George seemed unaccountably silent. But Ken had no time to look for

him, for his eyes were riveted on Pepe. The native did not know how to

hold a gun properly, let alone aim it. He had, however, sense enough to

try. He got the stock under his chin, and, pointing the gun, he

evidently tried to fire. But the hammerless did not go off. Then Pepe

fumbled at the safety-catch, which he evidently remembered seeing Ken

use.

The jaguar, swimming with difficulty, perhaps badly wounded, made right

for the boat. Pepe was standing on the seat. Awkwardly he aimed.

_Boom_! He had pulled both triggers. The recoil knocked him backward.

The hammerless fell in the boat, and Pepe’s broad back hit the water;

his bare, muscular legs clung to the gunwale, and slipped loose.

He had missed the jaguar, for it kept on toward the boat. Still Ken

dared not shoot.

“George, what on earth is the matter with you?” shouted Ken.

Then Ken saw him standing in the brush on the bank, fussing over the

crazy .32. Of course at the critical moment something had gone wrong

with the old rifle.

Pepe’s head bobbed up just on the other side of the boat. The jaguar

was scarcely twenty feet distant and now in line with both boat and man.

At that instant a heavy swirl in the water toward the middle of the

river drew Ken’s attention. He saw the big crocodile, and the great

creature did not seem at all lazy at that moment.

George began to scream in Spanish. Ken felt his hair stiffen and his

face blanch. Pepe, who had been solely occupied with the jaguar, caught

George’s meaning and turned to see the peril in his rear.

He bawled his familiar appeal to the saints. Then he grasped the gunwale

of the boat just as it swung against the branches of the low-leaning

tree. He vaulted rather than climbed aboard.

Ken forgot that Pepe could understand little English, and he yelled:

“Grab an oar, Pepe. Keep the jaguar in the water. Don’t let him in the

boat.”

But Pepe, even if he had understood, had a better idea. Nimble, he ran

over the boat and grasped the branches of the tree just as the jaguar

flopped paws and head over the stern gunwale.

Ken had only a fleeting instant to get a bead on that yellow body, and

before he could be sure of an aim the branch weighted with Pepe sank

down to hide both boat and jaguar. The chill of fear for Pepe changed

to hot rage at this new difficulty.

Then George began to shoot.

_Spang_!

Ken heard the bullet hit the boat.

“George--wait!” shouted Ken. “Don’t shoot holes in the boat. You’ll

sink it.”

_Spang_! _Spang_! _Spang_! _Spang_!

That was as much as George cared about such a possibility. He stood on

the bank and worked the lever of his .32 with wild haste. Ken plainly

heard the spat of the bullets, and the sound was that of lead in contact

with wood. So he knew George was not hitting the jaguar.

“You’ll ruin the boat!” roared Ken.

Pepe had worked up from the lower end of the branch, and as soon as he

straddled it and hunched himself nearer shore the foliage rose out of

the water, exposing the boat. George kept on shooting till his magazine

was empty. Ken’s position was too low for him to see the jaguar.

Then the boat swung loose from the branch and, drifting down, gradually

approached the shore.

“Pull yourself together, George,” called Ken. “Keep cool. Make sure of

your aim. We’ve got him now.”

“He’s mine! He’s mine! He’s mine! Don’t you dare shoot!” howled

George. “I got him!”

“All right. But steady up, can’t you? Hit him once, anyway.”

Apparently without aim George fired. Then, jerking the lever, he fired

again. The boat drifted into overhanging vines. Once more Ken saw a

yellow and black object, then a trembling trail of leaves.

“He’s coming out below you. Look out,” yelled Ken.

George disappeared. Ken saw no sign of the jaguar and heard no shot or

shout from George. Pepe dropped from his branch to the bank and caught

the boat. Ken called, and while Pepe rowed over to the island, he got

into some clothes fit to hunt in. Then they hurried back across the

channel to the bank.

Ken found the trail of the jaguar, followed it up to the edge of the

brush, and lost it in the weedy flat. George came out of a patch of

bamboos. He looked white and shaky and wild with disappointment.

“Oh, I had a dandy shot as he came out, but the blamed gun jammed again.

Come on, we’ll get him. He’s all shot up. I bet I hit him ten times.

He won’t get away.”

Ken finally got George back to camp. The boat was half full of water,

making it necessary to pull it out on the bank and turn it over. There

were ten bullet-holes in it.

“George, you hit the boat, anyway,” Ken said; “now we’ve a job on our

hands.”

Hal came puffing into camp. He was red of face, and the sweat stood out

on his forehead. He had a small animal of some kind in a sack, and his

legs were wet to his knees.

“What was--all the--pegging about?” he asked, breathlessly. “I expected

to find camp surrounded by Indians.”

“Kid, it’s been pretty hot round here for a little. George and Pepe

rounded up a tiger. Tell us about it, George,” said Ken.

So while Ken began to whittle pegs to pound into the bullet-holes,

George wiped his flushed, sweaty face and talked.

“We were up there a piece, round the bend. I saw a black squirrel and

went ashore to get him. But I couldn’t find him, and in kicking round

in the brush I came into a kind of trail or runway. Then I ran plumb

into that darned jaguar. I was so scared I couldn’t remember my gun.

But the cat turned and ran. It was lucky he didn’t make at me. When I

saw him run I got back my courage. I called for Pepe to row down-stream

and keep a lookout. Then I got into the flat. I must have come down a

good ways before I saw him. I shot, and he dodged back into the brush

again. I fired into the moving bushes where he was. And pretty soon I

ventured to get in on the bank, where I had a better chance. I guess it

was about that time that I heard you yell. Then it all happened. You

hit him! Didn’t you hear him scream? What a jump he made! If it hadn’t

been so terrible when your hammerless kicked Pepe overboard, I would

have died laughing. Then I was paralyzed when the jaguar swam for the

boat. He was hurt, for the water was bloody. Things came off quick, I

tell you. Like a monkey Pepe scrambled into the tree. When I got my gun

loaded the jaguar was crouched down in the bottom of the boat watching

Pepe. Then I began to shoot. I can’t realize he got away from us.

What was the reason you didn’t knock him?”

“Well, you see, George, there were two good reasons,” Ken replied. “The

first was that at that time I was busy dodging bullets from your rifle.

And the second was that you threatened my life if I killed your jaguar.”

“Did I get as nutty as that? But it was pretty warm there for a

little.... Say, was he a big one? My eyes were so hazy I didn’t see

him clear.”

“He wasn’t big, not half as big as the one I lost yesterday. Yours was

a long, wiry beast, like a panther, and mean-looking.”

Pepe sat on the bank, and while he nursed his bruises he smoked. Once

he made a speech that was untranslatable, but Hal gave it an

interpretation which was probably near correct.

“That’s right, Pepe. Pretty punk tiger-hunters--mucho punk!”

*XVIII*

*WATCHING A RUNWAY*

“I’ll tell you what, fellows,” said Hal. “I know where we _can_ get a

tiger.”

“We’ll get one in the neck if we don’t watch out,” replied George.

Ken thought that Hal looked very frank and earnest, and honest and

eager, but there was never any telling about him.

“Where?” he asked, skeptically.

“Down along the river. You know I’ve been setting traps all along.

There’s a flat sand-bar for a good piece down. I came to a little gully

full of big tracks, big as my two hands. And fresh!”

“Honest Injun, kid?” queried Ken.

“Hope to die if I’m lyin’,” replied Hal. “I want to see somebody kill a

tiger. Now let’s go down there in the boat and wait for one to come to

drink. There’s a big log with driftwood lodged on it. We can hide

behind that.”

“Great idea, Hal,” said Ken. “We’d be pretty safe in the boat. I want

to say that tigers have sort of got on my nerves. I ought to go over in

the jungle to look for the one I crippled. He’s dead by now. But the

longer I put it off the harder it is to go. I’ll back out yet....

Come, we’ll have an early dinner. Then to watch for Hal’s tiger.”

The sun had just set, and the hot breeze began to swirl up the river

when Ken slid the boat into the water. He was pleased to find that it

did not leak.

“We’ll take only two guns,” said Ken, “my .351 and the hammerless, with

some ball-cartridges. We want to be quiet to-night, and if you fellows

take your guns you’ll be pegging at ducks and things. That won’t do.”

Pepe sat at the oars with instructions to row easily. George and Hal

occupied the stern-seats, and Ken took his place in the bow, with both

guns at hand.

The hot wind roared in the cypresses, and the river whipped up little

waves with white crests. Long streamers of gray moss waved out over the

water and branches tossed and swayed. The blow did not last for many

minutes. Trees and river once more grew quiet. And suddenly the heat

was gone.

As Pepe rowed on down the river, Cypress Island began to disappear round

a bend, and presently was out of sight. Ducks were already in flight.

They flew low over the boat, so low that Ken could almost have reached

them with the barrel of his gun. The river here widened. It was full

of huge snags. A high, wooded bluff shadowed the western shore. On the

left, towering cypresses, all laced together in dense vine and moss

webs, leaned out.

Under Hal’s direction Pepe rowed to a pile of driftwood, and here the

boat was moored. The gully mentioned by Hal was some sixty yards

distant. It opened like the mouth of a cave. Beyond the cypresses

thick, intertwining bamboos covered it.

“I wish we’d gone in to see the tracks,” said Ken. “But I’ll take your

word, Hal.”

“Oh, they’re there, all right.”

“I don’t doubt it. Looks great to me! That’s a runway, Hal.... Now,

boys, get a comfortable seat, and settle down to wait. Don’t talk. Just

listen and watch. Remember, soon we’ll be out of the jungle, back home.

So make hay while the sun shines. Watch and listen! Whoever sees or

hears anything first is the best man.”

For once the boys were as obedient as lambs. But then, Ken thought, the

surroundings were so beautiful and wild and silent that any boys would

have been watchful.

There was absolutely no sound but the intermittent whir of wings. The

water-fowl flew by in companies--ducks, cranes, herons, snipe, and the

great Muscovies. Ken never would have tired of that procession. It

passed all too soon, and then only an occasional water-fowl swept

swiftly by, as if belated.

Slowly the wide river-lane shaded. But it was still daylight, and the

bank and the runway were clearly distinguishable. There was a

moment--Ken could not tell just how he knew--when the jungle awakened.

It was not only the faint hum of insects; it was a sense as if life

stirred with the coming of twilight.

Pepe was the first to earn honors at the listening game. He held up a

warning forefinger. Then he pointed under the bluff. Ken saw a doe

stepping out of a fringe of willows.

“Don’t move--don’t make a noise,” whispered Ken.

The doe shot up long ears and watched the boat. Then a little fawn

trotted out and splashed in the water. Both deer drank, then seemed in

no hurry to leave the river.

Next moment Hal heard something downstream and George saw something

up-stream. Pepe again whispered. As for Ken, he saw little dark shapes

moving out of the shadow of the runway. He heard a faint trampling of

hard little hoofs. But if these animals were _javelin_--of which he was

sure--they did not come out into the open runway. Ken tried to catch

Pepe’s attention without making a noise; however, Pepe was absorbed in

his side of the river. Ken then forgot he had companions. All along

the shores were faint splashings and rustlings and crackings.

A loud, trampling roar rose in the runway and seemed to move backward

toward the jungle, diminishing in violence.

“Pigs running--something scared ’em,” said George.

“S-s-s-sh!” whispered Ken.

All the sounds ceased. The jungle seemed to sleep in deep silence.

Ken’s eyes were glued to the light patch of sand-bank where it merged in

the dark of the runway. Then Ken heard a sound--what, he could not have

told. But it made his heart beat fast.

There came a few pattering thuds, soft as velvet; and a shadow, paler

than the dark background, moved out of the runway.

With that a huge jaguar loped into the open. He did not look around. He

took a long, easy bound down to the water and began to lap.

Either Pepe or George jerked so violently as to make the boat lurch.

They seemed to be stifling.

“Oh, Ken, don’t miss!” whispered Hal.

Ken had the automatic over the log and in line. His teeth were shut

tight, and he was cold and steady. He meant not to hurry.

The jaguar was a heavy, squat, muscular figure, not graceful and

beautiful like the one Ken had crippled. Suddenly he raised his head

and looked about. He had caught a scent.

