would go--souse!
There were so many of these ledges, and they were so close together,
that going over them grew to be a habit. It induced carelessness. The
boat drifted to a brow of a fall full four feet high. Ken, who was at
the bow. leaped off just in time to save the boat. He held on while the
swift water surged about his knees. He yelled for the boys to jump. As
the stern where they sat was already over the fall it was somewhat
difficult to make the boys vacate quickly enough.
“Tumble out! Quick!” bawled Ken. “Do you think I’m Samson?”
Over they went, up to their necks in the boiling foam, and not a second
too soon, for Ken could hold the boat no longer. It went over smoothly,
just dipping the stern under water. If the boys had remained aboard,
the boat would have swamped. As it was, Pepe managed to catch the rope,
which Ken had wisely thrown out, and he drifted down to the next ledge.
Ken found this nearly as high as the last one. So he sent the boys
below to catch the boat. This worked all right. The shelves slanted
slightly, with the shallow part of the water just at the break of the
ledge. They passed half a dozen of these, making good time, and before
they knew it were again in a deep, smooth jungle lane with bamboo and
streamers of moss waving over them.
The shade was cool, and Ken settled down in the stern-seat, grateful for
a rest. To his surprise, he did not see a bird. The jungle was asleep.
Once or twice Ken fancied he heard the tinkle and gurgle of water
running over rocks. The boat glided along silently, with Pepe rowing
leisurely, George asleep, Hal dreaming.
Ken watched the beautiful green banks. They were high, a mass of
big-leafed vines, flowering and fragrant, above which towered the jungle
giants. Ken wanted to get out and study those forest trees. But he
made no effort to act upon his good intentions, and felt that he must
take the most of his forestry study at long range. He was reveling in
the cool recesses under the leaning cypresses, in the soft swish of
bearded moss, and the strange rustle of palms, in the dreamy hum of the
resting jungle, when his pleasure was brought to an abrupt end.
“Santa Maria!” yelled Pepe.
George woke up with a start. Hal had been jarred out of his day-dream,
and looked resentful. Ken gazed about him with the feeling of a man
going into a trance, instead of coming out of one.
The boat was fast on a mud-bank. That branch of the river ended right
there. The boys had come all those miles to run into a blind pocket.
Ken’s glance at the high yellow bank, here crumbling and bare, told him
there was no outlet. He had a sensation of blank dismay.
“Gee!” exclaimed Hal, softly.
George rubbed his eyes; and, searching for a cigarette, he muttered:
“We’re lost! I said it was coming to us. We’ve got to go back!”
*XI*
*AN ARMY OF SNAKES*
For a moment Ken Ward was utterly crushed under the weight of this
sudden blow. It was so sudden that he had no time to think; or his mind
was clamped on the idea of attempting to haul the boat up that long,
insurmountable series of falls.
“It’ll be an awful job,” burst out Hal.
No doubt in the mind of each boy was the same idea--the long haul,
wading over slippery rocks; the weariness of pushing legs against the
swift current; the packing of supplies uphill; and then the toil of
lifting the heavy boat up over a fall.
“Mucho malo,” said Pepe, and he groaned. That was significant, coming
from a _mozo_, who thought nothing of rowing forty miles in a day.
“Oh, but it’s tough luck,” cried Ken. “Why didn’t I choose the right
branch of this pesky river?”
“I think you used your head at that,” said Hal. “Most of the water came
down on this side. Where did it go?”
Hal had hit the vital question, and it cleared Ken’s brain.
“Hal, you’re talking sense. Where did that water go? It couldn’t all
have sunk into the earth. We’ll find out. We won’t try to go back. We
_can’t_ go back.”
Pepe shoved off the oozy mud, and, reluctantly, as if he appreciated the
dilemma, he turned the boat and rowed along the shore. As soon as Ken
had recovered somewhat he decided there must be an outlet which he had
missed. This reminded him that at a point not far back he had heard the
tinkle and gurgle of unseen water flowing over rocks.
He directed Pepe to row slowly along the bank that he thought was the
island side. As they glided under the drooping bamboos and silky
curtains of moss George began to call out: “Low bridge! Low bridge!”
For a boy who was forever voicing ill-omened suggestions as to what
might soon happen he was extraordinarily cheerful.
There were places where all had to lie flat and others where Pepe had to
use his _machete_. This disturbed the _siesta_ of many aquatic birds,
most of which flew swiftly away. But there were many of the
gray-breasted, blue-backed bitterns that did not take to flight. These
croaked dismally, and looked down upon the boys with strange, protruding
eyes.
“Those darn birds’ll give me the willies,” declared Hal. “George, you
just look like them when you croak about what’s coming to us.”
“Just wait!” retorted George. “It’ll come, all right. Then I’ll have
the fun of seeing you scared silly.”
“What! You’ll not do anything of the kind!” cried Hal, hotly. “I’ve
been in places where such--such a skinny little sap-head as you--”
“Here, you kids stop wrangling,” ordered Ken, who sensed hostilities in
the air. “We’ve got trouble enough.”
Suddenly Ken signaled Pepe to stop rowing.
“Boys, I hear running water. Aha! Here’s a current. See--it’s making
right under this bank.”
Before them was a high wall of broad-leaved vines, so thick that nothing
could be seen through them. Apparently this luxuriant canopy concealed
the bank. Pepe poked an oar into it, but found nothing solid.
“Pepe, cut a way through. We’ve got to see where this water runs.”
It was then that Ken came to a full appreciation of a _machete_. He had
often fancied it a much less serviceable tool than an ax. Pepe flashed
the long, bright blade up, down, and around, and presently the boat was
its own length in a green tunnel. Pepe kept on slashing while Ken poled
the boat in and the other boys dumped the cut foliage overboard. Soon
they got through this mass of hanging vine and creeper. Much to Ken’s
surprise and delight, he found no high bank, but low, flat ground,
densely wooded, through which ran a narrow, deep outlet of the river.
“By all that’s lucky!” ejaculated Ken.
George and Hal whooped their pleasure, and Pepe rubbed his muscular
hands. Then all fell silent. The deep, penetrating silence of that
jungle was not provocative of speech. The shade was so black that when a
ray of sunlight did manage to pierce the dense canopy overhead it
resembled a brilliant golden spear. A few lofty palms and a few clumps
of bamboo rather emphasized the lack of these particular species in this
forest. Nor was there any of the familiar streaming moss hanging from
the trees. This glen was green, cool, dark. It did not smell exactly
swampy, but rank, like a place where many water plants were growing.
[Illustration: KEN SHOT TWICE AT THE HEAD OF THE SNAKE]
The outlet was so narrow that Ken was not able to use the oars. Still,
as the current was swift, the boat went along rapidly. He saw a light
ahead and heard the babble of water. The current quickened, and the
boat drifted suddenly upon the edge of an oval glade, where the hot sun
beat down. A series of abrupt mossy benches, over which the stream slid
almost noiselessly, blocked further progress.
The first thing about this glade that Ken noted particularly, after the
difficulties presented by the steep steps, was the multitude of snakes
sunning themselves along the line of further progress.
“Boys, it’ll be great wading down there, hey?” he queried.
Pepe grumbled for the first time on the trip. Ken gathered from the
native’s looks and speech that he did not like snakes.
“Watch me peg ’em!” yelled Hal, and he began to throw stones with
remarkable accuracy. “Hike, you brown sons-of-guns!”
George, not to be outdone, made a dive for his .22 and began to pop as
if he had no love for snakes. Ken had doubts about this species. The
snakes were short, thick, dull brown in color, and the way they slipped
into the stream proved they were water-snakes. Ken had never read of a
brown water-moccasin, so he doubted that these belonged to that
poisonous family. Anyway, snakes were the least of his troubles.
“Boys, you’re doing fine,” he said. “There are about a thousand snakes
there, and you’ve hit about six.”
He walked down through the glade into the forest, and was overjoyed to
hear once more the heavy roar of rapids. He went on. The timber grew
thinner, and light penetrated the jungle. Presently he saw the gleam of
water through the trees. Then he hurried back.
“All right, boys,” he shouted. “Here’s the river.”
The boys were so immensely relieved that packing the outfit round the
waterfalls was work they set about with alacrity. Ken, who had on his
boots, broke a trail through the ferns and deep moss. Pepe, being
barefoot, wasted time looking for snakes. George teased him. But Pepe
was deadly serious. And the way he stepped and looked made Ken
thoughtful. He had made his last trip with supplies, and was about to
start back to solve the problem of getting the boat down, when a hoarse
yell resounded through the sleeping jungle. Parrots screeched, and
other birds set up a cackling.
Ken bounded up the slope.
“Santa Maria!” cried Pepe.
Ken followed the direction indicated by Pepe’s staring eyes and
trembling finger. Hanging from a limb of a tree was a huge black-snake.
It was as thick as Ken’s leg. The branch upon which it poised its neck
so gracefully was ten feet high, and the tail curled into the ferns on
the ground.
“Boys, it’s one of the big fellows,” cried Ken.
“Didn’t I tell you!” yelled George, running down for his gun.
Hal seemed rooted to the spot. Pepe began to jabber. Ken watched the
snake, and felt instinctively from its sinister looks that it was
dangerous. George came running back with his .32 and waved it in the
air as he shot. He was so frightened that he forgot to aim. Ken took
the rifle from him.
“You can’t hit him with this. Run after your shotgun. Quick!”
But the sixteen-gage was clogged with a shell that would not eject.
Ken’s guns were in their cases.
“Holy smoke!” cried George. “He’s coming down.”
The black-snake moved his body and began to slide toward the tree-trunk.
Ken shot twice at the head of the snake. It was a slow-swaying mark hard
to hit. The reptile stopped and poised wonderfully on the limb. He was
not coiled about it, but lay over it with about four feet of neck
waving, swaying to and fro. He watched the boys, and his tongue, like a
thin, black streak, darted out viciously.
Ken could not hit the head, so he sent a bullet through the thick part
of the body. Swift as a gleam the snake darted from the limb.
“Santa Maria!” yelled Pepe, and he ran off.
“Look out, boys,” shouted Ken. He picked up Pepe’s _machete_ and took
to his heels. George and Hal scrambled before him. They ran a hundred
yards or more, and Ken halted in an open rocky spot. He was angry, and
a little ashamed that he had run. The snake did not pursue, and
probably was as badly frightened as the boys had been. Pepe stopped
some distance away, and Hal and George came cautiously back.
“I don’t see anything of him,” said Ken. “I’m going back.”
He walked slowly, keeping a sharp outlook, and, returning to the glade,
found blood-stains under the tree. The snake had disappeared without
leaving a trail.
“If I’d had my shotgun ready!” exclaimed Ken, in disgust. And he made a
note that in the future he would be prepared to shoot.
“Wasn’t he a whopper, Ken?” said Hal. “We ought to have got his hide.
What a fine specimen!”
“Boys, you drive away those few little snakes while I figure on a way to
get the boat down.”
“Not on your life!” replied Hal.
George ably sustained Hal’s objection.
“Mucho malo,” said Pepe, and then added a loud “No” in English.
“All right, my brave comrades,” rejoined Ken, scornfully. “As I’ve not
done any work yet or taken any risks, I’ll drive the snakes away.”
With Pepe’s _machete_ he cut a long forked pole, trimmed it, and, armed
with this weapon, he assaulted the rolls and bands and balls of brown
snakes. He stalked boldly down upon them, pushed and poled, and even
kicked them off the mossy banks. Hal could not stand that, and
presently he got a pole and went to Ken’s assistance.
“Who’s hollering now?” he yelled to George.
Whereupon George cut a long branch and joined the battle. They whacked
and threshed and pounded, keeping time with yells. Everywhere along the
wet benches slipped and splashed the snakes. But after they were driven
into the water they did not swim away. They dove under the banks and
then stretched out their pointed heads from the dripping edge of moss.
“Say, fellows, we’re making it worse for us,” declared Ken. “See, the
brown devils won’t swim off. We’d better have left them on the bank.
Let’s catch one and see if he’ll bite.”
He tried to pick up one on his pole, but it slipped off. George fished
after another. Hal put the end of his stick down inside the coil of
still another and pitched it. The brown, wriggling, wet snake shot
straight at the unsuspecting George, and struck him and momentarily
wound about him.
“Augrrh!” bawled George, flinging off the reptile and leaping back.
“What ’d you do that for? I’ll punch you!”
“George, he didn’t mean it,” said Ken. “It was an accident. Come on,
let’s tease that fellow and see if he’ll bite.”
The snake coiled and raised his flat head and darted a wicked tongue out
and watched with bright, beady eyes, but he did not strike. Ken went as
close as he thought safe and studied the snake.
“Boys, his head isn’t a triangle, and there are no little pits under his
eyes. Those are two signs of a poisonous snake. I don’t believe this
fellow’s one.”
“He’ll be a dead snake, b’ gosh,” replied George, and he fell to
pounding it with his pole.
“Don’t smash him. I want the skin,” yelled Hal.
Ken pondered on the situation before him.
“Come, the sooner we get at this the better,” he said.
There was a succession of benches through which the stream zigzagged and
tumbled. These benches were rock ledges over which moss had grown fully
a foot thick, and they were so oozy and slippery that it was no easy
task to walk upon them. Then they were steep, so steep that it was
remarkable how the water ran over them so smoothly, with very little
noise or break. It was altogether a new kind of waterfall to Ken. But
if the snakes had not been hidden there, navigation would have presented
an easier problem.
“Come on boys, alongside now, and hold back,” he ordered, gripping the
bow.
Exactly what happened the next few seconds was not clear in his mind.
There was a rush, and all were being dragged by the boat. The glade
seemed to whizz past. There were some sodden thumps, a great splashing,
a check--and lo! they were over several benches. It was the quickest
and easiest descent he had ever made down a steep waterfall.
“Fine!” ejaculated George, wiping the ooze from his face.
“Yes, it was fine,” Ken replied. “But unless this boat has wings
something’ll happen soon.”
Below was a long, swift curve of water, very narrow and steep, with a
moss-covered rock dividing the lower end. Ken imagined if there was a
repetition of the first descent the boat would be smashed on that rock.
He ordered Pepe, who was of course the strongest, to go below and jump
to the rock. There he might prevent a collision.
Pepe obeyed, but as he went he yelled and doubled up in contortions as
he leaped over snakes in the moss.
Then gently, gingerly the boys started the boat off the bench, where it
had lodged. George was at the stern, Ken and Hal at the bow. Suddenly
Hal shrieked and jumped straight up, to land in the boat.
“Snakes!” he howled.
“Give us a rest!” cried Ken, in disgust.
The boat moved as if instinct with life. It dipped, then--_wheeze!_ it
dove over the bench. Hal was thrown off his feet, fell back on the
gunwale, and thence into the snaky moss. George went sprawling face
downward into the slimy ooze, and Ken was jerked clear off the bench
into the stream. He got his footing and stood firm in water to his
waist, and he had the bow-rope coiled round his hands.
“Help! Help!” he yelled, as he felt the dragging weight too much for
him.
If Ken retarded the progress of the boat at all, it was not much.
George saw his distress and the danger menacing the boat, and he leaped
valiantly forward. As he dashed down a slippery slant his feet flew up
higher than where his head had been; he actually turned over in the air,
and fell with a great sop.
Hal had been trying to reach Ken, but here he stopped and roared with
laughter.
Despite Ken’s anger and fear of snakes, and his greater fear for the
boat, he likewise had to let out a peal of laughter. That tumble of
George’s was great. Then Ken’s footing gave way and he went down. His
mouth filled with nasty water, nearly strangling him. He was almost
blinded, too. His arms seemed to be wrenched out of their sockets, and
he felt himself bumping over moss-covered rocks as soft as cushions.
Slimy ropes or roots of vegetation, that felt like snakes, brushed his
face and made him cold and sick. It was impossible to hold the boat any
longer. He lodged against a stone, and the swift water forced him upon
it. Blinking and coughing, he stuck fast.
Ken saw the boat headed like a dart for the rock where Pepe stood.
“Let ’er go!” yelled Ken. “Don’t try to stop her. Pepe, you’ll be
smashed!”
Pepe acted like a man determined to make up for past cowardice. He made
a great show of brave intentions. He was not afraid of a boat. He
braced himself and reached out with his brawny arms. Ken feared for the
obstinate native’s life, for the boat moved with remarkable velocity.
At the last second Pepe’s courage vanished. He turned tail to get out of
the way. But he slipped. The boat shot toward him and the blunt stern
struck him with a dull thud. Pepe sailed into the air, over the rock,
and went down cleaving the water.
The boat slipped over the stone as easily as if it had been a wave and,
gliding into still water below, lodged on the bank.
Ken crawled out of the stream, and when he ascertained that no one was
injured he stretched himself on the ground and gave up to mirth. Pepe
resembled a drowned rat; Hal was an object to wonder at; and George, in
his coating of slime and with strings of moss in his hair, was the
funniest thing Ken had ever seen. It was somewhat of a surprise to him
to discover, presently, that the boys were convulsed with fiendish glee
over the way he himself looked.
By and by they recovered, and, with many a merry jest and chuckle of
satisfaction, they repacked the boat and proceeded on their way. No
further obstacle hindered them. They drifted out of the shady jungle
into the sunlit river.
In half a mile of drifting the heat of the sun dried the boys’ clothes.
The water was so hot that it fairly steamed. Once more the boat entered
a placid aisle over which the magnificent gray-wreathed cypresses bowed,
and the west wind waved long ribbons of moss, and wild fowl winged
reluctant flight.
Ken took advantage of this tranquil stretch of river to work on his map.
He realized that he must use every spare moment and put down his
drawings and notes as often as time and travel permitted. It had dawned
on Ken that rapids and snakes, and all the dangers along the river, made
his task of observation and study one apt to be put into eclipse at
times. Once or twice he landed on shore to climb a bluff, and was
pleased each time to see that he had lined a comparatively true course
on his map. He had doubts of its absolute accuracy, yet he could not
help having pride in his work. So far so good, he thought, and hoped
for good-fortune farther down the river.
*XII*
*CATCHING STRANGE FISH*
Beyond a bend in the river the boys came upon an island with a narrow,
shaded channel on one side, a wide shoal on the other, and a group of
huge cypresses at the up-stream end.
“Looks good to me,” said Hal.
The instant Ken saw the island he knew it was the place he had long been
seeking to make a permanent camp for a few days. They landed, to find an
ideal camping site. The ground under the cypresses was flat, dry, and
covered with short grass. Not a ray of sunlight penetrated the foliage.
A pile of driftwood had lodged against one of the trees, and this made
easy the question of fire-wood.
“Great!” exclaimed Ken. “Come on, let’s look over the ground.”
The island was about two hundred yards long, and the lower end was
hidden by a growth of willows. Bursting through this, the boys saw a
weedy flat leading into a wide, shallow back-eddy. Great numbers of
ducks were sporting and feeding. The stones of the rocky shore were
lined with sleeping ducks. Herons of all colors and sizes waded about,
or slept on one leg. Snipe ran everywhere. There was a great squawking
and flapping of wings. But at least half the number of waterfowl were
too tame or too lazy to fly.
Ken returned to camp with his comrades, all highly elated over the
prospects. The best feature about this beautiful island was the absence
of ticks and snakes.
“Boys, this is the place,” said Ken. “We’ll hang up here for a while.
Maybe we won’t strike another such nice place to stay.”
So they unloaded the boat, taking everything out, and proceeded to pitch
a camp that was a delight. They were all loud in expressions of
satisfaction. Then Pepe set about leisurely peeling potatoes; George
took his gun and slipped off toward the lower end of the island; Hal
made a pen for his racoon, and then more pens, as if he meant to capture
a menagerie; and Ken made a comfortable lounging-bed under a cypress.
He wanted to forget that nagging worry as to farther descent of the
river, and to enjoy this place.
“Bang!” went George’s sixteen-gage. A loud whirring of wings followed,
and the air was full of ducks.
“Never touched one!” yelled Hal, in taunting voice.
A flock of teal skimmed the water and disappeared up-stream. The shot
awakened parrots in the trees, where for a while there was clamor. Ken
saw George wade out into the shoal and pick up three ducks.
“Pot-shot!” exclaimed Hal, disgustedly. “Why couldn’t he be a sport and
shoot them on the fly?”
George crossed to the opposite shore and, climbing a bare place, stood
looking before him.