It was then that Ken lowered the rifle till the sight covered the

beast--lower yet to his huge paws, then still lower to the edge of the

water. Ken meant to shoot low enough this time. Holding the rifle

there, and holding it with all his strength, he pressed the trigger

once--twice. The two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Ken

expected to see this jaguar leap, but the beast crumpled up and sank in

his tracks.

Then the boys yelled, and Ken echoed them. Pepe was wildly excited, and

began to fumble with the oars.

“Wait! Wait, I tell you!” ordered Ken.

“Oh, Ken, you pegged him!” cried Hal. “He doesn’t move. Let’s go

ashore. What did I tell you? It took me to find the tiger.”

Ken watched with sharp eyes and held his rifle ready, but the huddled

form on the sand never so much as twitched.

“I guess I plugged him,” said Ken, with unconscious pride.

Pepe rowed the boat ashore, and when near the sand-bar he reached out

with an oar to touch the jaguar. There was no doubt about his being

dead. The boys leaped ashore and straightened out the beast. He was

huge, dirty, spotted, bloody, and fiercely savage even in death. Ken’s

bullets had torn through the chest, making fearful wounds. Pepe

jabbered, and the boys all talked at once. When it came to lifting the

jaguar into the boat they had no slight task. The short, thick-set body

was very heavy. But at last they loaded it in the bow, and Pepe rowed

back to the island. It was still a harder task to get the jaguar up the

high bank. Pepe kindled a fire so they would have plenty of light, and

then they set to work at the skinning.

What with enthusiasm over the stalk, and talk of the success of the

trip, and compliments to Ken’s shooting, and care of the skinning, the

boys were three hours at the job. Ken, remembering Hiram Bent’s

teachings, skinned out the great claws himself. They salted the pelt

and nailed it up on the big cypress.

“You’d never have got one but for me,” said Hal. “That’s how I pay you

for the tricks you’ve played me!”

“By George, Hal, it’s a noble revenge!” cried Ken, who, in the warmth

and glow of happiness of the time, quite believed his brother.

Pepe went to bed first. George turned in next. Ken took a last look at

the great pelt stretched on the cypress, and then he sought his

blankets. Hal, however, remained up. Ken heard him pounding stakes in

the ground.

“Hal, what ’re you doing?”

“I’m settin’ my trot-lines,” replied Hal, cheerfully.

“Well, come to bed.”

“Keep your shirt on, Ken, old boy. I’ll be along presently.”

Ken fell asleep. He did not have peaceful slumbers. He had been too

excited to rest well. He would wake up out of a nightmare, then go to

sleep again. He seemed to wake suddenly out of one of these black

spells, and he was conscious of pain. Something tugged at his leg.

“What the dickens!” he said, and raised on his elbow. Hal was asleep

between George and Pepe, who were snoring.

Just then Ken felt a violent jerk. The blankets flew up at his feet,

and his left leg went out across his brother’s body. There was a

string--a rope--something fast round his ankle, and it was pulling hard.

It hurt.

“Jiminy!” shouted Ken, reaching for his foot. But before he could reach

it another tug, more violent, pulled his leg straight out. Ken began to

slide.

“What on earth?” yelled Ken. “Say! Something’s got me!”

The yells and Ken’s rude exertions aroused the boys. And they were

frightened. Ken got an arm around Hal and the other around George and

held on for dear life. He was more frightened than they. Pepe leaped

up, jabbering, and, tripping, he fell all in a heap.

“Oh! my leg!” howled Ken. “It’s being pulled off. Say, I can’t be

dreaming!”

Most assuredly Ken was wide awake. The moonlight showed his bare leg

sticking out and round his ankle a heavy trot-line. It was stretched

tight. It ran down over the bank. And out there in the river a

tremendous fish or a crocodile was surging about, making the water roar.

Pepe was trying to loosen the line or break it. George, who was always

stupid when first aroused, probably imagined he was being mauled by a

jaguar, for he loudly bellowed. Ken had a strangle-hold on Hal.

“Oh! _Oh_! _Oh-h-h_!” bawled Ken. Not only was he scared out of a

year’s growth; he was in terrible pain. Then his cries grew

unintelligible. He was being dragged out of the tent. Still he clung

desperately to the howling George and the fighting Hal.

All at once something snapped. The tension relaxed. Ken fell back upon

Hal.

“Git off me, will you?” shouted Hal. “Are you c-c-cr-azy?”

But Hal’s voice had not the usual note when he was angry or impatient.

He was laughing so he could not speak naturally.

“Uh-huh!” said Ken, and sat up. “I guess here was where I got it. Is

my leg broken? What came off?”

Pepe was staggering about on the bank, going through strange motions.

He had the line in his hands, and at the other end was a monster of some

land threshing about in the water. It was moonlight and Ken could see

plainly. Around the ankle that felt broken was a twisted loop of

trot-line. Hal had baited a hook and slipped the end of the trot-line

over Ken’s foot. During the night the crocodile or an enormous fish had

taken the bait. Then Ken had nearly been hauled off the island.

Pepe was doing battle with the hooked thing, whatever it was, and Ken

was about to go to his assistance when again the line broke.

“Great! Hal, you have a nice disposition,” exclaimed Ken. “You have a

wonderful affection for your brother. You care a lot about his legs or

his life. Idiot! Can’t you play a safe trick? If I hadn’t grabbed you

and George, I’d been pulled into the river. Eaten up, maybe! And my

ankle is sprained. It won’t be any good for a week. You are a bright

boy!”

And in spite of his laughter Hal began to look ashamed.

*XIX*

*ADVENTURES WITH CROCODILES*

The rest of that night Ken had more dreams; and they were not pleasant.

He awoke from one in a cold fright.

It must have been late, for the moon was low. His ankle pained and

throbbed, and to that he attributed his nightmare. He was falling

asleep again when the clink of tin pans made him sit up with a start.

Some animal was prowling about camp. He peered into the moonlit

shadows, but could make out no unfamiliar object. Still he was not

satisfied; so he awoke Pepe.

Certainly it was not Ken’s intention to let Pepe get out ahead;

nevertheless he was lame and slow, and before he started Pepe rolled out

of the tent.

“Santa Maria!” shrieked Pepe.

Ken fumbled under his pillow for a gun. Hal raised up so quickly that he

bumped Ken’s head, making him see a million stars. George rolled over,

nearly knocking down the tent.

From outside came a sliddery, rustling noise, then another yell that was

deadened by a sounding splash. Ken leaped out with his gun, George at

his elbow. Pepe stood just back of the tent, his arms upraised, and he

appeared stunned. The water near the bank was boiling and bubbling;

waves were dashing on the shore and ripples spreading in a circle.

George shouted in Spanish.

“Crocodile!” cried Ken.

“Si, si, Señor,” replied Pepe. Then he said that when he stepped out of

the tent the crocodile was right in camp, not ten feet from where the

boys lay. Pepe also said that these brutes were man-eaters, and that he

had better watch for the rest of the night. Ken thought him, like all

the natives, inclined to exaggerate; however, he made no objection to

Pepe’s holding watch over the crocodile.

“What’d I tell you?” growled George. “Why didn’t you let me shoot him?

Let’s go back to bed.”

In the morning when Ken got up he viewed his body with great curiosity.

The ticks and the cigarette burns had left him a beautifully tattoed

specimen of aborigine. His body, especially his arms, bore hundreds of

little reddish scars--bites and burns together. There was not, however,

any itching or irritation, for which he made sure he had to thank Pepe’s

skill and the _canya_.

George did not get up when Ken called him. Thinking his sleep might

have been broken, Ken let him alone a while longer, but when breakfast

was smoking he gave him a prod. George rolled over, looking haggard and

glum.

“I’m sick,” he said.

Ken’s cheerfulness left him, for he knew what sickness or injury did to

a camping trip. George complained of aching bones, headache and cramps,

and showed a tongue with a yellow coating. Ken said he had eaten too

much fresh meat, but Pepe, after looking George over, called it a name

that sounded like _calentura_.

“What’s that?” Ken inquired.

“Tropic fever,” replied George. “I’ve had it before.”

For a while he was a very sick boy. Ken had a little medicine-case, and

from it he administered what he thought was best, and George grew easier

presently. Then Ken sat down to deliberate on the situation.

Whatever way he viewed it, he always came back to the same thing--they

must get out of the jungle; and as they could not go back, they must go

on down the river. That was a bad enough proposition without being

hampered by a sick boy. It was then Ken had a subtle change of feeling;

a shade of gloom seemed to pervade his spirit.

By nine o’clock they were packed, and, turning into the shady channel,

soon were out in the sunlight saying good-by to Cypress Island. At the

moment Ken did not feel sorry to go, yet he knew that feeling would come

by and by, and that Cypress Island would take its place in his memory as

one more haunting, calling wild place.

They turned a curve to run under a rocky bluff from which came a muffled

roar of rapids. A long, projecting point of rock extended across the

river, allowing the water to rush through only at a narrow mill-race

channel close to the shore. It was an obstacle to get around. There was

no possibility of lifting the boat over the bridge of rock, and the

alternative was shooting the channel. Ken got out upon the rocks, only

to find that drifting the boat round the sharp point was out of the

question, owing to a dangerously swift current. Ken tried the depth of

the water--about four feet. Then he dragged the boat back a little

distance and stepped into the river.

“Look! Look!” cried Pepe, pointing to the bank.

About ten yards away was a bare shelf of mud glistening with water and

showing the deep tracks of a crocodile. It was a slide, and manifestly

had just been vacated. The crocodile-tracks resembled the imprints of a

giant’s hand.

“Come out!” yelled George, and Pepe jabbered to his saints.

“We’ve got to go down this river,” Ken replied, and he kept on wading

till he got the boat in the current. He was frightened, of course, but

he kept on despite that. The boat lurched into the channel, stern

first, and he leaped up on the bow. It shot down with the speed of a

toboggan, and the boat whirled before he could scramble to the oars.

What was worse, an overhanging tree with dead snags left scarce room to

pass beneath. Ken ducked to prevent being swept overboard, and one of

the snags that brushed and scraped him ran under his belt and lifted him

into the air. He grasped at the first thing he could lay hands on,

which happened to be a box, but he could not hold to it because the boat

threatened to go on, leaving him kicking in midair and holding up a box

of potatoes. Ken clutched a gunwale, only to see the water swell

dangerously over the edge. In angry helplessness he loosened his hold.

Then the snag broke, just in the nick of time, for in a second more the

boat would have been swept away. Ken fell across the bow, held on, and

soon drifted from under the threshing branches, and seized the oars.

Pepe and George and Hal walked round the ledge and, even when they

reached Ken, had not stopped laughing.

“Boys, it wasn’t funny,” declared Ken, soberly.

“I said it was coming to us,” replied George.

There were rapids below, and Ken went at them with stern eyes and set

lips. It was the look of men who face obstacles in getting out of the

wilderness. More than one high wave circled spitefully round Pepe’s

broad shoulders.

They came to a fall where the river dropped a few feet straight down.

Ken sent the boys below. Hal and George made a detour. But Pepe jumped

off the ledge into shallow water.

“_Ah-h!_” yelled Pepe.

Ken was becoming accustomed to Pepe’s wild yell, but there was a note in

this which sent a shiver over him. Before looking, Ken snatched his

rifle from the boat.

Pepe appeared to be sailing out into the pool. But his feet were not

moving.

Ken had only an instant, but in that he saw under Pepe a long, yellow,

swimming shape, leaving a wake in the water. Pepe had jumped upon the

back of a crocodile. He seemed paralyzed, or else he was wisely

trusting himself there rather than in the water. Ken was too shocked to

offer advice. Indeed, he would not have known how to meet this

situation.

Suddenly Pepe leaped for a dry stone, and the energy of his leap carried

him into the river beyond. Like a flash he was out again, spouting

water.

Ken turned loose the automatic on the crocodile and shot a magazine of

shells. The crocodile made a tremendous surge, churning up a slimy

foam, then vanished in a pool.

“Guess this’ll be crocodile day,” said Ken, changing the clip in his

rifle. “I’ll bet I made a hole in that one. Boys, look out below.”

Ken shoved the boat over the ledge in line with Pepe, and it floated to

him, while Ken picked his way round the rocky shore. The boys piled

aboard again. The day began to get hot. Ken cautioned the boys to

avoid wading, if possible, and to be extremely careful where they

stepped. Pepe pointed now and then to huge bubbles breaking on the

surface of the water and said they were made by crocodiles.

From then on Ken’s hands were full. He struck swift water, where rapid

after rapid, fall on fall, took the boat downhill at a rate to afford

him satisfaction. The current had a five or six mile speed, and, as Ken

had no portages to make and the corrugated rapids of big waves gave him

speed, he made by far the best time of the voyage.

The hot hours passed--cool for the boys because they were always wet.

The sun sank behind a hill. The wind ceased to whip the streamers of

moss. At last, in a gathering twilight, Ken halted at a wide, flat rock

to make camp.

“Forty miles to-day if we made an inch!” exclaimed Ken.

The boys said more.

They built a fire, cooked supper, and then, weary and silent, Hal and

George and Pepe rolled into their blankets. But Ken doggedly worked an

hour at his map and notes. That hard forty miles meant a long way

toward the success of his trip.

Next morning the mists had not lifted from the river when they shoved

off, determined to beat the record of yesterday. Difficulties beset

them from the start--the highest waterfall of the trip, a leak in the

boat, deep, short rapids, narrows with choppy waves, and a whirlpool

where they turned round and round, unable to row out. Nor did they get

free till Pepe lassoed a snag and pulled them out.

About noon they came to another narrow chute brawling down into a deep,

foamy pool. Again Ken sent the boys around, and he backed the boat into

the chute; and just as the current caught it he leaped aboard. He was

either tired or careless, for he drifted too close to a half-submerged

rock, and, try as he might, at the last moment he could not avoid a

collision.

As the stern went hard on the rock Ken expected to break something, but

was surprised at the soft thud with which he struck. It flashed into his

mind that the rock was moss-covered.

Quick as the thought there came a rumble under the boat, the stern

heaved up, there was a great sheet-like splash, and then a blow that

splintered the gunwale. Then the boat shunted off, affording the

astounded Ken a good view of a very angry crocodile. He had been

sleeping on the rock.

The boys were yelling and crowding down to the shore where Ken was

drifting in. Pepe waded in to catch the boat.

“What was it hit you, Ken?” asked Hal.

“Mucho malo,” cried Pepe.

“The boat’s half full of water--the gunwale’s all split!” ejaculated

George.

“Only an accident of river travel,” replied Ken, with mock nonchalance.

“Say, Garrapato, _when_, about _when_ is it coming to me?”

“Well, if he didn’t get slammed by a crocodile!” continued George.

They unloaded, turned out the water, broke up a box to use for repairs,

and mended the damaged gunwale--work that lost more than a good hour.

Once again under way, Ken made some interesting observations. The river

ceased to stand on end in places; crocodiles slipped off every muddy

promontory, and wide trails ridged the steep clay-banks.

“Cattle-trails, Pepe says,” said George. “Wild cattle roam all through

the jungle along the Panuco.”

It was a well-known fact that the rancheros of Tamaulipas State had no

idea how many cattle they owned. Ken was so eager to see if Pepe had

been correct that he went ashore, to find the trails were, indeed, those

of cattle.

“Then, Pepe, we must be somewhere near the Panuco River,” he said.

“Quien sabe?” rejoined he, quietly.

When they rounded the curve they came upon a herd of cattle that

clattered up the bank, raising a cloud of dust.

“Wilder than deer!” Ken exclaimed.

From that point conditions along the river changed. The banks were no

longer green; the beautiful cypresses gave place to other trees, as

huge, as moss-wound, but more rugged and of gaunt outline; the flowers

and vines and shady nooks disappeared. Everywhere wide-horned steers

and cows plunged up the banks. Everywhere buzzards rose from gruesome

feasts. The shore was lined with dead cattle, and the stench of

putrefying flesh was almost unbearable. They passed cattle mired in the

mud, being slowly tortured to death by flies and hunger; they passed

cattle that had slipped off steep banks and could not get back and were

bellowing dismally; and also strangely acting cattle that Pepe said had

gone crazy from ticks in their ears. Ken would have put these miserable

beasts out of their misery had not George restrained him with a few

words about Mexican law.

A sense of sickness came to Ken, and though he drove the feeling from

him, it continually returned. George and Hal lay flat on the canvas,

shaded with a couple of palm leaves; Pepe rowed on and on, growing more

and more serious and quiet. His quick, responsive smile was wanting

now.

By way of diversion, and also in the hope of securing a specimen, Ken

began to shoot at the crocodiles. George came out of his lethargy and

took up his rifle. He would have had to be ill indeed, to forswear any

possible shooting; and, now that Ken had removed the bar, he forgot he

had fever. Every hundred yards or so they would come upon a crocodile

measuring somewhere from about six feet upward, and occasionally they

would see a great yellow one, as large as a log. Seldom did they get

within good range of these huge fellows, and shooting from a moving boat

was not easy. The smaller ones, however, allowed the boat to approach

quite close. George bounced many a .32 bullet off the bank, but he

never hit a crocodile. Ken allowed him to have the shots for the fun of

it, and, besides, he was watching for a big one.

“George, that rifle of yours is leaded. It doesn’t shoot where you

aim.”

When they got unusually close to a small crocodile George verified Ken’s

statement by missing his game some yards. He promptly threw the

worn-out rifle overboard, an act that caused Pepe much concern.

Whereupon Ken proceeded to try his luck. Instructing Pepe to row about

in the middle of the stream, he kept eye on one shore while George

watched the other. He shot half a dozen small crocodiles, but they

slipped off the bank before Pepe could get ashore. This did not appear

to be the fault of the rifle, for some of the reptiles were shot almost

in two pieces. But Ken had yet to learn more about the tenacity of life

of these water-brutes. Several held still long enough for Ken to shoot

them through, then with a plunge they went into the water, sinking at

once in a bloody foam. He knew he had shot them through, for he saw

large holes in the mud-banks lined with bits of bloody skin and bone.

“There’s one,” said George, pointing. “Let’s get closer, so we can grab

him. He’s got a good piece to go before he reaches the water.”

Pepe rowed slowly along, guiding the boat a little nearer the shore. At

forty feet the crocodile raised up, standing on short legs, so that all

but his tail was free of the ground. He opened his huge jaws either in

astonishment or to intimidate them, and then Ken shot him straight down

the throat. He flopped convulsively and started to slide and roll.

When he reached the water he turned over on his back, with his feet

sticking up, resembling a huge frog. Pepe rowed hard to the shore, just

as the crocodile with one last convulsion rolled off into deeper water.

Ken reached over, grasped his foot, and was drawing it up when a sight

of cold, glassy eyes and open-fanged jaws made him let go. Then the

crocodile sank in water where Pepe could not touch bottom with an oar.

“Let’s get one if it takes a week,” declared George. The lad might be

sick, but there was nothing wrong with his spirit. “Look there!” he

exclaimed. “Oh, I guess it’s a log. Too big!”

They had been unable to tell the difference between a crocodile and a

log of driftwood until it was too late. In this instance a long,

dirty-gray object lay upon a low bank. Despite its immense size, which

certainly made the chances in favor of its being a log, Ken determined

this time to be fooled on the right side. He had seen a dozen logs--as

he thought--suddenly become animated and slip into the river.

“Hold steady, Pepe. I’ll take a crack at that just for luck.”

The distance was about a hundred yards, a fine range for the little

rifle. Resting on his knee, he sighted low, under the gray object, and

pulled the trigger twice. There were two spats so close together as to

be barely distinguishable. The log of driftwood leaped into life.

“Whoop!” shouted Hal.

“It’s a crocodile!” yelled George. “You hit--you hit! Will you listen

to that?”

“Row hard, Pepe--pull!”

He bent to the oars, and the boat flew shoreward.

The huge crocodile, opening yard-long jaws, snapped them shut with loud

cracks. Then he beat the bank with his tail. It was as limber as a

willow, but he seemed unable to move his central parts, his thick bulk,

where Ken had sent the two mushroom bullets. _Whack_! _Whack_!

_Whack_! The sodden blows jarred pieces from the clay-bank above him.

Each blow was powerful enough to have staved in the planking of a ship.

All at once he lunged upward and, falling over backward, slid down his

runway into a few inches of water, where he stuck.

“Go in above him, Pepe,” Ken shouted. “Here-- Heavens! What a

monster!”

Deliberately, at scarce twenty feet, Ken shot the remaining four shells

into the crocodile. The bullets tore through his horny hide, and blood

and muddy water spouted up. George and Pepe and Hal yelled, and Ken kept

time with them. The terrible lashing tail swung back and forth almost

too swiftly for the eye to catch. A deluge of mud and water descended

upon the boys, bespattering, blinding them and weighing down the boat.

They jumped out upon the bank to escape it. They ran to and fro in

aimless excitement. Ken still clutched the rifle, but he had no shells

for it. George was absurd enough to fling a stone into the blood-tinged

cloud of muddy froth and spray that hid the threshing leviathan.

Presently the commotion subsided enough for them to see the great

crocodile lying half on his back, with belly all torn and bloody and

huge claw-like hands pawing the air. He was edging, slipping off into

deeper water.

“He’ll get away--he’ll get away!” cried Hal. “What’ll we do?”

Ken racked his brains.

“Pepe, get your lasso--rope him--rope him! Hurry! he’s slipping!”

yelled George.

Pepe snatched up his lariat, and, without waiting to coil it, cast the

loop. He caught one of the flippers and hauled tight on it just as the

crocodile slipped out of sight off the muddy ledge. The others ran to

the boat, and, grasping hold of the lasso with Pepe, squared away and

began to pull. Plain it was that the crocodile was not coming up so

easily. They could not budge him.

“Hang on, boys!” Ken shouted. “It’s a tug-of-war.”

The lasso was suddenly jerked out with a kind of twang. Crash! went

Pepe and Hal into the bottom of the boat. Ken went sprawling into the

mud, and George, who had the last hold, went to his knees, but valiantly

clung to the slipping rope. Bounding up, Ken grasped it from him and

wound it round the sharp nose of the bowsprit.

“Get in--hustle!” he called, falling aboard. “You’re always saying it’s

coming to us. Here’s where!”

George had hardly got into the boat when the crocodile pulled it off

shore, and away it went, sailing down-stream.

“Whoop! All aboard for Panuco!” yelled Hal.

“Now, Pepe, you don’t need to row any more--we’ve a water-horse,” Ken

added.

But Pepe did not enter into the spirit of the occasion. He kept calling

on the saints and crying, “Mucho malo.” George and Ken and Hal,

however, were hilarious. They had not yet had experience enough to know

crocodiles.

Faster and faster they went. The water began to surge away from the bow

and leave a gurgling wake behind the stern. Soon the boat reached the

middle of the river where the water was deepest, and the lasso went

almost straight down.

Ken felt the stern of the boat gradually lifted, and then, in alarm, he

saw the front end sinking in the water. The crocodile was hauling the

bow under.

“Pepe--your machete--cut the lasso!” he ordered, sharply. George had to

repeat the order.

Wildly Pepe searched under the seat and along the gunwales. He could

not find the _machete_.

“Cut the rope!” Ken thundered. “Use a knife, the ax--anything--only cut

it--and cut it quick!”

Pepe could find nothing. Knife in hand, Ken leaped over his head,

sprawled headlong over the trunk, and slashed the taut lasso just as the

water began to roar into the boat. The bow bobbed up as a cork that had

been under. But the boat had shipped six inches of water.

[Illustration: KNIFE IN HAND, KEN LEAPED OVER HIS HEAD AND SLASHED THE

TAUT LASSO]

“Row ashore, Pepe. Steady, there. Trim the boat, George.”

They beached at a hard clay-bank and rested a little before unloading to

turn out the water.

“Grande!” observed Pepe.

“Yes; he was big,” assented George.

“I wonder what’s going to happen to us next,” added Hal.

Ken Ward looked at these companions of his and he laughed outright.

“Well, if you all don’t take the cake for nerve!”

*XX*

*TREED BY WILD PIGS*

Pepe’s long years of _mozo_ work, rowing for tarpon fishermen, now stood

the boys in good stead. All the hot hours of the day he bent steadily

to the oars. Occasionally they came to rifts, but these were not

difficult to pass, being mere swift, shallow channels over sandy bottom.

The rocks and the rapids were things of the past.

George lay in a kind of stupor, and Hal lolled in his seat. Ken,

however, kept alert, and as the afternoon wore on began to be annoyed at

the scarcity of camp-sites.