“Hey, George, don’t go far,” called Ken.
“Fine place over here,” replied George, and, waving his hand, he passed
into the bushes out of sight.
Ken lay back upon his blanket with a blissful sense of rest and
contentment. Many a time he had lain so, looking up through the broad
leaves of a sycamore or the lacy foliage of a birch or the delicate
crisscross of millions of pine needles. This overhead canopy, however,
was different. Only here and there could he catch little slivers of
blue sky. The graceful streamers of exquisite moss hung like tassels of
silver. In the dead stillness of noonday they seemed to float curved in
the shape in which the last soft breeze had left them. High upon a
branch he saw a red-headed parrot hanging back downward, after the
fashion of a monkey. Then there were two parrots asleep in the fork of
a branch. It was the middle of the day, and all things seemed tired and
sleepy. The deep channel murmured drowsily, and the wide expanse of
river on the other side lapped lazily at the shore. The only other
sound was the mourning of turtle-doves, one near and another far away.
Again the full richness, the mellow sweetness of this song struck Ken
forcibly. He remembered that all the way down the river he had heard
that mournful note. It was beautiful but melancholy. Somehow it made
him think that it had broken the dreamy stillness of the jungle noonday
long, long ago. It was sweet but sad and old. He did not like to hear
it.
Ken yielded to the soothing influence of the hour and fell asleep. When
he awoke there was George, standing partially undressed and very soberly
popping ticks. He had enlisted the services of Pepe, and, to judge from
the remarks of both, they needed still more assistance.
“Say, Garrapato George, many ticks over there?”
“Ticks!” shouted George, wildly, waving his cigarette. “Millions of
’em! And there’s--ouch! Kill that one, Pepe. Wow! he’s as big as a
penny. There’s game over there. It’s a flat with some kind of berry
bush. There’s lots of trails. I saw cat-tracks, and I scared up wild
turkeys--”
“Turkeys!” Ken exclaimed, eagerly.
“You bet. I saw a dozen. How they can run! I didn’t flush them. Then
I saw a flock of those black and white ducks, like the big fellow I
shot. They were feeding. I believe they’re Muscovy ducks.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, but we can call them that.”
“Well, I’d got a shot, too, but I saw some gray things sneaking in the
bushes. I thought they were pigs, so I got out of there quick.”
“You mean javelin?”
“Yep, I mean wild pigs. Oh! We’ve struck the place for game. I’ll bet
it’s coming to us.”
When George anticipated pleasurable events he was the most happy of
companions. It was good to look forward. He was continually expecting
things to happen; he was always looking ahead with great eagerness. But
unfortunately he had a twist of mind toward the unfavorable side of
events, and so always had the boys fearful.
“Well, pigs or no pigs, ticks or no ticks, we’ll hunt and fish, and see
all there is to see,” declared Ken, and he went back to his lounging.
When he came out of that lazy spell, George and Hal were fishing.
George had Ken’s rod, and it happened to be the one Ken thought most of.
“Do you know how to fish?” he asked.
“I’ve caught tarpon bigger’n you,” retorted George.
That fact was indeed too much for Ken, and he had nothing to do but risk
his beloved rod in George’s hands. And the way George swung it about,
slashed branches with it, dropped the tip in the water, was exceedingly
alarming to Ken. The boy would break the tip in a minute. Yet Ken
could not take his rod away from a boy who had caught tarpon.
There were fish breaking water. Where a little while before the river
had been smooth, now it was ruffled by _ravalo_, gar, and other fish
Pepe could not name. But George and Hal did not get a bite. They tried
all their artificial flies and spoons and minnows, then the preserved
mullet, and finally several kinds of meat.
“Bah! they want pie,” said Hal.
For Ken Ward to see little and big fish capering around under his very
nose and not be able to hook one was exasperating. He shot a small
fish, not unlike a pickerel, and had the boys bait with that. Still no
strike was forthcoming.
This put Ken on his mettle. He rigged up a minnow tackle, and, going to
the lower end of the island, he tried to catch some minnows. There were
plenty of them in the shallow water, but they would not bite. Finally
Ken waded in the shoal and turned over stones. He found some snails
almost as large as mussels, and with these he hurried back to the boys.
“Here, if you don’t get a bite on one of these I’m no fisherman,” said
Ken. “Try one.”
George got his hands on the new bait in advance of Hal and so threw his
hook into the water first. No sooner had the bait sunk than he got a
strong pull.
“There! Careful now,” said Ken.
George jerked up, hooking a fish that made the rod look like a
buggy-whip.
“Give me the rod,” yelled Ken, trying to take it.
“It’s my fish,” yelled back George.
He held on and hauled with all his might. A long, finely built fish,
green as emerald, split the water and churned it into foam. Then,
sweeping out in strong dash, it broke Ken’s rod square in the middle.
Ken eyed the wreck with sorrow, and George with no little disapproval.
“You said you knew how to fish,” protested Ken.
“Those split-bamboo rods are no good,” replied George. “They won’t hold
a fish.”
“George, you’re a grand fisherman!” observed Hal, with a chuckle. “Why,
you only dreamed you’ve caught tarpon.”
Just then Hal had a tremendous strike. He was nearly hauled off the
bank. But he recovered his balance and clung to his nodding rod. Hal’s
rod was heavy cane, and his line was thick enough to suit. So nothing
broke. The little brass reel buzzed and rattled.
“I’ve got a whale!” yelled Hal.
“It’s a big gar--alligator-gar,” said George. “You haven’t got him.
He’s got you.”
The fish broke water, showing long, open jaws with teeth like saw-teeth.
It threshed about and broke away. Hal reeled in to find the hook
straightened out. Then George kindly commented upon the very skilful
manner in which Hal had handled the gar. For a wonder Hal did not reply.
By four o’clock, when Ken sat down to supper, he was so thirsty that his
mouth puckered as dry as if he had been eating green persimmons. This
matter of thirst had become serious. Twice each day Ken had boiled a
pot of water, into which he mixed cocoa, sugar, and condensed milk, and
begged the boys to drink that and nothing else. Nevertheless Pepe and
George, and occasionally Hal, would drink unboiled water. For this meal
the boys had venison and duck, and canned vegetables and fruit, so they
fared sumptuously.
Pepe pointed to a string of Muscovy ducks sailing up the river. George
had a good shot at the tail end of the flock, and did not even loosen a
feather. Then a line of cranes and herons passed over the island. When
a small bunch of teal flew by, to be followed by several canvasbacks,
Ken ran for his shotgun. It was a fine hammerless, a hard-shooting gun,
and one Ken used for grouse-hunting. In his hurry he grasped a handful
of the first shells he came to and, when he ran to the river-bank, found
they were loads of small shot. He decided to try them anyhow.
While Pepe leisurely finished the supper Ken and George and Hal sat on
the bank watching for ducks. Just before the sun went down a hard wind
blew, making difficult shooting. Every few moments ducks would whir by.
George’s gun missed fire often, and when it did work all right, he
missed the ducks. To Ken’s surprise he found the load of small shot
very deadly. He could sometimes reach a duck at eighty yards. The
little brown ducks and teal he stopped as if they had hit a stone wall.
He dropped a canvasback with the sheer dead plunge that he liked. Ken
thought a crippled duck enough to make a hunter quit shooting. With six
ducks killed, he decided to lay aside his gun for that time, when Pepe
pointed down the river.
“Pato real,” he said.
Ken looked eagerly and saw three of the big black ducks flying as high
as the treetops and coming fast. Snapping a couple of shells in the
gun, Ken stood ready. At the end of the island two of the ducks wheeled
to the left, but the big leader came on like a thunderbolt. To Ken he
made a canvasback seem slow. Ken caught him over the sights of the gun,
followed him up till he was abreast and beyond; then, sweeping a little
ahead of him, Ken pulled both triggers. The Muscovy swooped up and
almost stopped in his flight while a cloud of black feathers puffed away
on the wind. He sagged a little, recovered, and flew on as strong as
ever. The small shot were not heavy enough to stop him.
“We’ll need big loads for the Muscovies and the turkeys,” said George.
“We’ve all sizes up to BB’s,” replied Ken. “George, let’s take a walk
over there where you saw the turkeys. It’s early yet.”
Then Pepe told George if they wanted to see game at that hour the thing
to do was to sit still in camp and watch the game come down to the river
to drink. And he pointed down-stream to a herd of small deer quietly
walking out on the bar.
“After all the noise we made!” exclaimed Ken. “Well, this beats me.
George, we’ll stay right here and not shoot again to-night. I’ve an
idea we’ll see something worth while.”
It was Pepe’s idea, but Ken instantly saw its possibilities. There were
no tributaries to the river or springs in that dry jungle, and, as
manifestly the whole country abounded in game, it must troop down to the
river in the cool of the evening to allay the hot day’s thirst. The
boys were perfectly situated for watching the dark bank on the channel
side of the island as well as the open bars on the other. The huge
cypresses cast shadows that even in daylight effectually concealed them.
They put out the camp-fire and, taking comfortable seats in the folds of
the great gnarled roots, began to watch and listen.
The vanguard of thirsty deer had prepared Ken for something remarkable,
and he was in no wise disappointed. The trooping of deer down to the
water’s edge and the flight of wild fowl up-stream increased in
proportion to the gathering shadows of twilight. The deer must have got
a scent, for they raised their long ears and stood still as statues,
gazing across toward the upper end of the island. But they showed no
fear. It was only when they had drunk their fill and wheeled about to
go up the narrow trails over the bank that they showed uneasiness and
haste. This made Ken wonder if they were fearful of being ambushed by
jaguars. Soon the dark line of deer along the shore shaded into the
darkness of night. Then Ken heard soft splashes and an occasional
patter of hard hoofs. The whir of wings had ceased.
A low exclamation from Pepe brought attention to interesting
developments closer at hand.
“Javelin!” he whispered.
On the channel side of the island was impenetrable pitchy blackness.
Ken tried to pierce it with straining eyes, but he could not even make
out the shore-line that he knew was only ten yards distant. Still he
could hear, and that was thrilling enough. Everywhere on this side,
along the edge of the water and up the steep bank, were faint tickings
of twigs and soft rustlings of leaves. Then there was a continuous
sound, so low as to be almost inaudible, that resembled nothing Ken
could think of so much as a long line of softly dripping water. It
swelled in volume to a tiny roll, and ended in a sharp clicking on rocks
and a gentle splashing in the water. A drove of _javelin_ had come down
to drink. Occasionally the glint of green eyes made the darkness all the
more weird. Suddenly a long, piercing wail, a keen cry almost human,
quivered into the silence.