The muddy margins of the river, the steep banks, and the tick-infested

forests offered few places where it was possible to rest, to say nothing

of sleep. Every turn in the widening river gave Ken hope, which

resulted in disappointment. He found consolation, however, in the fact

that every turn and every hour put him so much farther on the way.

About five o’clock Ken had unexpected good luck in shape of a small

sand-bar cut off from the mainland, and therefore free of cattle-tracks.

It was clean and dry, with a pile of driftwood at one end.

“Tumble out, boys,” called Ken, as Pepe beached the boat. “We’ll pitch

camp here.”

Neither Hal nor George showed any alacrity. Ken watched his brother; he

feared to see some of the symptoms of George’s sickness. Both lads,

however, seemed cheerful, though too tired to be of much use in the

pitching of camp.

Ken could not recover his former good spirits. There was a sense of

foreboding in his mind that all was not well, that he must hurry, hurry.

And although George appeared to be holding his own, Hal healthy enough,

and Pepe’s brooding quiet at least no worse, Ken could not rid himself

of gloom. If he had answered the question that knocked at his mind he

would have admitted a certainty of disaster. So he kept active, and

when there were no more tasks for that day he worked on his note-book,

and then watched the flight of wild fowl.

The farther down the river the boys traveled the more numerous were the

herons and cranes and ducks. But they saw no more of the beautiful

_pato real_, as Pepe called them, or the little russet-colored ducks, or

the dismal-voiced bitterns. On the other hand, wild geese were common,

and there were flocks and flocks of teal and canvasbacks.

Pepe, as usual, cooked duck. And he had to eat it. George had lost his

appetite altogether. Hal had lost his taste for meat, at least. And

Ken made a frugal meal of rice.

“Boys,” he said, “the less you eat from now on the better for you.”

It took resolution to drink the cocoa, for Ken could not shut out

remembrance of the green water and the shore-line of dead and decaying

cattle. Still, he was parched with thirst; he had to drink. That night

he slept ten hours without turning over. Next morning he had to shake

Pepe to rouse him.

Ken took turns at the oars with Pepe. It was not only that he fancied

Pepe was weakening and in need of an occasional rest, but the fact that

he wanted to be occupied, and especially to keep in good condition. They

made thirty miles by four o’clock, and most of it against a breeze. Not

in the whole distance did they pass half a dozen places fit for a camp.

Toward evening the river narrowed again, resembling somewhat the Santa

Rosa of earlier acquaintance. The magnificent dark forests crowded high

on the banks, always screened and curtained by gray moss, as if to keep

their secrets.

The sun was just tipping with gold the mossy crests of a grove of giant

ceibas, when the boys rounded a bend to come upon the first ledge of

rocks for two days. A low, grassy promontory invited the eyes searching

for camping-ground. This spot appeared ideal; it certainly was

beautiful. The ledge jutted into the river almost to the opposite

shore, forcing the water to rush through a rocky trough into a great

foam-spotted pool below.

They could not pitch the tent, since the stony ground would not admit

stakes, so they laid the canvas flat. Pepe went up the bank with his

_machete_ in search of firewood. To Ken’s utmost delight he found a

little spring of sweet water trickling from the ledge, and by digging a

hole was enabled to get a drink, the first one in more than a week.

A little later, as he was spreading the blankets, George called his

attention to shouts up in the woods.

“Pepe’s treed something,” Ken said. “Take your gun and hunt him up.”

Ken went on making a bed and busying himself about camp, with little

heed to George’s departure. Presently, however, he was startled by

unmistakable sounds of alarm. George and Pepe were yelling in unison,

and, from the sound, appeared to be quite a distance away.

“What the deuce!” Ken ejaculated, snatching up his rifle. He snapped a

clip in the magazine and dropped several loaded clips and a box of extra

shells into his coat pocket. After his adventure with the jaguar he

decided never again to find himself short of ammunition. Running up the

sloping bank, he entered the forest, shouting for his companions.

Answering cries came from in front and a little to the left. He could

not make out what was said.

Save for drooping moss the forest was comparatively open, and at a

hundred paces from the river-bank were glades covered with thickets and

long grass and short palm-trees. The ground sloped upward quite

perceptibly.

“Hey, boys, where are you?” called Ken.

Pepe’s shrill yells mingled with George’s shouts. At first their

meaning was unintelligible, but after calling twice Ken understood.

“Javelin! Go back! Javelin! We’re treed! Wild pigs! Santa Maria!

Run for your life!”

This was certainly enlightening and rather embarrassing. Ken remembered

the other time the boys had made him run, and he grew hot with anger.

“I’ll be blessed if I’ll run!” he said, in the pride of conceit and

wounded vanity. Whereupon he began to climb the slope, stopping every

few steps to listen and look. Ken wondered what had made Pepe go so far

for fire-wood; still, there was nothing but green wood all about.

Walking round a clump of seared and yellow palms that rustled in the

breeze, Ken suddenly espied George’s white shirt. He was in a scrubby

sapling not fifteen feet from the ground. Then Ken espied Pepe, perched

in the forks of a ceiba, high above the thickets and low shrubbery. Ken

was scarcely more than a dozen rods from them down the gradual slope.

Both saw him at once.

“Run, you Indian! Run!” bawled George, waving his hands.

George implored Ken to fly to save his precious life.

“What for? you fools! I don’t see anything to run from,” Ken shouted

back. His temper had soured a little during the last few days.

“You’d better run, or you’ll have to climb,” replied George. “Wild

pigs--a thousand of ’em!”

“Where?”

“Right under us. There! Oh, if they see you! Listen to this.” He

broke off a branch, trimmed it of leaves, and flung it down. Ken heard

a low, trampling roar of many hard little feet, brushings in the

thicket, and cracking of twigs. As close as he was, however, he could

not see a moving object. The dead grass and brush were several feet

high, up to his waist in spots, and, though he changed position several

times, no _javelin_ did he see.

“You want to look out. Say, man, these are wild pigs--boars, I tell

you! They’ll kill you!” bellowed George.

“Are you going to stay up there all night?” Ken asked, sarcastically.

“We’ll stay till they go away.”

“All right, I’ll scare them away,” Ken replied, and, suiting action to

word, he worked the automatic as fast as it would shoot, aiming into the

thicket under George.

Of all the foolish things a nettled hunter ever did that was the worst.

A roar answered the echoes of the rifle, and the roar rose from every

side of the trees the victims were in. Nervously Ken clamped a fresh

clip of shells into the rifle. Clouds of dust arose, and strange little

squeals and grunts seemed to come from every quarter. Then the grass

and bushes were suddenly torn apart by swift gray forms with glittering

eyes. They were everywhere.

“_Run_! _Run_!” shrieked George, high above the tumult.

For a thrilling instant Ken stood his ground and fired at the bobbing

gray backs. But every break made in the ranks by the powerful shells

filled in a flash. Before that vicious charge he wavered, then ran as

if pursued by demons.

The way was downhill. Ken tripped, fell, rolled over and over, then,

still clutching the rifle, rose with a bound and fled. The javelin had

gained. They were at his heels. He ran like a deer. Then, seeing a low

branch, he leaped for it, grasped it with one hand, and, crooking an

elbow round it, swung with the old giant swing.

Before Ken knew how it had happened he was astride a dangerously swaying

branch directly over a troop of brownish-gray, sharp-snouted,

fiendish-eyed little peccaries.

Some were young and sleek, others were old and rough; some had little

yellow teeth or tusks, and all pointed their sharp noses upward, as if

expecting him to fall into their very mouths. Feeling safe, once more

Ken loaded the rifle and began to kill the biggest, most vicious

_javelin_. When he had killed twelve in twelve shots, he saw that

shooting a few would be of no avail. There were hundreds, it seemed,

and he had scarcely fifty shells left. Moreover, the rifle-barrel grew

so hot that it burnt his hands. Hearing George’s yell, he replied,

somewhat to his disgust:

“I’m all right, George--only treed. How ’re you?”

“Pigs all gone--they chased you--Pepe thinks we can risk running.”

“Don’t take any chances,” Ken yelled, in answer.

“Hi! Hi! What’s wrong with you gazabos?” came Hal’s yell from down the

slope.

“Go back to the boat,” shouted Ken.

“What for?”

“We’re all treed by javelin--wild pigs.”

“I’ve got to see that,” was Hal’s reply.

Ken called a sharp, angry order for Hal to keep away. But Hal did not

obey. Ken heard him coming, and presently saw him enter one of the

little glades. He had Ken’s shotgun, and was peering cautiously about.

“Ken, where are you?”

“Here! Didn’t I tell you to keep away? The pigs heard you--some of them

are edging out there. Look out! Run, kid, run!”

A troop of _javelin_ flashed into the glade. Hal saw them and raised the

shotgun.

_Boom_! He shot both barrels.

The shot tore through the brush all around Ken, but fortunately beneath

him. Neither the noise nor the lead stopped the pugnacious little

peccaries.

Hal dropped Ken’s hammerless and fled.

“Run faster!” yelled George, who evidently enjoyed Hal’s plight.

“They’ll get you! Run hard!”

The lad was running close to the record when he disappeared.

In trying to find a more comfortable posture, so he could apply himself

to an interesting study of his captors, Ken made the startling discovery

that the branch which upheld him was splitting from the tree-trunk. His

heart began to pound in his breast; then it went up into his throat.

Every move he made--for he had started to edge toward the tree--widened

the little white split.

“Boys, my branch is breaking!” he called, piercingly.

“Can’t you get another?” returned George.

“No; I daren’t move! Hurry, boys! If you don’t scare these brutes off

I’m a goner!”

Ken’s eyes were riveted upon the gap where the branch was slowly

separating from the tree-trunk. He glanced about to see if he could not

leap to another branch. There was nothing near that would hold him. In

desperation he resolved to drop the rifle, cautiously get to his feet

upon the branch, and with one spring try to reach the tree. When about

to act upon this last chance he heard Pepe’s shrill yell and a crashing

in the brush. Then followed the unmistakable roar and crackling of fire.

Pepe had fired the brush--no, he was making his way toward Ken, armed

with a huge torch.

“Pepe, you’ll fire the jungle!” cried Ken, forgetting what was at stake

and that Pepe could not understand much English. But Ken had been in

one forest-fire and remembered it with horror.

The _javelin_ stirred uneasily, and ran around under Ken, tumbling over

one another.

When Pepe burst through the brush, holding before him long-stemmed palm

leaves flaring in hissing flames, the whole pack of pigs bowled away

into the forest at breakneck speed.

Ken leaped down, and the branch came with him. George came running up,

his face white, his eyes big. Behind him rose a roar that Ken thought

might be another drove of pigs till he saw smoke and flame.

“Boys, the jungle’s on fire. Run for the river!”

In their hurry they miscalculated the location of camp and dashed out of

the jungle over a steep bank, and they all had a tumble. It was

necessary to wade to reach the rocky ledge.

Ken shook hands with Pepe.

“George, tell him that was a nervy thing to do. He saved my life, I do

believe.”

“You fellows did a lot of hollering,” said Hal, from his perch in the

boat.

“Say, young man, you’ve got to go back after my gun. Why didn’t you do

what I told you? Foolish, to run into danger that way!” declared Ken,

severely.

“You don’t suppose I was going to overlook a chance to see Ken Ward

treed, do you?”

“Well, you saw him, and that was no joke. But I wish Pepe could have

scared those pigs off without firing the jungle.”

“Pepe says it’ll give the ticks a good roasting,” said George.

“We’ll have roast pig, anyway,” added Ken.

He kept watching the jungle back of the camp as if he expected it to

blow up like a powder-mine. But this Tamaulipas jungle was not Penetier

Forest. A cloud of smoke rolled up; there was a frequent roaring of dry

palms; but the green growths did not burn. It was not much of a

forest-fire, and Ken concluded that it would soon burn out.

So he took advantage of the waning daylight to spread out his map and

plot in the day’s travel. This time Hal watched him with a quiet

attention that was both flattering and stimulating; and at the

conclusion of the task he said:

“Well, Ken, we’re having sport, but we’re doing something

more--something worth while.”

*XXI*

*THE LEAPING TARPON*

Just before dark, when the boys were at supper, a swarm of black

mosquitoes swooped down upon camp.

Pepe could not have shown more fear at angry snakes, and he began to

pile green wood and leaves on the fire to make a heavy smoke.

These mosquitoes were very large, black-bodied, with white-barred wings.

Their bite was as painful as the sting of a bee. After threshing about

until tired out the boys went to bed. But it was only to get up again,

for the mosquitoes could bite through two thicknesses of blanket.

For a wonder every one was quiet. Even George did not grumble. The

only thing to do was to sit or stand in the smoke of the campfire. The

boys wore their gloves and wrapped blankets round heads and shoulders.

They crouched over the fire until tired of that position, then stood up

till they could stand no longer. It was a wretched, sleepless night

with the bloodthirsty mosquitoes humming about like a swarm of bees.

They did not go away until dawn.

“That’s what I get for losing the mosquito-netting,” said Ken, wearily.

Breakfast was not a cheerful meal, despite the fact that the boys all

tried to brace up.

George’s condition showed Ken the necessity for renewed efforts to get

out of the jungle. Pepe appeared heavy and slow, and, what was more

alarming, he had lost his appetite. Hal was cross, but seemed to keep

well. It was hard enough for Ken to persuade George and Pepe to take

the bitter doses of quinine, and Hal positively refused.

“It makes me sick, I tell you,” said Hal, impatiently.

“But Hal, you ought to be guided by my judgment now,” replied Ken,

gently.

“I don’t care. I’ve had enough of bitter pills.”

“I ask you--as a favor?” persisted Ken, quietly.

“No!”

“Well, then, I’ll have to make you take them.”

“Wha-at?” roared Hal.

“If necessary, I’ll throw you down and pry open your mouth and get Pepe

to stuff these pills down your throat. There!” went on Ken, and now he

did not recognize his own voice.

Hal looked quickly at his brother, and was amazed and all at once

shaken.

“Why, Ken--” he faltered.

“I ought to have made you take them before,” interrupted Ken. “But I’ve

been too easy. Now, Hal, listen--and you, too, George. I’ve made a bad

mess of this trip. I got you into this jungle, and I ought to have taken

better care of you, whether you would or not. George has fever. Pepe

is getting it. I’m afraid you won’t escape. You all _would_ drink

unboiled water.”

“Ken, that’s all right, but you can get fever from the bites of the

ticks,” said George.

“I dare say. But just the same you could have been careful about the

water. Not only that--look how careless we have been. Think of the

things that have happened! We’ve gotten almost wild on this trip. We

don’t realize. But wait till we get home. Then we’ll hardly be able to

believe we ever had these adventures. But our foolishness, our

carelessness, must stop right here. If we can’t profit by our lucky

escapes yesterday--from that lassoed crocodile and the wild pigs--we are

simply no good. I love fun and sport. But there’s a limit. Hal,

remember what old Hiram told you about being foolhardily brave. I think

we have been wonderfully lucky. Now let’s deserve our good luck. Let’s

not prove what that Tampico hotel-man said. Let’s show we are not just

wild-goose-chasing boys. I put it to you straight. I think the real

test is yet to come, and I want you to help me. No more tricks. No

more drinking unboiled water. No more shooting except in self-defense.

We must not eat any more meat. No more careless wandering up the banks.

No chances. See? And fight the fever. Don’t give up. Then when we

get out of this awful jungle we can look back at our adventures--and,

better, we can be sure we’ve learned a lot. We shall have accomplished

something, and that’s learning. Now, how about it? Will you help me?”

“You can just bet your life,” replied George, and he held out his hand.

“Ken, I’m with you,” was Hal’s quiet promise; and Ken knew from the way

the lad spoke that he was in dead earnest. When it came to the last

ditch Hal Ward was as true as steel. He took the raw, bitter quinine

Ken offered and swallowed it without a grimace.

“Good!” exclaimed Ken. “Now, boys, let’s pack. Hal, you let your

menagerie go. There’s no use keeping your pets any longer. George, you

make yourself a bed on the trunk, and fix a palm-leaf sun-shelter. Then

lie down.”

When the boat had been packed and all was in readiness for the start,

George was sound asleep. They shoved off into the current. Pepe and Ken

took turns at the oars, making five miles an hour.

As on the day before, they glided under the shadows of the great

moss-twined cypresses, along the muddy banks where crocodiles basked in

the sun and gaunt cattle came down to drink. Once the boat turned a

bushy point to startle a large flock of wild turkeys, perhaps

thirty-five in number. They had been resting in the cool sand along the

river. Some ran up the bank, some half-dozen flew right over the boat,

and most of them squatted down as if to evade detection. Thereafter

turkeys and ducks and geese became so common as to be monotonous.

About one o’clock Ken sighted a thatched bamboo and palm-leaf hut on the

bank.

“Oh, boys, look! look!” cried Ken, joyfully.

Hal was as pleased as Ken, and George roused out of his slumber. Pepe

grinned and nodded his head.

Some naked little children ran like quail. A disheveled black head

peeped out of a door, then swiftly vanished.

“Indians,” said George.

“I don’t care,” replied Ken, “they’re human beings--people. We’re

getting somewhere.”

From there on the little bamboo huts were frequently sighted. And soon

Ken saw a large one situated upon a high bluff. Ken was wondering if

these natives would be hospitable.

Upon rounding the next bend the boys came unexpectedly upon a connecting

river. It was twice as wide as the Santa Rosa, and quite swift.

“Tamaulipas,” said Pepe.

“Hooray! boys, this is the source of the Panuco, sure as you’re born,”

cried Ken. “I told you we were getting somewhere.”

He was overcome with the discovery. This meant success.

“Savalo! Savalo!” exclaimed Pepe, pointing.

“Tarpon! Tarpon! What do you think of that? ’Way up here! We must be

a long distance from tide-water,” said George.

Ken looked around over the broad pool below the junction of the two

rivers. And here and there he saw swirls, and big splashes, and then

the silver sides of rolling tarpon.

“Boys, seeing we’ve packed that can of preserved mullet all the way, and

those thundering heavy tackles, let’s try for tarpon,” suggested Ken.

It was wonderful to see how the boys responded. Pepe was no longer slow

and heavy. George forgot he was sick. Hal, who loved to fish better

than to hunt, was as enthusiastic as on the first day.

“Ken, let me boss this job,” said George, as he began to rig the

tackles. “Pepe will row; you and Hal sit back here and troll. I’ll make

myself useful. Open the can. See, I hook the mullet just back of the

head, letting the bar come out free. There! Now run out about forty

feet of line. Steady the butt of the rod under your leg. Put your left

hand above the reel. Hold the handle of the reel in your right, and

hold it hard. The drag is in the handle. Now when a tarpon takes the

bait, jerk with all your might. Their mouths are like iron, and it’s

hard to get a hook to stick.”

Pepe rowed at a smooth, even stroke and made for the great curve of the

pool where tarpon were breaking water.

“If they’re on the feed, we’ll have more sport than we’ve had yet,” said

George.

Ken was fascinated, and saw that Hal was going to have the best time of

the trip. Also Ken was very curious to have a tarpon strike. He had no

idea what it would be like. Presently, when the boat glided among the

rolling fish and there was prospect of one striking at any moment, Ken

could not subdue a mounting excitement.

“Steady now--be ready,” warned George.

Suddenly Hal’s line straightened. The lad yelled and jerked at the same

instant. There came a roar of splitting waters, and a beautiful silver

fish, longer than Hal himself, shot up into the air. The tarpon shook

himself and dropped back into the water with a crash.

Hal was speechless. He wound in his line to find the bait gone.

“Threw the hook,” said George, as he reached into the can for another

bait. “He wasn’t so big. You’ll get used to losing ’em. There! try

again.”

Ken had felt several gentle tugs at his line, as if tarpon were rolling

across it. And indeed he saw several fish swim right over where his

line disappeared in the water. There were splashes all around the boat,

some gentle swishes and others hard, cutting rushes. Then his line

straightened with a heavy jerk. He forgot to try to hook the fish;

indeed, he had no time. The tarpon came half out of the water, wagged

his head, and plumped back. Ken had not hooked the fish, nor had the

fish got the bait. So Ken again let out his line.

The next thing which happened was that the boys both had strikes at the

same instant. Hal stood up, and as his tarpon leaped it pulled him

forward, and he fell into the stern-seat. His reel-handle rattled on

the gunwale. The line hissed. Ken leaned back and jerked. His fish did

not break water, but he was wonderfully active under the surface. Pepe

was jabbering. George was yelling. Hal’s fish was tearing the water to

shreds. He crossed Ken’s fish; the lines fouled, and then slacked. Ken

began to wind in. Hal rose to do likewise.

“Gee!” he whispered, with round eyes.

Both lines had been broken. George made light of this incident, and

tied on two more leaders and hooks and baited afresh.

“The fish are on the feed, boys. It’s a cinch you’ll each catch one.

Better troll one at a time, unless you can stand for crossed lines.”

But Ken and Hal were too eager to catch a tarpon to troll one at a time,

so once more they let their lines out. A tarpon took Hal’s bait right

under the stern of the boat. Hal struck with all his might. This fish

came up with a tremendous splash, drenching the boys. His great,

gleaming silver sides glistened in the sun. He curved his body and

straightened out with a snap like the breaking of a board, and he threw

the hook whistling into the air.

Before Hal had baited up, Ken got another strike. This fish made five

leaps, one after the other, and upon the last threw the hook like a

bullet. As he plunged down, a beautiful rainbow appeared in the misty

spray.

“Hal, do you see that rainbow?” cried Ken, quickly. “There’s a sight

for a fisherman!”

This time in turn, before Ken started to troll, Hal hooked another

tarpon. This one was not so large, but he was active. His first rush

was a long surge on the surface. He sent the spray in two streaks like a

motor-boat. Then he sounded.

“Hang on, Hal!” yelled George and Ken in unison.

Hal was bent almost double and his head was bobbing under the strain.

He could not hold the drag. The line was whizzing out.

“You got that one hooked,” shouted George. “Let go the reel--drop the

handle. Let him run.”

He complied, and then his fish began a marvelous exhibition of lofty

tumbling. He seemed never to stay down at all. Now he shot up, mouth

wide, gills spread, eyes wild, and he shook himself like a wet dog.

Then he dropped back, and before the boys had time to think where he

might be he came up several rods to the right and cracked his gills like

pistol-shots. He skittered on his tail and stood on his head and

dropped flat with a heavy smack. Then he stayed under and began to tug.

“Hang on, now,” cried George. “Wind in. Hold him tight. Don’t give

him an inch unless he jumps.”

This was heartbreaking work for Hal. He toiled to keep the line in. He

grew red in the face. He dripped with sweat. He panted for breath.

But he hung on.

Ken saw how skilfully Pepe managed the boat. The _mozo_ seemed to know

just which way the fish headed, and always kept the boat straight.

Sometimes he rowed back and lent his help to Hal. But this appeared to

anger the tarpon, for the line told he was coming to the surface. Then,

as Pepe ceased to let him feel the weight of the boat, the tarpon sank

again. So the battle went on round and round the great pool. After an

hour of it Hal looked ready to drop.

“Land him alone if you can,” said Ken. “He’s tiring, Hal.”

“I’ll--land him--or--or bust!” panted Hal.

“Look out, now!” warned George again. “He’s coming up. See the line.

Be ready to trim the boat if he drops aboard. _Wow!_”

The tarpon slipped smoothly out of the water and shot right over the bow

of the boat. Quick-witted George flung out his hand and threw Hal’s rod

round in time to save the line from catching. The fish went down, came

up wagging his head, and then fell with sullen splash.

“He’s done,” yelled George. “Now, Hal, hold him for all you’re worth.

Not an inch of line!”

Pepe headed the boat for a sandy beach; and Hal, looking as if about to

have a stroke of apoplexy, clung desperately to the bending rod. The

tarpon rolled and lashed his tail, but his power was mostly gone.

Gradually he ceased to roll, until by the time Pepe reached shore he was

sliding wearily through the water, his silvery side glittering in the

light.

The boat grated on the sand. Pepe leaped out. Then he grasped Hal’s

line, slipped his hands down to the long wire leader, and with a quick,

powerful pull slid the tarpon out upon the beach.

“Oh-h!” gasped Hal, with glistening eyes. “Oh-h! Ken, just look!”

“I’m looking, son, and don’t you forget it.”