“Panther!” Ken whispered, instantly, to the boys. It was a different
cry from that of the lion of the cañon, but there was a strange wild
note that betrayed the species. A stillness fell, dead as that of a
subterranean cavern. Strain his ears as he might, Ken could not detect
the slightest sound. It was as if no _javelin_ or any other animals had
come down to drink. That listening, palpitating moment seemed endless.
What mystery of wild life it meant, that silence following the cry of
the panther! Then the jungle sounds recommenced--the swishing of water,
the brushing in the thicket, stealthy padded footsteps, the faint
snapping of twigs. Some kind of a cat uttered an unearthly squall. Close
upon this the clattering of deer up the bank on the other side rang out
sharply. The deer were running, and the striking of the little hoofs
ceased in short order. Ken listened intently. From far over the bank
came a sound not unlike a cough--deep, hoarse, inexpressibly wild and
menacing.
“Tigre!” cried Pepe, gripping Ken hard with both hands. He could feel
him trembling. It showed how the native of the jungle-belt feared the
jaguar.
Again the cough rasped out, nearer and louder this time. It was not a
courage-provoking sound, and seemed on second thought more of a growl
than a cough. Ken felt safe on the island; nevertheless, he took up his
rifle.
“That’s a tiger,” whispered George. “I heard one once from the porch of
the Alamitas hacienda.”
A third time the jaguar told of his arrival upon the night scene. Ken
was excited, and had a thrill of fear. He made up his mind to listen
with clearer ears, but the cough or growl was not repeated.
Then a silence set in, so unbroken that it seemed haunted by the echoes
of those wild jungle cries. Perhaps Ken had the haunting echoes in
mind. He knew what had sent the deer away and stilled the splashings
and creepings. It was the hoarse voice of the lord of the jungle.
Pepe and the boys, too, fell under the spell of the hour. They did not
break the charm by talking. Giant fireflies accentuated the ebony
blackness and a low hum of insects riveted the attention on the
stillness. Ken could not understand why he was more thoughtful on this
trip than he had ever been before. Somehow he felt immeasurably older.
Probably that was because it had seemed necessary for him to act like a
man, even if he was only a boy.
The black mantle of night lifted from under the cypresses, leaving a
gloom that slowly paled. Through the dark foliage, low down over the
bank, appeared the white tropical moon. Shimmering gleams chased the
shadows across the ripples, and slowly the river brightened to a silver
sheen.
A great peace fell upon the jungle world. How white, how wild, how
wonderful! It only made the island more beautiful and lonely. The
thought of leaving it gave Ken Ward a pang. Almost he wished he were a
savage.
And he lay there thinking of the wild places that he could never see,
where the sun shone, the wind blew, the twilight shadowed, the rain
fell; where the colors and beauties changed with the passing hours;
where a myriad of wild creatures preyed upon each other and night never
darkened but upon strife and death.
*XIII*
*A TURKEY-HUNT*
Upon awakening in the early morning Ken found his state one of huge
enjoyment. He was still lazily tired, but the dead drag and ache had
gone from his bones. A cool breeze wafted the mist from the river,
breaking it up into clouds, between which streamed rosy shafts of
sunlight. Wood-smoke from the fire Pepe was starting blew fragrantly
over him. A hundred thousand birds seemed to be trying to burst their
throats. The air was full of music. He lay still, listening to this
melodious herald of the day till it ceased.
Then a flock of parrots approached and circled over the island,
screeching like a band of flying imps. Presently they alighted in the
cypresses, bending the branches to a breaking-point and giving the trees
a spotted appearance of green and red. Pepe waved his hand toward
another flock sweeping over.
“Parrakeets,” he said.
These birds were a solid green, much smaller than the red-heads, with
longer tails. They appeared wilder than the red-heads, and flew higher,
circling the same way and screeching, but they did not alight. Other
flocks sailed presently from all directions. The last one was a cloud
of parrots, a shining green and yellow mass several acres in extent.
They flew still higher than the parrakeets.
“Yellow-heads!” shouted George. “They’re the big fellows, the talkers.
If there ain’t a million of ’em!”
The boys ate breakfast in a din that made conversation useless. The
red-heads swooped down upon the island, and the two unfriendly species
flew back and forth, manifestly trying to drive the boys off. The mist
had blown away, the sun was shining bright, when the myriad of parrots,
in large and small flocks, departed to other jungle haunts.
Pepe rowed across the wide shoal to the sand-bars. There in the soft
ooze, among the hundreds of deer-tracks, Ken found a jaguar-track larger
than his spread hand. It was different from a lion-track, yet he could
not distinguish just what the difference was. Pepe, who had accompanied
the boys to carry the rifles and game, pointed to the track and said,
vehemently:
“Tigre!” He pronounced it “tee-gray.” And he added, “Grande!”
“Big he certainly is,” Ken replied. “Boys, we’ll kill this jaguar.
We’ll bait this drinking-trail with a deer carcass and watch to-night.”
Once upon the bank, Ken was surprised to see a wide stretch of
comparatively flat land. It was covered with a low vegetation, with
here and there palm-trees on the little ridges and bamboo clumps down in
the swales. Beyond the flat rose the dark line of dense jungle. It was
not clear to Ken why that low piece of ground was not overgrown with the
matted thickets and vines and big trees characteristic of other parts of
the jungle. They struck into one of the trails, and had not gone a
hundred paces when they espied a herd of deer. The grass and low bushes
almost covered them. George handed his shotgun to Pepe and took his
rifle.
“Shoot low,” said Ken.
George pulled the trigger, and with the report a deer went down, but it
was not the one Ken was looking at, nor the one at which he believed
George had aimed. The rest of the herd bounded away, to disappear in a
swale. Wading through bushes and grass, they found George’s quarry, a
small deer weighing perhaps sixty pounds. Pepe carried it over to the
trail. Ken noted that he was exceedingly happy to carry the rifles.
They went on at random, somehow feeling that, no matter in what
direction, they would run into something to shoot at.
The first bamboo swale was alive with _chicalocki_. Up to this time Ken
had not seen this beautiful pheasant fly in the open, and he was
astonished at its speed. It would burst out of the thick bamboo, whir
its wings swiftly, then sail. That sail was a most graceful thing to
see. George pulled his 16-gage twice, and missed both times. He had
the beginner’s fault--shooting too soon. Presently Pepe beat a big cock
_chicalocki_ out of the bush. He made such a fine target, he sailed so
evenly, that Ken simply looked at him over the gun-sights and followed
him till he was out of sight. The next one he dropped like a plummet.
Shooting _chicalocki_ was too easy, he decided; they presented so fair a
mark that it was unfair to pull on them.
George was an impetuous hunter. Ken could not keep near him, nor coax
or command him to stay near. He would wander off by himself. That was
one mark in his favor: at least he had no fear. Pepe hung close to Ken
and Hal, with his dark eyes roving everywhere. Ken climbed out on one
side of the swale, George on the other. Catching his whistle, Ken
turned to look after him. He waved, and, pointing ahead, began to stoop
and slip along from bush to bush. Presently a flock of Muscovy ducks
rose before him, sailed a few rods, and alighted. Then from right under
his feet labored up great gray birds. Wild geese! Ken recognized them
as George’s gun went _bang_! One tumbled over, the others wheeled
toward the river. Ken started down into the swale to cross to where
George was, when Pepe touched his arm.
“Turkeys!” he whispered.
That changed Ken’s mind. Pepe pointed into the low bushes ahead and
slowly led Ken forward. He heard a peculiar low thumping. Trails led
everywhere, and here and there were open patches covered with a scant
growth of grass. Across one of these flashed a bronze streak, then
another and another.
“Shoot! Shoot!” said Pepe, tensely.
Those bronze streaks were running turkeys! The thumpings were made by
their rapidly moving feet!
“Don’t they flush--fly?” Ken queried of Pepe.
“No--no--shoot!” exclaimed he, as another streak of brown crossed an
open spot. Ken hurriedly unbreached his gun and changed the light
shells for others loaded with heavy shot. He reached the edge of a bare
spot across which a turkey ran with incredible swiftness. He did not
get the gun in line with it at all. Then two more broke out of the
bushes. Run! They were as swift as flying quail. Ken took two
snap-shots, and missed both times. If any one had told him that he
would miss a running turkey at fifty feet, he would have been insulted.
But he did not loosen a feather. Loading again, he yelled for George.
“Hey, George--turkeys!”
He whooped, and started across on the run.
“Gee!” said Hal. “Ken, I couldn’t do any worse shooting than you. Let
me take a few pegs.”
Ken handed over the heavy gun and fell back a little, giving Hal the
lead. They walked on, peering closely into the bushes. Suddenly a
beautiful big gobbler ran out of a thicket, and then stopped to stretch
out his long neck and look.
“Shoot--hurry!” whispered Ken. “What a chance!”
“That’s a tame turkey,” said Hal.
“Tame! Why, you tenderfoot! He’s as wild as wild. Can’t you see
that?”
Ken’s excitement and Pepe’s intense eagerness all at once seemed
communicated to Hal. He hauled up the gun, fingered the triggers
awkwardly, then shot both barrels. He tore a tremendous hole in the
brush some few feet to one side of the turkey. Then the great bird ran
swiftly out of sight.
“Didn’t want to kill him sitting, anyhow,” said Hal, handing the gun
back to Ken.
“We want to eat some wild turkey, don’t we? Well, we’d better take any
chance. These birds are game, Hal, and don’t you forget that!”
“What’s all the shooting?” panted George, as he joined the march.
Just then there was a roar in the bushes, and a brown blur rose and
whizzed ahead like a huge bullet. That turkey had flushed. Ken watched
him fly till he went down out of sight into a distant swale.
“Pretty nifty flier, eh?” said George. “He was too quick for me.”
“Great!” replied Ken.
There was another roar, and a huge bronze cannon-ball sped straight
ahead. Ken shot both barrels, then George shot one, all clean misses.