The tarpon lay inert, a beautiful silver-scaled creature that looked as

if he had just come from a bath of melted opals. The great dark eyes

were fixed and staring, the tail moved feebly, the long dorsal fin

quivered.

He measured five feet six inches in length, which was one inch more than

Hal’s height.

“Ken, the boys back home will never believe I caught him,” said Hal, in

distress.

“Take his picture to prove it,” replied Ken.

Hal photographed his catch. Pepe took out the hook, showing, as he did

so, the great iron-like plates in the mouth of the fish.

“No wonder it’s hard to hook them,” said Ken.

Hal certainly wanted his beautiful fish to go back, free and little

hurt, to the river. But also he wanted him for a specimen. Hal

deliberated. Evidently he was considering the labor of skinning such a

huge fish and the difficulty of preserving and packing the hide.

“Say, Hal, wouldn’t you like to see me hook one?” queried Ken,

patiently.

That brought Hal to his senses.

“Sure, Ken, old man, I want you to catch one--a big one--bigger than

mine,” replied Hal, and restored the fish to the water.

They all watched the liberated tarpon swim wearily off and slip down

under the water.

“He’ll have something to tell the rest, won’t he?” said George.

In a few minutes the boat was again in the center of the great pool

among the rolling tarpon. Ken had a strike immediately. He missed.

Then he tried again. And in a short space of time he saw five tarpon in

the air, one after the other, and not one did he hook securely. He got

six leaps out of one, however, and that was almost as good as landing

him.

“There ’re some whales here,” said George.

“Grande savalo,” added Pepe, and he rowed over to where a huge fish was

rolling.

“Oh, I don’t want to hook the biggest one first,” protested Ken.

Pepe rowed to and fro. The boys were busy trying to see the rolling

tarpon. There would be a souse on one side, then a splash on the other,

then a thump behind. What with trying to locate all these fish and

still keep an eye on Ken’s line the boys almost dislocated their necks.

Then, quick as a flash, Ken had a strike that pulled him out of his seat

to his knees. He could not jerk. His line was like a wire. It began to

rise. With all his strength he held on. The water broke in a hollow,

slow roar, and a huge humpbacked tarpon seemed to be climbing into the

air. But he did not get all the way out, and he plunged back with a

thunderous crash. He made as much noise as if a horse had fallen off a

bridge.

The handle of the reel slipped out of Ken’s grasp, and it was well. The

tarpon made a long, wonderful run and showed on the surface a hundred

yards from the boat. He was irresistibly powerful. Ken was astounded

and thrilled at his strength and speed. There, far away from the boat,

the tarpon leaped magnificently, clearing the water, and then went down.

He did not come up again.

“Ken, he’s a whale,” said George. “I believe he’s well hooked. He

won’t jump any more. And you’ve got a job on your hands.”

“I want him to jump.”

“The big ones seldom break water after the first rush or so.”

“Ken, it’s coming to you with that fellow,” said Hal. “My left arm is

paralyzed. Honestly, I can pinch it and not feel the pain.”

Pepe worked the boat closer and Ken reeled in yard after yard of line.

The tarpon was headed down-stream, and he kept up a steady, strong

strain.

“Let him tow the boat,” said George. “Hold the drag, Ken. Let him tow

the boat.”

“What!” exclaimed Ken, in amaze.

“Oh, he’ll do it, all right.”

And so it proved. Ken’s tarpon, once headed with the current, did not

turn, and he towed the boat.

“This is a new way for me to tire out a fish,” said Ken. “What do you

think of it, Hal?”

Hal’s eyes glistened.

“This is fishing. Ken, did you see him when he came up?”

“Not very clearly. I had buck-fever. You know how a grouse looks when

he flushes right under your feet--a kind of brown blur. Well, this was

the same, only silver.”

At the end of what Ken judged to be a mile the tarpon was still going.

At the end of the second mile he was tired. And three miles down the

river from where the fish was hooked Pepe beached the boat on a sandbar

and hauled ashore a tarpon six feet ten inches long.

Here Ken echoed Hal’s panting gasp of wonder and exultation. As he sat

down on the boat to rest he had no feeling in his left arm, and little

in his right. His knuckles were skinned and bloody. No game of

baseball he had ever pitched had taken his strength like the conquest of

this magnificent fish.

“Hal, we’ll have some more of this fishing when we get to Tampico,” said

Ken. “Why, this beats hunting. You have the sport, and you needn’t

kill anything. This tarpon isn’t hurt.”

So Ken photographed his prize and measured him, and, taking a last

lingering glance at the great green back, the silver-bronze sides, the

foot-wide flukes of the tail, at the whole quivering fire-tinted length,

he slid the tarpon back into the river.

*XXII*

*STRICKEN DOWN*

Much as Ken would have liked to go back to that pool, he did not think

of it twice. And as soon as the excitement had subsided and the journey

was resumed, George and Hal, and Pepe, too, settled down into a silent

weariness that made Ken anxious.

During the afternoon Ken saw Pepe slowly droop lower and lower at the

oars till the time came when he could scarcely lift them to make a

stroke. And when Ken relieved him of them, Pepe fell like a log in the

boat.

George slept. Hal seemed to be fighting stupor. Pepe lay motionless on

his seat. They were all going down with the fever, that Ken knew, and

it took all his courage to face the situation. It warmed his heart to

see how Hal was trying to bear up under a languor that must have been

well-nigh impossible to resist. At last Hal said:

“Ken, let me row.” He would not admit that he was sick.

Ken thought it would do Hal no harm to work. But Ken did not want to

lose time. So he hit upon a plan that pleased him. There was an extra

pair of oars in the boat. Ken fashioned rude pegs from a stick and drove

these down into the cleat inside the gunwales. With stout rope he tied

the oars to the pegs, which answered fairly well as oarlocks. Then they

had a double set of oars going, and made much better time.

George woke and declared that he must take a turn at the oars. So Ken

let him row, too, and rested himself. He had a grim foreboding that he

would need all his strength.

The succeeding few hours before sunset George and Hal more than made up

for all their delinquencies of the past. At first it was not very hard

for them to row; but soon they began to weary, then weaken. Neither

one, however, would give up. Ken let them row, knowing that it was good

for them. Slower and slower grew George’s strokes, there were times when

he jerked up spasmodically and made an effort, only to weaken again. At

last, with a groan he dropped the oars. Ken had to lift him back into

the bow.

Hal was not so sick as George, and therefore not so weak. He lasted

longer. Ken had seen the lad stick to many a hard job, but never as he

did to this one. Hal was making good his promise. There were times

when his breath came in whistles. He would stop and pant awhile, then

row on. Ken pretended he did not notice. But he had never been so

proud of his brother nor loved him so well.

“Ken, old man,” said Hal, presently. “I was--wrong--about the water. I

ought to have obeyed you. I--I’m pretty sick.”

What a confession for Hal Ward!

Ken turned in time to see Hal vomit over the gunwale.

“It’s pretty tough, Hal,” said Ken, as he reached out to hold his

brother’s head; “but you’re game. I’m so glad to see that.”

Whereupon Hal went back to his oars and stayed till he dropped. Ken

lifted him and laid him beside George.

Ken rowed on with his eyes ever in search of a camping-site. But there

was no place to camp. The muddy banks were too narrow at the bottom,

too marshy and filthy. And they were too steep to climb to the top.

The sun set. Twilight fell. Darkness came on, and still Ken rowed down

the river. At last he decided to make a night of it at the oars. He

preferred to risk the dangers of the river at night rather than spend

miserable hours in the mud. Rousing the boys, he forced them to swallow

a little cold rice and some more quinine. Then he covered them with

blankets, and had scarce completed the task when they were deep in

slumber.

Then the strange, dense tropical night settled down upon Ken. The oars

were almost noiseless, and the water gurgled softly from the bow.

Overhead the expanse was dark blue, with a few palpitating stars. The

river was shrouded in gray gloom, and the banks were lost in black

obscurity. Great fireflies emphasized the darkness. He trusted a good

deal to luck in the matter of going right; yet he kept his ear keen for

the sound of quickening current, and turned every few strokes to peer

sharply into the gloom. He seemed to have little sense of peril, for,

though he hit submerged logs and stranded on bars, he kept on unmindful,

and by and by lost what anxiety he had felt. The strange wildness of

the river at night, the gray, veiled space into which he rowed unheeding

began to work upon his mind.

That was a night to remember--a night of sounds and smells, of the

feeling of the cool mist, the sight of long, dark forest-line and a

golden moon half hidden by clouds. Prominent among these was the trill

of river frogs. The trill of a northern frog was music, but that of

these great, silver-throated jungle frogs was more than music. Close at

hand one would thrill Ken with mellow, rich notes; and then from far

would come the answer, a sweet, high tenor, wilder than any other

wilderness sound, long sustained, dying away till he held his breath to

listen.

So the hours passed; and the moon went down into the weird shadows, and

the Southern Cross rose pale and wonderful.

Gradually the stars vanished in a kind of brightening gray, and dawn was

at hand. Ken felt weary for sleep, and his arms and back ached. Morning

came, with its steely light on the river, the rolling and melting of

vapors, the flight of ducks and call of birds. The rosy sun brought no

cheer.

Ken beached the boat on a sand-bar. While he was building a fire George

raised his head and groaned. But neither Pepe nor Hal moved. Ken

cooked rice and boiled cocoa, which he choked down. He opened a can of

fruit and found that most welcome. Then he lifted George’s head, shook

him, roused him, and held him, and made him eat and drink. Nor did he

neglect to put a liberal dose of quinine in the food. Pepe was easily

managed, but poor Hal was almost unable to swallow. Something terribly

grim mingled with a strong, passionate thrill as Ken looked at Hal’s

haggard face. Then Ken Ward knew how much he could stand, what work he

could do to get his brother out of the jungle.

He covered the boys again and pushed out the boat. At the moment he

felt a strength that he had never felt before. There was a good, swift

current in the river, and Ken was at great pains to keep in it. The

channel ran from one side of the river to the other. Many times Ken

stranded on sandy shoals and had to stand up and pole the boat into

deeper water. This was work that required all his attention. It

required more than patience. But as he rowed and poled and drifted he

studied the shallow ripples and learned to avoid the places where the

boat would not float.

There were stretches of river where the water was comparatively deep,

and along these he rested and watched the shores as he drifted by. He

saw no Indian huts that morning. The jungle loomed high and dark, a

matted gray wall. The heat made the river glare and smoke. Then where

the current quickened he rowed steadily and easily, husbanding his

strength.

More than all else, even the ravings of Hal in fever, the thing that

wore on Ken and made him gloomy was the mourning of turtle-doves. As

there had been thousands of these beautiful birds along the Santa Rosa

River, so there were millions along the Panuco. Trees were blue with

doves. There was an incessant soft, sad moaning. He fought his

nervous, sensitive imaginings. And for a time he would conquer the

sense of some sad omen sung by the doves. Then the monotony, the

endless sweet “coo-ooo-ooo,” seemed to drown him in melancholy sound.

There were three distinct tones--a moan, swelling to full ring, and

dying away: “Coo-_ooo_-ooo--coo-_ooo_-ooo.”

All the afternoon the mourning, haunting song filled Ken Ward’s ears.

And when the sun set and night came, with relief to his tortured ear but

not to mind, Ken kept on without a stop.

The day had slipped behind Ken with the miles, and now it was again

dark. It seemed that he had little sense of time. But his faculties of

sight and hearing were singularly acute. Otherwise his mind was like

the weird gloom into which he was drifting.

Before the stars came out the blackness was as thick as pitch. He could

not see a yard ahead. He backed the boat stern first down-stream and

listened for the soft murmur of ripples on shoals. He avoided these by

hearing alone. Occasionally a huge, dark pile of driftwood barred his

passage, and he would have to go round it. Snags loomed up specter-like

in his path, seemingly to reach for him with long, gaunt arms.

Sometimes he drifted upon sand-bars, from which he would patiently pole

the boat.

When the heavy dew began to fall he put on his waterproof coat. The

night grew chill. Then the stars shone out. This lightened the river.

Yet everywhere were shadows. Besides, clouds of mist hung low, in places

obscuring the stars.