Ken watched this turkey fly, and saw him clearer. He had to admit that
the wild turkey of the Tamaulipas jungle had a swifter and more
beautiful flight than his favorite bird, the ruffled grouse.
“Walk faster,” said George. “They’ll flush better. I don’t see how I’m
to hit one. This goose I’m carrying weighs about a ton.”
The hunters hurried along, crashing through the bushes. They saw turkey
after turkey. _Bang!_ went George’s gun.
Then a beautiful sight made Ken cry out and forget to shoot. Six
turkeys darted across an open patch--how swiftly they ran!--then rose in
a bunch. The roar they made, the wonderfully rapid action of their
powerful wings, and then the size of them, their wildness and noble
gameness made them the royal game for Ken.
At the next threshing in the bushes his gun was leveled; he covered the
whistling bronze thing that shot up. The turkey went down with a crash.
Pepe yelled, and as he ran forward the air all about him was full of
fine bronze feathers. Ken hurried forward to see his bird. Its
strength and symmetry, and especially the beautiful shades of bronze,
captivated his eye.
“Come on, boys--this is the greatest game I ever hunted,” he called.
Again Pepe yelled, and this time he pointed. From where Ken stood he
could not see anything except low, green bushes. In great excitement
George threw up his gun and shot. Ken heard a squealing.
“Javelin! Javelin!” yelled Pepe, in piercing alarm.
George jerked a rifle from him and began to shoot. Hal pumped his .22
into the bushes. The trampling of hard little hoofs and a cloud of dust
warned Ken where the javelin were. Suddenly Pepe broke and fled for the
river.
“Hyar, Pepe, fetch back my rifle,” shouted Ken, angrily.
Pepe ran all the faster.
George turned and dashed away yelling: “Wild pigs! Wild pigs!”
“Look out, Ken! Run! Run!” added Hal; and he likewise took to his
heels.
It looked as if there was nothing else for Ken to do but to make tracks
from that vicinity. Never before had he run from a danger which he had
not seen; but the flight of the boys was irresistibly contagious, and
this, coupled with the many stories he had heard of the _javelin_, made
Ken execute a sprint that would have been a record but for the hampering
weight of gun and turkey. He vowed he would hold on to both, pigs or no
pigs; nevertheless he listened as he ran and nervously looked back
often. It may have been excited imagination that the dust-cloud
appeared to be traveling in his wake. Fortunately, the distance to the
river did not exceed a short quarter of a mile. Hot, winded, and
thoroughly disgusted with himself, Ken halted on the bank. Pepe was
already in the boat, and George was scrambling aboard.
“A fine--chase--you’ve given--me,” Ken panted. “There’s nothing--after
us.”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” returned George, quickly. “I saw those pigs,
and, like the ass I am, I blazed away at one with my shotgun.”
“Did he run at you? That’s what I want to know?” demanded Ken.
George said he was not certain about that, but declared there always was
danger if a wounded _javelin_ squealed. Pepe had little to say; he
refused to go back after the deer left in the trail. So they rowed
across the shoal, and on the way passed within a rod of a big crocodile.
“Look at that fellow,” cried George. “Wish I had my rifle loaded. He’s
fifteen feet long.”
“Oh no, George, he’s not more than ten feet,” said Ken.
“You don’t see his tail. He’s a whopper. Pepe told me there was one in
this pool. We’ll get him, all right.”
They reached camp tired out, and all a little ruffled in temper, which
certainly was not eased by the discovery that they were covered with
ticks. Following the cue of his companions, Ken hurriedly stripped off
his clothes and hung them where they could singe over the camp-fire.
There were broad red bands of _pinilius_ round both ankles, and reddish
patches on the skin of his arms. Here and there were black spots about
the size of his little finger-nail, and these were _garrapatoes_. He
picked these off one by one, rather surprised to find them come off so
easily. Suddenly he jumped straight up with a pain as fierce as if it
had been a puncture from a red-hot wire.
Pepe grinned; and George cried:
“Aha! that was a garrapato bite, that was! You just wait!”
George had a hundred or more of the big black ticks upon him, and he was
remorselessly popping them with his cigarette. Some of them were biting
him, too, judging from the way he flinched. Pepe had attracted to
himself a million or more of the _pinilius_, but very few of the larger
pests. He generously came to Ken’s assistance. Ken was trying to pull
off the _garrapato_ that had bitten a hole in him. Pepe said it had
embedded its head, and if pulled would come apart, leaving the head
buried in the flesh, which would cause inflammation. Pepe held the
glowing end of his cigarette close over the tick, and it began to squirm
and pull out its head. When it was free of the flesh Pepe suddenly
touched it with the cigarette, and it exploded with a pop. A difficult
question was: Which hurt Ken the most, the burn from the cigarette or
the bite of the tick? Pepe scraped off as many _pinilius_ as would
come, and then rubbed Ken with _canya_, the native alcohol. If this was
not some kind of vitriol, Ken missed his guess. It smarted so keenly he
thought his skin was peeling off. Presently, however, the smarting
subsided, and so did the ticks.
Hal, who by far was the most sensitive one in regard to the crawling and
biting of the jungle pests, had been remarkably fortunate in escaping
them. So he made good use of his opportunity to poke fun at the others,
particularly Ken.
George snapped out: “Just wait, Hollering Hal!”
“Don’t you call me that!” said Hal, belligerently.
Ken eyed his brother in silence, but with a dark, meaning glance. It
had occurred to Ken that here in this jungle was the only place in the
world where he could hope to pay off old scores on Hal. And plots began
to form in his mind.
They lounged about camp, resting in the shade during the hot midday
hours. For supper they had a superfluity of meat, the waste of which
Ken deplored, and he assuaged his conscience by deciding to have a taste
of each kind. The wild turkey he found the most toothsome, delicious
meat it had ever been his pleasure to eat. What struck him at once was
the flavor, and he could not understand it until Pepe explained that the
jungle turkey lived upon a red pepper. So the Tamaulipas wild turkey
turned out to be doubly the finest game he had ever shot.
All afternoon the big crocodile sunned himself on the surface of the
shoal.
Ken wanted a crocodile-skin, and this was a chance to get one; but he
thought it as well to wait, and kept the boys from wasting ammunition.
Before sundown Pepe went across the river and fetched the deer carcass
down to the sandbar, where the jaguar-trail led to the water.
At twilight Ken stationed the boys at the lower end of the island,
ambushed behind stones. He placed George and Pepe some rods below his
own position. They had George’s .32 rifle, and the 16-gage loaded with
a solid ball. Ken put Hal, with the double-barreled shotgun, also
loaded with ball, some little distance above. And Ken, armed with his
automatic, hid just opposite the deer-trails.
“Be careful where you shoot,” Ken warned repeatedly. “Be cool--think
quick--and aim.”
Ken settled down for a long wait, some fifty yards from the deer
carcass. A wonderful procession of wild fowl winged swift flight over
his head. They flew very low. It was strange to note the difference in
the sound of their flying. The cranes and herons softly swished the
air, the teal and canvasbacks whirred by, and the great Muscovies
whizzed like bullets.
When the first deer came down to drink it was almost dark, and when they
left the moon was up, though obscured by clouds. Faint sounds rose from
the other side of the island. Ken listened until his ears ached, but he
could hear nothing. Heavier clouds drifted over the moon. The deer
carcass became indistinct, and then faded entirely, and the bar itself
grew vague. He was about to give up watching for that night when he
heard a faint rustling below. Following it came a grating or crunching
of gravel.
Bright flares split the darkness--_crack! crack!_ rang out George’s
rifle, then the heavy _boom! boom!_ of the shotgun.
“There he is!” yelled George. “He’s down--we got him--there’s two!
Look out!”
_Boom! Boom!_ roared the heavy shotgun from Hal’s covert.
“George missed him! I got him!” yelled Hal. “No, there he goes--Ken!
Ken!”
Ken caught the flash of a long gray body in the hazy gloom of the bar
and took a quick shot at it. The steel-jacketed bullet scattered the
gravel and then hummed over the bank. The gray body moved fast up the
bank. Ken could just see it. He turned loose the little automatic and
made the welkin ring.
*XIV*
*A FIGHT WITH A JAGUAR*
When the echoes of the shots died away the stillness seemed all the
deeper. No rustle in the brush or scuffle on the sand gave evidence of
a wounded or dying jaguar. George and Hal and Pepe declared there were
two tigers, and that they had hit one. Ken walked out upon the stones
till he could see the opposite bar, but was not rewarded by a sight of
dead game. Thereupon they returned to camp, somewhat discouraged at
their ill luck, but planning another night-watch.
In the morning George complained that he did not feel well. Ken told
him he had been eating too much fresh meat, and that he had better be
careful. Then Ken set off alone, crossed the river, and found that the
deer carcass was gone. In the sand near where it had lain were plenty
of cat-tracks, but none of the big jaguar. Upon closer scrutiny he
found the cat-tracks to be those of a panther. He had half dragged, half
carried the carcass up one of the steep trails, but from that point
there was no further trace.
Ken struck out across the flat, intending to go as far as the jungle.
Turtle-doves fluttered before him in numberless flocks. Far to one side
he saw Muscovy ducks rising, sailing a few rods, then alighting. This
occurred several times before he understood what it meant. There was
probably a large flock feeding on the flat, and the ones in the rear
were continually flying to get ahead of those to the fore.
Several turkeys ran through the bushes before Ken, but as he was
carrying a rifle he paid little heed to them. He kept a keen lookout
for _javelin_. Two or three times he was tempted to turn off the trail
into little bamboo hollows; this, however, owing to a repugnance to
ticks, he did not do. Finally, as he neared the high moss-decked wall
of the jungle, he came upon a runway leading through the bottom of a
deep swale, and here he found tiger-tracks.
Farther down the swale, under a great cluster of bamboo, he saw the
scattered bones of several deer. Ken was sure that in this spot the
lord of the jungle had feasted more than once. It was an open hollow,
with the ground bare under the bamboos. The runway led on into dense,
leafy jungle. Ken planned to bait that lair with a deer carcass and
watch it during the late afternoon.
First, it was necessary to get the deer. This might prove bothersome,
for Ken’s hands and wrists were already sprinkled with _pinilius_, and
he certainly did not want to stay very long in the brush. Ken imagined
he felt an itching all the time, and writhed inside his clothes.
“Say, blame you! bite!” he exclaimed, resignedly, and stepped into the
low bushes. He went up and out of the swale. Scarcely had he reached a
level when he saw a troop of deer within easy range. Before they winded
danger Ken shot, and the one he had singled out took a few bounds, then
fell over sideways. The others ran off into the brush. Ken remembered
that the old hunter on Penetier had told him how seldom a deer dropped
at once. When he saw the work of the soft-nose .351 bullet, he no
longer wondered at this deer falling almost in his tracks.
“If I ever hit a jaguar like that it will be all day with him,” was
Ken’s comment.
There were two things about hunting the jaguar that Ken had been bidden
to keep in mind--fierce aggressiveness and remarkable tenacity of life.
Ken dragged the deer down into the bamboo swale and skinned out a
haunch. Next to wild-turkey meat, he liked venison best. He was glad to
have that as an excuse, for killing these tame tropical deer seemed like
murder to Ken. He left the carcass in a favorable place and then
hurried back to camp.
To Ken’s relief, he managed to escape bringing any _garrapatoes_ with
him, but it took a half-hour to rid himself of the collection of
_pinilius_.
“George, ask Pepe what’s the difference between a garrapato and a
pinilius,” said Ken.
“The big tick is the little one’s mother,” replied Pepe.
“Gee! you fellows fuss a lot about ticks,” said Hal, looking up from his
task. He was building more pens to accommodate the turtles, snakes,
snails, mice, and young birds that he had captured during the morning.
Pepe said there were few ticks there in the uplands compared to the
number down along the Panuco River. In the lowlands where the cattle
roamed there were millions in every square rod. The under side of every
leaf and blade of grass was red with ticks. The size of these pests
depended on whether or not they got a chance to stick to a steer or any
beast. They appeared to live indefinitely, but if they could not suck
blood they could not grow. The _pinilius_ grew into a _garrapato_, and a
_garrapato_ bred a hundred thousand _pinilius_ in her body. Two
singular things concerning these ticks were that they always crawled
upward, and they vanished from the earth during the wet season.
Ken soaked his Duxbax hunting-suit in kerosene in the hope that this
method would enable him to spend a reasonable time hunting. Then, while
the other boys fished and played around, he waited for the long, hot
hours to pass. It was cool in the shade, but the sunlight resembled the
heat of fire. At last five o’clock came, and Ken put on the damp suit.
Soaked with the oil, it was heavier and hotter than sealskin, and before
he got across the river he was nearly roasted. The evening wind sprang
up, and the gusts were like blasts from a furnace. Ken’s body was
bathed in perspiration; it ran down his wrists, over his hands, and wet
the gun. This cure for ticks--if it were one--was worse than their
bites. When he reached the shade of the bamboo swale it was none too
soon for him. He threw off the coat, noticing there were more ticks
upon it than at anytime before. The bottom of his trousers, too, had
gathered an exceeding quantity. He brushed them off, muttering the
while that he believed they liked kerosene, and looked as if they were
drinking it. Ken found it easy, however, to brush them off the wet
Duxbax, and soon composed himself to rest and watch.
The position chosen afforded Ken a clear view of the bare space under
the bamboos and of the hollow where the runway disappeared in the
jungle. The deer carcass, which lay as he had left it, was about a
hundred feet from him. This seemed rather close, but he had to accept
it, for if he had moved farther away he could not have commanded both
points.
Ken sat with his back against a clump of bamboos, the little rifle
across his knees and an extra clip of cartridges on the ground at his
left. After taking that position he determined not to move a yard when
the tiger came, and to kill him.
Ken went over in mind the lessons he had learned hunting bear in
Penetier Forest with old Hiram Bent and lassoing lions on the wild
north-rim of the Grand Cañon. Ken knew that the thing for a hunter to
do, when his quarry was dangerous, was to make up his mind beforehand.
Ken had twelve powerful shells that he could shoot in the half of twelve
seconds. He would have been willing to face two jaguars.
The sun set and the wind died down. What a relief was the cooling shade!
The little breeze that was left fortunately blew at right angles to the
swale, so that there did not seem much danger of the tiger winding Ken
down the jungle runway.
For long moments he was tense and alert. He listened till he thought he
had almost lost the sense of hearing. The jungle leaves were
whispering; the insects were humming. He had expected to hear myriad
birds and see processions of deer, and perhaps a drove of _javelin_.
But if any living creatures ventured near him it was without his
knowledge. The hour between sunset and twilight passed--a long wait;
still he did not lose the feeling that something would happen. Ken’s
faculties of alertness tired, however, and needed distraction. So he
took stock of the big clump of bamboos under which lay the deer carcass.
It was a remarkable growth, that gracefully drooping cluster of slender
bamboo poles. He remembered how, as a youngster, not many years back,
he had wondered where the fishing-poles came from. Here Ken counted one
hundred and sixty-nine in a clump no larger than a barrel. They were
yellow in color with black bands, and they rose straight for a few
yards, then began to lean out, to bend slightly, at last to droop with
their abundance of spiked leaves. Ken was getting down to a real,
interested study of this species of jungle growth when a noise startled
him.
He straightened out of his lounging position and looked around. The
sound puzzled him. He could not place its direction or name what it was.
The jungle seemed strangely quiet. He listened. After a moment of
waiting he again heard the sound. Instantly Ken was as tense and
vibrating as a violin string. The thing he had heard was from the lungs
of some jungle beast. He was almost ready to pronounce it a cough.
Warily he glanced around, craning his neck. Then a deep, hoarse growl
made him whirl.
There stood a jaguar with head up and paw on the deer carcass. Ken
imagined he felt perfectly cool, but he knew he was astounded. And even
as he cautiously edged the rifle over his knee he took in the beautiful
points of the jaguar. He was yellow, almost white, with black spots.
He was short and stocky, with powerful stumpy bow-legs. But his head
most amazed Ken. It was enormous. And the expression of his face was so
singularly savage and wild that Ken seemed to realize instantly the
difference between a mountain-lion and this fierce tropical brute.
The jaguar opened his jaws threateningly. He had an enormous stretch of
jaw. His long, yellow fangs gleamed. He growled again.
Not hurriedly, nor yet slowly, Ken fired.
He heard the bullet strike him as plainly as if he had hit him with a
board. He saw dust fly from his hide. Ken expected to see the jaguar
roll over. Instead of that he leaped straight up with a terrible roar.
Something within Ken shook. He felt cold and sick.
When the jaguar came down, sprawled on all fours, Ken pulled the
automatic again, and he saw the fur fly. Then the jaguar leaped forward
with a strange, hoarse cry. Ken shot again, and knocked the beast flat.
He tumbled and wrestled about, scattering the dust and brush. Three
times more Ken fired, too hastily, and inflicted only slight wounds.
In reloading Ken tried to be deliberate in snapping in the second clip
and pushing down the rod that threw the shell into the barrel. But his
hands shook. His fingers were all thumbs, and he fumbled at the breech
of the rifle.
In that interval, if the jaguar could have kept his sense of direction,
he would have reached Ken. But the beast zigzagged; he had lost his
equilibrium; he was hard hit.
Then he leaped magnificently. He landed within twenty-five feet of Ken,
and when he plunged down he rolled clear over. Ken shot him through and
through. Yet he got up, wheezing blood, uttering a hoarse bellow, and
made again at Ken.
Ken had been cold, sick. Now panic almost overpowered him. The rifle
wabbled. The bamboo glade blurred in his sight. A terrible dizziness
and numbness almost paralyzed him. He was weakening, sinking, when
thought of life at stake lent him a momentary grim and desperate spirit.
Once while the jaguar was in the air Ken pulled, twice while he was
down. Then the jaguar stood up pawing the air with great spread claws,
coughing, bleeding, roaring. He was horrible.
Ken shot him straight between the wide-spread paws.
With twisted body, staggering, and blowing bloody froth all over Ken,
the big tiger blindly lunged forward and crashed to earth.
Then began a furious wrestling. Ken imagined it was the death-throes of
the jaguar. Ken could not see him down among the leaves and vines;
nevertheless, he shot into the commotion. The struggles ceased. Then a
movement of the weeds showed Ken that the jaguar was creeping toward the
jungle.
Ken fell rather than sat down. He found he was wringing wet with cold
sweat. He was panting hard.
“Say, but--that--was--awful!” he gasped. “What--was--wrong--with me?”
He began to reload the clips. They were difficult to load for even a
calm person, and now, in the reaction, Ken was the farthest removed from
calm. The jaguar crept steadily away, as Ken could tell by the swaying
weeds and shaking vines.
“What--a hard-lived beast!” muttered Ken. “I--must have shot--him all to
pieces. Yet he’s getting away from me.”
At last Ken’s trembling fingers pushed some shells in the two clips, and
once more he reloaded the rifle. Then he stood up, drew a deep, full
breath, and made a strong effort at composure.
“I’ve shot at bear--and deer--and lions out West,” said Ken. “But this
was different. I’ll never get over it.”
How close that jaguar came to reaching Ken was proved by the blood
coughed into his face. He recalled that he had felt the wind of one
great sweeping paw.
Ken regained his courage and determination. He meant to have that
beautiful spotted skin for his den. So he hurried along the runway and
entered the jungle. Beyond the edge, where the bushes made a dense
thicket, it was dry forest, with little green low down. The hollow gave
place to a dry wash. He could not see the jaguar, but he could hear him
dragging himself through the brush, cracking sticks, shaking saplings.
Presently Ken ran across a bloody trail and followed it. Every little
while he would stop to listen. When the wounded jaguar was still, he
waited until he started to move again. It was hard going. The brush
was thick, and had to be broken and crawled under or through. As Ken
had left his coat behind, his shirt was soon torn to rags. He peered
ahead with sharp eyes, expecting every minute to come in sight of the
poor, crippled beast. He wanted to put him out of agony. So he kept on
doggedly for what must have been a long time.
The first premonition he had of carelessness was to note that the
shadows were gathering in the jungle. It would soon be night. He must
turn back while there was light enough to follow his back track out to
the open. The second came in shape of a hot pain in his arm, as keen as
if he had jagged it with a thorn. Holding it out, he discovered to his
dismay that it was spotted with _garrapatoes_.