Ken turned the boat bow first downstream and rowed with slow, even

stroke. He no longer felt tired. He seemed to have the strength of a

giant. He fancied that with one great heave he could lift the boat out

of the water or break the oars. From time to time he ceased to row,

and, turning his head, he looked and listened. The river had numerous

bends, and it was difficult for Ken to keep in the middle channel. He

managed pretty well to keep right by watching the dark shore-line where

it met the deep-blue sky. In the bends the deepest water ran close to

the shore of the outside curve. And under these high banks and the

leaning cypresses shadows were thicker and blacker than in the earlier

night. There was mystery in them that Ken felt.

The sounds he heard when he stopped during these cautious resting

intervals were the splashes of fish breaking water, the low hum of

insects, and the trill of frogs. The mourning of the doves during

daylight had haunted him, and now he felt the same sensation at this

long-sustained, exquisitely sweet trill. It pierced him, racked him,

and at last, from sheer exhaustion of his sensibilities, he seemed not

to hear it any more, but to have it in his brain.

The moon rose behind the left-hand jungle wall, silvered half of the

river and the opposite line of cypresses, then hid under clouds.

Suddenly, near or far away, down the river Ken saw a wavering light. It

was too large for a firefly, and too steady. He took it for a

Jack-o’-lantern. And for a while it enhanced the unreality, the

ghostliness of the river. But it was the means of bringing Ken out of

his dreamy gloom. It made him think. The light was moving. It was too

wavering for a Jack-o’-lantern. It was coming up-stream. It grew

larger.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. Ken lost sight of it

under a deep shadow of overhanging shore. As he reached a point

opposite to where it disappeared he thought he heard a voice. But he

could not be sure. He did not trust his ears. The incident, however,

gave him a chill. What a lonesome ride! He was alone on that unknown

river with three sick boys in the boat. Their lives depended upon his

care, his strength, his skill, his sight and hearing. And the

realization, striking him afresh, steeled his arms again and his spirit.

The night wore on. The moon disappeared entirely. The mists hung low

like dim sheets along the water. Ken was wringing-wet with dew. Long

periods of rowing he broke with short intervals of drifting, when he

rested at the oars.

Then drowsiness attacked him. For hours it seemed he fought it off.

But at length it grew overpowering. Only hard rowing would keep him

awake. And, as he wanted to reserve his strength, he did not dare exert

himself violently. He could not keep his eyes open. Time after time he

found himself rowing when he was half asleep. The boat drifted against

a log and stopped. Ken drooped over his oars and slept, and yet he

seemed not altogether to lose consciousness. He roused again to row on.

It occurred to him presently that he might let the boat drift and take

naps between whiles. When he drifted against a log or a sand-bar the

jar would awaken him. The current was sluggish. There seemed to be no

danger whatever. He must try to keep his strength. A little sleep

would refresh him. So he reasoned, and fell asleep over the oars.

Sooner or later--he never knew how long after he had fallen asleep--a

little jar awakened him. Then the gurgle and murmur of water near him

and the rush and roar of a swift current farther off made him look up

with a violent start. All about him was wide, gray gloom. Yet he could

see the dark, glancing gleam of the water. Movement of the oars told

him the boat was fast on a sand-bar. That relieved him, for he was not

drifting at the moment into the swift current he heard. Ken peered

keenly into the gloom. Gradually he made out a long, dark line running

diagonally ahead of him and toward the right-hand shore. It could not

be an island or a sand-bar or a shore-line. It could not be piles of

driftwood. There was a strange regularity in the dark upheavals of this

looming object. Ken studied it. He studied the black, glancing water.

Whatever the line was, it appeared to shunt the current over to the

right, whence came the low rush and roar.

Altogether it was a wild, strange place. Ken felt a fear of something he

could not name. It was the river--the night--the loneliness--the unknown

about him and before him.

Suddenly he saw a dull, red light far down the river. He stiffened in

his seat. Then he saw another red light. They were like two red eyes.

Ken shook himself to see if he had nightmare. No; the boat was there;

the current was there; the boys were there, dark and silent under their

blankets. This was no dream. Ken’s fancy conjured up some red-eyed

river demon come to destroy him and his charges. He scorned the fancy,

laughed at it. But, all the same, in that dark, weird place, with the

murmuring of notes in his ears and with those strange red eyes glowing

in the distance, he could not help what his emotions made the truth. He

was freezing to the marrow, writhing in a clammy sweat when a low

“chug-chug-chug” enlightened him. The red eyes were those of a

steamboat.

A steamboat on the wild Panuco! Ken scarcely believed his own judgment.

Then he remembered that George said there were a couple of boats plying

up and down the lower Panuco, mostly transporting timber and cattle.

Besides, he had proof of his judgment in the long, dark line that had so

puzzled him--it was a breakwater. It turned the current to the left,

where there evidently was a channel.

The great, red eyes gleamed closer, the “chug-chug-chug” sounded louder.

Then another sound amazed Ken--a man’s voice crying out steadily and

monotonously.

Ken wanted to rouse the boys and Pepe, but he refrained. It was best

for them to sleep. How surprised they would be when he told them about

the boat that passed in the night! Ken now clearly heard the splashing

of paddles, the chug of machinery, and the man’s voice. He was

singsonging: “Dos y media, dos y media, dos y media.”

Ken understood a little Mexican, and this strange cry became clear to

him. The man was taking soundings with a lead and crying out to the

pilot. _Dos y media_ meant two and a half feet of water. Then the

steam-boat loomed black in the gray gloom. It was pushing a low, flat

barge. Ken could not see the man taking soundings, but he heard him and

knew he was on the front end of the barge. The boat passed at fair

speed, and it cheered Ken. For he certainly ought to be able to take a

rowboat where a steamboat had passed. And, besides, he must be getting

somewhere near the little village of Panuco.

He poled off the bar and along the breakwater to the channel. It was

narrow and swift. He wondered how the pilot of the steamboat had

navigated in the gloom. He slipped down-stream, presently to find

himself once more in a wide river. Refreshed by his sleep and

encouraged by the meeting with the steamboat, Ken settled down to steady

rowing.

The stars paled, the mist thickened, fog obscured the water and shore;

then all turned gray, lightened, and dawn broke. The sun burst out.

Ken saw thatched huts high on the banks and occasionally natives. This

encouraged him all the more.

He was not hungry, but he was sick for a drink. He had to fight himself

to keep from drinking the dirty river-water. How different it was here

from the clear green of the upper Santa Rosa! Ken would have given his

best gun for one juicy orange. George was restless and rolling about,

calling for water; Hal lay in slumber or stupor; and Pepe sat up. He

was a sick-looking fellow, but he was better; and that cheered Ken as

nothing yet had.

Ken beached the boat on a sandy shore, and once again forced down a

little rice and cocoa. Pepe would not eat, yet he drank a little.

George was burning up with fever, and drank a full cup. Hal did not

stir, and Ken thought it best to let him lie.

As Ken resumed the journey the next thing to attract his attention was a

long canoe moored below one of the thatched huts. This afforded him

great satisfaction. At least he had passed the jungle wilderness, where

there was nothing that even suggested civilization. In the next few

miles he noticed several canoes and as many natives. Then he passed a

canoe that was paddled by two half-naked bronze Indians. Pepe hailed

them, but either they were too unfriendly to reply or they did not

understand him.

Some distance below Pepe espied a banana grove, and he motioned Ken to

row ashore. Ken did so with pleasure at the thought of getting some

fresh fruit. There was a canoe moored to the roots of a tree and a path

leading up the steep bank. Pepe got out and laboriously toiled up the

bare path. He was gone a good while.

Presently Ken heard shouts, then the bang of a lightly loaded gun, then

yells from Pepe.

“What on earth!” cried Ken, looking up in affright.

Pepe appeared with his arms full of red bananas. He jumped and

staggered down the path and almost fell into the boat. But he hung on

to the bananas.

“Santa Maria!” gasped Pepe, pointing to little bloody spots on the calf

of his leg.

“Pepe, you’ve been shot!” ejaculated Ken. “You stole the fruit--somebody

shot you!”

Pepe howled his affirmative. Ken was angry at himself, angrier at Pepe,

and angriest at the native who had done the shooting. With a strong

shove Ken put the boat out and then rowed hard down-stream. As he

rounded a bend a hundred yards below he saw three natives come tumbling

down the path. They had a gun. They leaped into the canoe. They meant

pursuit.

“Say, but this is a pretty kettle of fish!” muttered Ken, and he bent to

the oars.

Of course Pepe had been in the wrong. He should have paid for the

bananas or asked for them. All the same, Ken was not in any humor to be

fooled with by excitable natives. He had a sick brother in the boat and

meant to get that lad out of the jungle as quickly as will and strength

could do it. He certainly did not intend to be stopped by a few

miserable Indians angry over the loss of a few bananas. If it had not

been for the gun, Ken would have stopped long enough to pay for the

fruit. But he could not risk it now. So he pulled a strong stroke

down-stream.

The worst of the matter developed when Pepe peeled one of the bananas.

It was too green to eat.

Presently the native canoe hove in sight round the bend. All three men

were paddling. They made the long craft fly through the water. Ken saw

instantly that they would overhaul him in a long race, and this added to

his resentment. Pepe looked back and jabbered and shook his brawny

fists at the natives. Ken was glad to see that the long stretch of

river below did not show a canoe or hut along the banks. He preferred

to be overhauled, if he had to be, in a rather lonely spot.

It was wonderful how those natives propelled that log canoe. And when

one of the three dropped his paddle to pick up the gun, the speed of the

canoe seemed not to diminish. They knew the channels, and so gained on

Ken. He had to pick the best he could choose at short notice, and

sometimes he chose poorly.

Two miles or more below the bend the natives with the gun deliberately

fired, presumably at Pepe. The shot scattered and skipped along the

water and did not come near the boat. Nevertheless, as the canoe was

gaining and the crazy native was reloading, Ken saw he would soon be

within range. Something had to be done.

Ken wondered if he could not frighten those natives. They had probably

never heard the quick reports of a repeating rifle, let alone the

stinging cracks of an automatic. Ken decided it would be worth trying.

But he must have a chance to get the gun out of its case and load it.

That chance came presently. The natives, in paddling diagonally across

a narrow channel, ran aground in the sand. They were fast for only a

few moments, but in that time Ken had got out the little rifle and

loaded it.

Pepe’s dark face turned a dirty white, and his eyes dilated. He

imagined Ken was going to kill some of his countrymen. But Pepe never

murmured. He rubbed the place in his leg where he had been shot, and

looked back.

Ken rowed on, now leisurely. There was a hot anger within him, but he

had it in control. He knew what he was about. Again the native fired,

and again his range was short. The distance was perhaps two hundred

yards.

Ken waited until the canoe, in crossing one of the many narrow places,

was broadside toward him. Then he raised the automatic. There were at

least ten feet in the middle of the canoe where it was safe for him to

hit without harm to the natives. And there he aimed. The motion of his

boat made it rather hard to keep the sights right. He was cool,

careful; he aimed low, between gunwale and the water, and steadily he

pulled the trigger--once, twice, three times, four, five.

The steel-jacketed bullets “spoued” on the water and “cracked” into the

canoe. They evidently split both gunwales low down at the water-line.

The yelling, terror-stricken natives plunged about, and what with their

actions and the great split in the middle the canoe filled and sank.

The natives were not over their depth; that was plainly evident.

Moreover, it was equally evident that they dared not wade in the

quicksand. So they swam to the shallower water, and there, like huge

turtles, floundered toward the shore.

*XXIII*

*OUT OF THE JUNGLE*

Before the natives had reached the shore they were hidden from Ken’s

sight by leaning cypress-trees. Ken, however, had no fear for their

safety. He was sorry to cause the Indians’ loss of a gun and a canoe;

nevertheless, he was not far from echoing Pepe’s repeated: “Bueno!

Bueno! Bueno!”

Upon examination Ken found two little bloody holes in the muscles of

Pepe’s leg. A single shot had passed through. Ken bathed the wounds

with an antiseptic lotion and bound them with clean bandages.

Pepe appeared to be pretty weak, so Ken did not ask him to take the

oars. Then, pulling with long, steady stroke, Ken set out to put a long

stretch between him and the angry natives. The current was swift, and

Ken made five miles or more an hour. He kept that pace for three hours

without a rest. And then he gave out. It seemed that all at once he

weakened. His back bore an immense burden. His arms were lead, and his

hands were useless. There was an occasional mist or veil before his

sight. He was wet, hot, breathless, numb. But he knew he was safe from

pursuit. So he rested and let the boat drift.