*XV*
*THE VICIOUS GARRAPATOES*
At once Ken turned back, and if he thought again of the jaguar it was
that he could come after him the next day or send Pepe. Another vicious
bite, this time on his leg, confirmed his suspicions that many of the
ticks had been on him long enough to get their heads in. Then he was
bitten in several places.
Those bites were as hot as the touch of a live coal, yet they made Ken
break out in dripping cold sweat. It was imperative that he get back to
camp without losing a moment which could be saved. From a rapid walk he
fell into a trot. He got off his back trail and had to hunt for it.
Every time a tick bit he jumped as if stung. The worst of it was that
he knew he was collecting more _garrapatoes_ with almost every step.
When he grasped a dead branch to push it out of the way he could feel
the ticks cling to his hand. Then he would whip his arm in the air,
flinging some of them off to patter on the dry ground. Impossible as it
was to run through that matted jungle, Ken almost accomplished it. When
he got out into the open he did run, not even stopping for his coat, and
he crossed the flat at top speed.
It was almost dark when Ken reached the river-bank and dashed down to
frighten a herd of drinking deer. He waded the narrowest part of the
shoal. Running up the island he burst into the bright circle of
camp-fire. Pepe dropped a stew-pan and began to jabber. George dove for
a gun.
“What’s after you?” shouted Hal, in alarm.
Ken was so choked up and breathless that at first he could not speak.
His fierce aspect and actions, as he tore off his sleeveless and ragged
shirt and threw it into the fire, added to the boys’ fright.
“Good Lord! are you bug-house, Ken?” shrieked Hal.
“_Bug-house! Yes!_” roared Ken, swiftly undressing. “Look at me!”
In the bright glare he showed his arms black with _garrapatoes_ and a
sprinkling of black dots over the rest of his body.
“Is that all?” demanded Hal, in real or simulated scorn. “Gee! but
you’re a brave hunter. I thought not less than six tigers were after
you.”
“I’d rather have six tigers after me,” yelled Ken. “You little
freckle-faced redhead!”
It was seldom indeed that Ken called his brother that name. Hal was
proof against any epithets except that one relating to his freckles and
his hair. But just now Ken felt that he was being eaten alive. He was
in an agony, and he lost his temper. And therefore he laid himself open
to Hal’s scathing humor.
“Never mind the kid,” said Ken to Pepe and George. “Hurry now, and get
busy with these devils on me.”
It was well for Ken that he had a native like Pepe with him. For Pepe
knew just what to do. First he dashed a bucket of cold water over Ken.
How welcome that was!
“Pepe says for you to point out the ticks that ’re biting the hardest,”
said George.
In spite of his pain Ken stared in mute surprise.
“Pepe wants you to point out the ticks that are digging in the deepest,”
explained George. “Get a move on, now.”
“What!” roared Ken, glaring at Pepe and George. He thought even the
native might be having fun with him. And for Ken this was not a funny
time.
But Pepe was in dead earnest.
“Say, it’s impossible to tell _where_ I’m being bitten most! It’s all
over!” protested Ken.
Still he discovered that by absolute concentration on the pain he was
enduring he was able to locate the severest points. And that showed him
the soundness of Pepe’s advice.
“Here--this one--here--there.... Oh! here,” began Ken, indicating
certain ticks.
“Not so fast, now,” interrupted the imperturbable George, as he and Pepe
set to work upon Ken.
Then the red-hot cigarette-tips scorched Ken’s skin. Ken kept pointing
and accompanying his directions with wild gestures and exclamations.
“Here.... Oo-oo! Here.... Wow! Here.... Ouch!--that one stung!
Here.... _Augh_! Say, can’t you hurry? Here! ... Oh! that one was in a
mile! Here.... _Hold on_! You’re burning a hole in me! ... George,
you’re having fun out of this. Pepe gets two to your one.”
“He’s been popping ticks all his life,” was George’s reasonable protest.
“Hurry!” cried Ken, in desperation. “George, if you monkey round--fool
over this job--I’ll--I’ll punch you good.”
All this trying time Hal Ward sat on a log and watched the proceedings
with great interest and humor. Sometimes he smiled, at others he
laughed, and yet again he burst out into uproarious mirth.
“George, he wouldn’t punch anybody,” said Hal. “I tell you he’s all in.
He hasn’t any nerve left. It’s a chance of your life. You’ll never get
another. He’s been bossing you around. Pay him up. Make him holler.
Why, what’s a few little ticks? Wouldn’t phase me! But Ken Ward’s such
a delicate, fine-skinned, sensitive, girly kind of a boy! He’s too nice
to be bitten by bugs. Oh dear, yes, yes! ... Ken, why don’t you show
courage?”
Ken shook his fist at Hal.
“All right,” said Ken, grimly. “Have all the fun you can. Because I’ll
get even with you.”
Hal relapsed into silence, and Ken began to believe he had intimidated
his brother. But he soon realized how foolish it was to suppose such a
thing. Hal had only been working his fertile brain.
“George, here’s a little verse for the occasion,” said Hal.
“There was a brave hunter named Ken,
And he loved to get skins for his den,
Not afraid was he of tigers or pigs,
Or snakes or cats or any such things,
But one day in the jungle he left his clothes,
And came hollering back with _garrapatoes_.”
“Gre-at-t-t!” sputtered Ken. “Oh, brother mine, we’re a long way from
home, I’ll make you crawl.”
Pepe smoked, and wore out three cigarettes, and George two, before they
had popped all the biting ticks. Then Ken was still covered with them.
Pepe bathed him in _canya_, which was like a bath of fire, and soon
removed them all. Ken felt flayed alive, peeled of his skin, and
sprinkled with fiery sparks. When he lay down he was as weak as a sick
cat. Pepe said the _canya_ would very soon take the sting away, but it
was some time before Ken was resting easily.
It would not have been fair to ask Ken just then whether the prize for
which he worked was worth his present gain. _Garrapatoes_ may not seem
important to one who simply reads about them, but such pests are a
formidable feature of tropical life.
However, Ken presently felt that he was himself again.
Then he put his mind to the serious problem of his note-book and the
plotting of the island. As far as his trip was concerned, Cypress
Island was an important point. When he had completed his map down to the
island, he went on to his notes. He believed that what he had found out
from his knowledge of forestry was really worth something. He had seen
a gradual increase in the size and number of trees as he had proceeded
down the river, a difference in the density and color of the jungle, a
flattening-out of the mountain range, and a gradual change from rocky to
clayey soil. And on the whole his note-book began to assume such a
character that he was beginning to feel willing to submit it to his
uncle.
*XVI*
*FIELD WORK OF A NATURALIST*
That night Ken talked natural history to the boys and read extracts from
a small copy of Sclater he had brought with him.
They were all particularly interested in the cat tribe.
The fore feet of all cats have five toes, the hind feet only four.
Their claws are curved and sharp, and, except in case of one species of
leopard, can be retracted in their sheaths. The claws of the great cat
species are kept sharp by pulling them down through bark of trees. All
cats walk on their toes. And the stealthy walk is due to hairy pads or
cushions. The claws of a cat do not show in its track as do those of a
dog. The tongues of all cats are furnished with large papillæ. They are
like files, and the use is to lick bones and clean their fur. Their
long whiskers are delicate organs of perception to aid them in finding
their way on their night quests. The eyes of all cats are large and
full, and can be altered by contraction or expansion of iris, according
to the amount of light they receive. The usual color is gray or tawny
with dark spots or stripes. The uniform tawny color of the lion and the
panther is perhaps an acquired color, probably from the habit of these
animals of living in desert countries. It is likely that in primitive
times cats were all spotted or striped.
Naturally the boys were most interested in the jaguar, which is the
largest of the cat tribe in the New World. The jaguar ranges from
northern Mexico to northern Patagonia. Its spots are larger than those
of the leopard. Their ground color is a rich tan or yellow, sometimes
almost gold. Large specimens have been known nearly seven feet from
nose to end of tail.
The jaguar is an expert climber and swimmer. Humboldt says that where
the South American forests are subject to floods the jaguar sometimes
takes to tree life, living on monkeys. All naturalists agree on the
ferocious nature of jaguars, and on the loudness and frequency of their
cries. There is no record of their attacking human beings without
provocation. Their favorite haunts are the banks of jungle rivers, and
they often prey upon fish and turtles.
The attack of a jaguar is terrible. It leaps on the back of its prey
and breaks its neck. In some places there are well-known scratching
trees where jaguars sharpen their claws. The bark is worn smooth in
front from contact with the breasts of the animals as they stand up, and
there is a deep groove on each side. When new scars appear on these
trees it is known that jaguars are in the vicinity. The cry of the
jaguar is loud, deep, hoarse, something like _pu, pu, pu_. There is
much enmity between the panther, or mountain-lion, and the jaguar, and
it is very strange that generally the jaguar fears the lion, although he
is larger and more powerful.
Pepe had interesting things to say about jaguars, or _tigres_, as he
called them. But Ken, of course, could not tell how much Pepe said was
truth and how much just native talk. At any rate, Pepe told of one
Mexican who had a blind and deaf jaguar that he had tamed. Ken knew
that naturalists claimed the jaguar could not be tamed, but in this
instance Ken was inclined to believe Pepe. This blind jaguar was
enormous in size, terrible of aspect, and had been trained to trail
anything his master set him to. And Tigre, as he was called, never
slept or stopped till he had killed the thing he was trailing. As he was
blind and deaf, his power of scent had been abnormally developed.
Pepe told of a fight between a huge crocodile and a jaguar in which both
were killed. He said jaguars stalked natives and had absolutely no
fear. He knew natives who said that jaguars had made off with children
and eaten them. Lastly, Pepe told of an incident that had happened in
Tampico the year before. There was a ship at dock below Tampico, just on
the outskirts where the jungle began, and one day at noon two big
jaguars leaped on the deck. They frightened the crew out of their wits.
George verified this story, and added that the jaguars had been chased
by dogs, had boarded the ship, where they climbed into the rigging, and
stayed there till they were shot.
“Well,” said Ken, thoughtfully, “from my experience I believe a jaguar
would do anything.”
The following day promised to be a busy one for Hal, without any time
for tricks. George went hunting before breakfast--in fact, before the
others were up--and just as the boys were sitting down to eat he
appeared on the nearer bank and yelled for Pepe. It developed that for
once George had bagged game.
He had a black squirrel, a small striped wildcat, a peccary, a
three-foot crocodile, and a duck of rare plumage.
After breakfast Hal straightway got busy, and his skill and knowledge
earned praise from George and Pepe. They volunteered to help, which
offer Hal gratefully accepted. He had brought along a folding canvas
tank, forceps, knives, scissors, several packages of preservatives, and
tin boxes in which to pack small skins.
His first task was to mix a salt solution in the canvas tank. This was
for immersing skins. Then he made a paste of salt and alum, and after
that a mixture of two-thirds glycerin and one-third water and carbolic
acid, which was for preserving small skins and to keep them soft.
And as he worked he gave George directions on how to proceed with the
wildcat and squirrel skins.
“Skin carefully and tack up the pelts fur side down. Scrape off all the
fat and oil, but don’t scrape through. To-morrow when the skins are dry
soak them in cold water till soft. Then take them out and squeeze dry.
I’ll make a solution of three quarts water, one-half pint salt, and one
ounce oil of vitriol. Put the skins in that for half an hour. Squeeze
dry again, and hang in shade. That’ll tan the skin, and the moths will
never hurt them.”
When Hal came to take up the duck he was sorry that some of the
beautiful plumage had been stained.
“I want only a few water-fowl,” he said. “And particularly one of the
big Muscovies. And you must keep the feathers from getting soiled.”
It was interesting to watch Hal handle that specimen. First he took
full measurements. Then, separating the feathers along the breast, he
made an incision with a sharp knife, beginning high up on breast-bone
and ending at tail. He exercised care so as not to cut through the
abdomen. Raising the skin carefully along the cut as far as the muscles
of the leg, he pushed out the knee joint and cut it off. Then he
loosened the skin from the legs and the back, and bent the tail down to
cut through the tail joint. Next he removed the skin from the body and
cut off the wings at the shoulder joint. Then he proceeded down the
neck, being careful not to pull or stretch the skin. Extreme care was
necessary in cutting round the eyes. Then, when he had loosened the
skin from the skull, he severed the head and cleaned out the skull. He
coated all with the paste, filled the skull with cotton, and then
immersed them in the glycerin bath.
The skinning of the crocodile was an easy matter compared with that of
the duck. Hal made an incision at the throat, cut along the middle of
the abdomen all the way to the tip of the tail, and then cut the skin
away all around the carcass. Then he set George and Pepe to scraping
the skin, after which he immersed it in the tank.
About that time Ken, who was lazily fishing in the shade of the
cypresses, caught one of the blue-tailed fish. Hal was delighted. He
had made a failure of the other specimen of this unknown fish. This one
was larger and exquisitely marked, being dark gold on the back, white
along the belly, and its tail had a faint bluish tinge. Hal promptly
killed the fish, and then made a dive for his suitcase. He produced
several sheets of stiff cardboard and a small box of water-colors and
brushes. He laid the fish down on a piece of paper and outlined its
exact size. Then, placing it carefully in an upright position on a box,
he began to paint it in the actual colors of the moment. Ken laughed
and teased him. George also was inclined to be amused. But Pepe was
amazed and delighted. Hal worked on unmindful of his audience, and,
though he did not paint a very artistic picture, he produced the vivid
colors of the fish before they faded.
His next move was to cover the fish with strips of thin cloth, which
adhered to the scales and kept them from being damaged. Then he cut
along the middle line of the belly, divided the pelvic arch where the
ventral fins joined, cut through the spines, and severed the fins from
the bones. Then he skinned down to the tail, up to the back, and cut
through caudal processes. The vertebral column he severed at the base
of the skull. He cleaned and scraped the entire inside of the skin, and
then put it to soak.
“Hal, you’re much more likely to make good with Uncle Jim than I am,”
said Ken. “You’ve really got skill, and you know what to do. Now, my
job is different. So far I’ve done fairly well with my map of the
river. But as soon as we get on level ground I’ll be stumped.”
“We’ll cover a hundred miles before we get to low land,” replied Hal,
cheerily. “That’s enough, even if we do get lost for the rest of the
way. You’ll win that trip abroad, Ken, never fear, and little Willie is
going to be with you.”
*XVII*
*A MIXED-UP TIGER-HUNT*
Next morning Hal arose bright as a lark, but silent, mysterious, and
with far-seeing eyes. It made Ken groan in spirit to look at the boy.
Yes, indeed, they were far from home, and the person did not live on the
earth who could play a trick on Hal Ward and escape vengeance.
After breakfast Hal went off with a long-handled landing-net, obviously
to capture birds or fish or mice or something.
George said he did not feel very well, and he looked grouchy. He
growled around camp in a way that might have nettled Ken, but Ken,
having had ten hours of undisturbed sleep, could not have found fault
with anybody.
“Garrapato George, come out of it. Cheer up,” said Ken. “Why don’t you
take Pinilius Pepe as gun-bearer and go out to shoot something? You
haven’t used up much ammunition yet.”
Ken’s sarcasm was not lost upon George.
“Well, if I do go, I’ll not come running back to camp without some
game.”
“My son,” replied Ken, genially, “if you should happen to meet a jaguar
you’d--you’d just let out one squawk and then never touch even the high
places of the jungle. You’d take that crazy .32 rifle for a
golf-stick.”
“Would I?” returned George. “All right.”
Ken watched George awhile that morning. The lad performed a lot of weird
things around camp. Then he bounced bullets off the water in vain
effort to locate the basking crocodile. Then he tried his hand at
fishing once more. He could get more bites than any fisherman Ken ever
saw, but he could not catch anything.
By and by the heat made Ken drowsy, and, stretching himself in the
shade, he thought of a scheme to rid the camp of the noisy George.
“Say, George, take my hammerless and get Pepe to row you up along the
shady bank of the river,” suggested Ken. “Go sneaking along and you’ll
have some sport.”
George was delighted with that idea. He had often cast longing eyes at
the hammerless gun. Pepe, too, looked exceedingly pleased. They got in
the boat and were in the act of starting when George jumped ashore. He
reached for his .32 and threw the lever down to see if there was a shell
in the chamber. Then he proceeded to fill his pockets with ammunition.
“Might need a rifle,” he said. “You can’t tell what you’re going to see
in this unholy jungle.”
Whereupon he went aboard again and Pepe rowed leisurely up-stream.
“Be careful, boys,” Ken called, and composed himself for a nap. He
promptly fell asleep. How long he slept he had no idea, and when he
awoke he lay with languor, not knowing at the moment what had awakened
him. Presently he heard a shout, then a rifle-shot. Sitting up, he saw
the boat some two hundred yards above, drifting along about the edge of
the shade. Pepe was in it alone. He appeared to be excited, for Ken
observed him lay down an oar and pick up a gun, and then reverse the
performance. Also he was jabbering to George, who evidently was out on
the bank, but invisible to Ken.
“Hey, Pepe!” Ken yelled. “What ’re you doing?”
Strange to note, Pepe did not reply or even turn.
“Now where in the deuce is George?” Ken said, impatiently.
The hollow crack of George’s .32 was a reply to the question. Ken heard
the singing of a bullet. Suddenly, _spou!_ it twanged on a branch not
twenty feet over his head, and then went whining away. He heard it tick
a few leaves or twigs. There was not any languor in the alacrity with
which Ken put the big cypress-tree between him and up-stream. Then he
ventured to peep forth.
“Look out where you’re slinging lead!” he yelled. He doubted not that
George had treed a black squirrel or was pegging away at parrots. Yet
Pepe’s motions appeared to carry a good deal of feeling, too much, he
thought presently, for small game. So Ken began to wake up thoroughly.
He lost sight of Pepe behind a low branch of a tree that leaned some
fifty yards above the island. Then he caught sight of him again. He was
poling with an oar, evidently trying to go up or down--Ken could not
tell which.
_Spang_! _Spang_! George’s .32 spoke twice more, and the bullets both
struck in the middle of the stream and ricochetted into the far bank
with little thuds.
Something prompted Ken to reach for his automatic, snap the clip in
tight, and push in the safety. At the same time he muttered George’s
words: “You can never tell what’s coming off in this unholy jungle.”
Then, peeping out from behind the cypress, Ken watched the boat drift
down-stream. Pepe had stopped poling and was looking closely into the
thick grass and vines of the bank. Ken heard his voice, but could not
tell what he said. He watched keenly for some sight of George. The
moments passed, the boat drifted, and Ken began to think there was
nothing unusual afoot. In this interval Pepe drifted within
seventy-five yards of camp. Again Ken called to ask him what George was
stalking, and this time Pepe yelled; but Ken did not know what he said.
Hard upon this came George’s sharp voice:
“Look out, there, on the island. Get behind something. I’ve got him
between the river and the flat. He’s in this strip of shore brush.
There!”
_Spang_! _Spang_! _Spang_! Bullets hummed and whistled all about the
island. Ken was afraid to peep out with even one eye. He began to
fancy that George was playing Indian.
“Fine, Georgie! You’re doing great!” he shouted. “You couldn’t come
any closer to me if you were aiming at me. What is it?”
Then a crashing of brush and a flash of yellow low down along the bank
changed the aspect of the situation.
“Panther! or jaguar!” Ken ejaculated, in amaze. In a second he was
tight-muscled, cold, and clear-witted. At that instant he saw George’s
white shirt about the top of the brush.
“Go back! Get out in the open!” Ken ordered. “Do you hear me?”
“Where is he?” shouted George, paying not the slightest attention to
Ken. Ken jumped from behind the tree, and, running to the head of the
island, he knelt low near the water with rifle ready.
“Tigre! Tigre! Tigre!” screamed Pepe, waving his arms, then pointing.
George crashed into the brush. Ken saw the leaves move, then a long
yellow shape. With the quickness of thought and the aim of the
wing-shot, Ken fired. From the brush rose a strange wild scream.
George aimed at a shaking mass of grass and vines, but, before he could
fire, a long, lean, ugly beast leaped straight out from the bank to drop
into the water with a heavy splash.
Like a man half scared to death Pepe waved Ken’s double-barreled gun.
Then a yellow head emerged from the water. It was in line with the
boat. Ken dared not shoot.
“Kill him, George,” yelled Ken. “Tell Pepe to kill him.”