George sat up, green in the face, a most miserable-looking boy. But

that he could sit up at all was hopeful.

“Oh, my head!” he moaned. “Is there anything I can drink? My mouth is

dry--pasted shut.”

Ken had two lemons he had been saving. He cut one in halves and divided

it between Pepe and George. The relief the sour lemon afforded both

showed Ken how wise he had been to save the lemons. Then he roused Hal,

and, lifting the lad’s head, made him drink a little of the juice. Hal

was a sick boy, too weak to sit up without help.

“Don’t--you worry--Ken,” he said. “I’m going--to be--all right.”

Hal was still fighting.

Ken readjusted the palm-leaf shelter over the boys so as to shade them

effectually from the hot sun, and then he went back to the oars.

As he tried once more to row, Ken was reminded of the terrible lassitude

that had overtaken him the day he had made the six-hour climb out of the

Grand Cañon. The sensation now was worse, but Ken had others depending

upon his exertions, and that spurred him to the effort which otherwise

would have been impossible.

It was really not rowing that Ken accomplished. It was a weary puttering

with oars he could not lift, handles he could not hold. At best he

managed to guide the boat into the swiftest channels. Whenever he felt

that he was just about to collapse, then he would look at Hal’s pale

face. That would revive him. So the hot hours dragged by.

They came, after several miles, upon more huts and natives. And farther

down they met canoes on the river. Pepe interrogated the natives.

According to George, who listened, Panuco was far, far away, many

kilometers. This was most disheartening. Another native said the

village was just round the next bend. This was most nappy information.

But it turned out to be a lie. There was no village around any

particular bend--nothing save bare banks for miles. The stretches of

the river were long, and bends far apart.

Ken fell asleep. When he awoke he found Pepe at the oars. Watching

him, Ken fancied he was recovering, and was overjoyed.

About four o’clock in the afternoon Pepe rowed ashore and beached the

boat at the foot of a trail leading up to a large bamboo and thatch hut.

This time Ken thought it well to accompany Pepe. And as he climbed the

path he found his legs stiffer and shakier than ever before.

Ken saw a cleared space in which were several commodious huts, gardens,

and flowers. There was a grassy yard in which little naked children were

playing with tame deer and tiger-cats. Parrots were screeching, and

other tame birds fluttered about. It appeared a real paradise to Ken.

Two very kindly disposed and wondering native women made them welcome.

Then Ken and Pepe went down to the boat and carried Hal up, and went

back for George.

It developed that the native women knew just what to do for the

fever-stricken boys. They made some kind of a native drink for them, and

after that gave them hot milk and chicken and rice soup. George

improved rapidly, and Hal brightened a little and showed signs of

gathering strength.

Ken could not eat until he had something to quench his thirst. Upon

inquiring, Pepe found that the natives used the river-water. Ken could

not drink that. Then Pepe pointed out an orange-tree, and Ken made a

dive for it. The ground was littered with oranges. Collecting an

armful, Ken sat under the tree and with wild haste began to squeeze the

juice into his mouth. Never had anything before tasted so cool, so

sweet, so life-giving! He felt a cool, wet sensation steal all through

his body. He never knew till that moment how really wonderful and

precious an orange could be. He thought that as he would hate mourning

turtle-doves all the rest of his life, so he would love the sight and

smell and taste of oranges. And he demolished twenty-two before he

satisfied his almost insatiable thirst. After that the chicken and rice

made him feel like a new boy.

Then Ken made beds under a kind of porch, and he lay down in one,

stretched out languidly and gratefully, as if he never intended to move

again, and his eyes seemed to be glued shut.

When he awoke the sun was shining in his face. When he had gone to bed

it had been shining at his back. He consulted his watch. He had slept

seventeen hours.

When he got up and found Pepe as well as before he had been taken with

the fever and George on his feet and Hal awake and actually smiling, Ken

experienced a sensation of unutterable thankfulness. A terrible burden

slipped from his shoulders. For a moment he felt a dimming of his eyes

and a lump in his throat.

“How about you, Ken, old man?” inquired Hal, with a hint of his usual

spirit.

“Wal, youngster, I reckon fer a man who’s been through some right pert

happenin’s, I’m in tol’able shape,” drawled Ken.

“I’ll bet two dollars you’ve been up against it,” declared Hal,

solemnly.

Then, as they sat to an appetizing breakfast, Ken gave them a brief

account of the incidents of the two days and two nights when they were

too ill to know anything.

It was a question whether George’s voluble eulogy of Ken’s feat or Hal’s

silent, bright-eyed pride in his brother was the greater compliment.

Finally Hal said: “Won’t that tickle Jim Williams when we tell him how

you split up the Indians’ canoe and spilled them into the river?”

Then Ken conceived the idea of climbing into the giant ceiba that stood

high on the edge of the bluff. It was hard work, but he accomplished

it, and from a fork in the top-most branches he looked out. That was a

warm, rich, wonderful scene. Ken felt that he would never forget it.

His interest now, however, was not so much in its beauty and wildness.

His keen eye followed the river as it wound away into the jungle, and

when he could no longer see the bright ribbon of water he followed its

course by the line of magnificent trees. It was possible to trace the

meandering course of the river clear to the rise of the mountains, dim

and blue in the distance. And from here Ken made more observations and

notes.

As he went over in his mind the map and notes and report he had prepared

he felt that he had made good. He had explored and mapped more than a

hundred miles of wild jungle river. He felt confident that he had

earned the trip to England and the German forests. He might win a

hunting trip on the vast uplands of British East Africa. But he felt

also that the reward of his uncle’s and his father’s pride would be more

to him. That was a great moment for Ken Ward. And there was yet much

more that he could do to make this exploring trip a success.

[Illustration: Ken Ward’s Map]

When he joined the others he found that Pepe had learned that the

village of Panuco was distant a day or a night by canoe. How many miles

or kilometers Pepe could not learn. Ken decided it would be best to go

on at once. It was not easy to leave that pleasant place, with its music

of parrots and other birds, and the tiger-cats that played like kittens,

and the deer that ate from the hand. The women would accept no pay, so

Ken made them presents.

Once more embarked, Ken found his mood reverting to that of the last

forty-eight hours. He could not keep cheerful. The river was dirty and

the smell sickening. The sun was like the open door of a furnace. And

Ken soon discovered he was tired, utterly tired.

That day was a repetition of the one before, hotter, wearier, and the

stretches of river were longer, and the natives met in canoes were

stolidly ignorant of distance. The mourning of turtle-doves almost

drove Ken wild. There were miles and miles of willows, and every tree

was full of melancholy doves. At dusk the boys halted on a sand-bar,

too tired to cook a dinner, and sprawled in the warm sand to sleep like

logs.

In the morning they brightened up a little, for surely just around the

bend they would come to Panuco. Pepe rowed faithfully on, and bend

after bend lured Ken with deceit. He was filled with weariness and

disgust, so tired he could hardly lift his hand, so sleepy he could

scarcely keep his eyes open. He hated the wide, glassy stretches of

river and the muddy banks and dusty cattle.

At noon they came unexpectedly upon a cluster of thatched huts, to find

that they made up the village of Panuco. Ken was sick, for he had

expected a little town where they could get some drinking-water and hire

a launch to speed them down to Tampico. This appeared little more than

the other places he had passed, and he climbed up the bank wearily,

thinking of the long fifty miles still to go.

But Panuco was bigger and better than it looked from the river. The

boys found a clean, comfortable inn, where they dined well, and learned

to their joy that a coach left in an hour for Tamos to meet the

five-o’clock train to Tampico.

They hired a _mozo_ to row the boat to Tampico and, carrying the lighter

things, boarded the coach, and, behind six mules, were soon bowling over

a good level road.

It was here that the spirit of Ken’s mood again changed, and somehow

seemed subtly conveyed to the others. The gloom faded away as Ken had

seen the mist-clouds dissolve in the morning sunlight. It was the end

of another wild trip. Hal was ill, but a rest and proper care would

soon bring him around. Ken had some trophies and pictures, but he also

had memories. And he believed he had acquired an accurate knowledge of

the jungle and its wild nature, and he had mapped the river from Micas

Falls to Panuco.

“Well, it certainly _did come_ to us, didn’t it?” asked George, naïvely,

for the hundredth time. “Didn’t I tell you? By gosh, I can’t remember

what did come off. But we had a dandy time.”

“Great!” replied Ken. “I had more than I wanted. I’ll never spring

another stunt like this one!”

Hal gazed smilingly at his brother.

“Bah! Ken Ward, bring on your next old trip!”

Which proved decidedly that Hal was getting better and that he alone

understood his brother.

Pepe listened and rubbed his big hands, and there was a light in his

dark eyes.

Ken laughed. It was good to feel happy just then; it was enough to feel

safe and glad in the present, with responsibility removed, without a

thought of the future.

Yet, when some miles across country he saw the little town of Tamos

shining red-roofed against the sky, he came into his own again. The old

calling, haunting love of wild places and wild nature returned, and with

dreamy eyes he looked out. He saw the same beauty and life and

wildness. Beyond the glimmering lagoons stretched the dim, dark jungle.

A flock of flamingoes showed pink across the water. Ducks dotted the

weedy marshes. And low down on the rosy horizon a long curved line of

wild geese sailed into the sunset.

When the boys arrived at Tampico and George had secured comfortable

lodgings for them, the first thing Ken did was to put Hal to bed. It

required main strength to do this. Ken was not taking any chances with

tropical fever, and he sent for a doctor.

It was not clear whether the faces Hal made were at the little dried-up

doctor or at the medicine he administered. However, it was very clear

that Hal made fun of him and grew bolder the more he believed the man

could not understand English.

Ken liked the silent, kindly physician, and remonstrated with Hal, and

often, just to keep Hal’s mind occupied, he would talk of the university

and baseball, topics that were absorbing to the boy.

And one day, as the doctor was leaving, he turned to Ken with a twinkle

in his eyes and said in perfect English: “I won’t need to come any

more.”

Hal’s jaw began to drop.

“Your brother is all right,” went on the doctor. “But he’s a fresh kid,

and he’ll never make the Wayne Varsity--or a good explorer, either--till

he gets over that freshness. I’m a Wayne man myself. Class of ’82.

Good day, boys.”

Ken Ward was astounded. “By George! What do you think of that? He’s a

Wayne med. I’ll have to look him up. And, Hal, he was just right about

you.”

Hal looked extremely crestfallen and remorseful.

“I’m always getting jars.”

It took a whole day for him to recover his usual spirits.

Ken had promptly sent the specimens and his notes to his uncle, and as

the days passed the boys began to look anxiously for some news. In ten

days Hal was as well as ever, and then the boys had such sport with the

tarpon and big sharks and alligator-gars that they almost forgot about

the rewards they had striven so hard for and hoped to win. But finally,

when the mail arrived from home, they were at once happy and fearful.

George was with them that evening, and shared their excitement and

suspense. Hal’s letters were from his mother and his sister, and they

were read first. Judge Ward’s letter to Ken was fatherly and

solicitous, but brief. He gave the boys six more weeks, cautioned them

to be sensible and to profit by their opportunity, and he inclosed a

bank-draft. Not a word about rewards!

Ken’s fingers trembled a little as he tore open the uncle’s letter. He

read it aloud:

DEAR KEN,--Congratulations! You’ve done well. You win the trip to

Africa. Hal’s work also was good--several specimens accepted by the

Smithsonian. I’ll back you for the Yucatan trip. Will send letters to

the American consul at Progreso, and arrange for you to meet the

Austrian archæologist Maler, who I hope will take you in hand.

I want you to make a study of some of the ruins of Yucatan, which I

believe are as wonderful as any in Egypt. I advise you to make this

trip short and to the point, for there are indications of coming

revolution throughout Mexico.

With best wishes,

UNCLE G.

The old varsity cheer rang out from Ken, and Hal began a war-dance.

Then both boys pounced upon George, and for a few moments made life

miserable for him.

“And I can’t go with you!” he exclaimed, sorrowfully.

Both Ken and Hal shared his disappointment. But presently. George

brightened up. The smile came back which he always wore when prophesying

the uncertain adventures of the future.

“Well, anyway, I’ll be safe home. And you fellows! You’ll be getting

yours when you’re lost in the wilderness of Yucatan!”