A JUNGLE VISION
By sheer determination, Hal forced the stubborn craft back into position
and, paddling with his bare hands, he managed to emerge safely at the
other end. Once there, he had no heart to go further and pulled into the
bank to rest and reflect upon the Indian’s sad passing.
It was the saddest experience of his life, he thought as he clambered up
on the bank and sat down. Sadder even than Rodriguez’ death, for the
Brazilian was but an acquaintance, while the Indian had proved himself
the best friend a fellow could have. And what was worse, he felt that he
himself was responsible, for the young man would never have come to such
grief if he hadn’t left his people.
After an hour of these vain regrets he hobbled down just below the
rapids, but there was no sign of the Indian’s body. Watch as he did, he
saw nothing but the foaming spray as it roared down the rapids. Big
Boy’s brave, faithful countenance Hal never saw again—not even in death.
He limped on downstream, despondent and irresolute. The canoe was no
good to him without a paddle, the Indian was gone.... Fate, he decided,
was taking an awful whack at him and he resented it. He had planned so
much to repay Big Boy—he had even painted mind pictures of taking him
home to his mother in Ramapo, N. Y. There in the shadow of the
undulating hills he would have looked quite picturesque. But now it
could never be, and the sad part of it was that he had not been given
the slightest chance to show Big Boy his deep gratitude.
Suddenly Hal thought of the watch and he took it out of his pocket,
looked at it a moment, then put it back on his own wrist with a wistful
smile. It had been a queer give and take between them, yet he was glad
that it had been so. Until the longest day he lived, he would always
think of the watch as a farewell token of the Indian’s.
A macaw, gorgeously plumed, flew over his head, and further down along
the bank he noticed that the jungle thinned out. That always meant a
clearing, so he hesitated for a time, drawing back under the trees and
listening. He would not, he determined, walk into any cannibal camps
with his eyes closed.
He listened for fully five minutes and then suddenly noticed something
golden flitting in and out of the trees below. Emboldened, he hurried on
until he saw that it was not a mirage, but a real white girl with a
crown of lovely golden hair who was running along the bank.
Hal’s heart seemed to come up in his mouth then. He wanted to call right
away, but he seemed powerless to do aught but stand and stare at her
slim figure swaying along under her flowing, old-fashioned skirt. And
when she turned to look out over the river, he noticed that her feet
were quite small, despite the clumsy canvas shoes she wore.
He thought of his own appearance then, bedraggled and unkempt. And
though his ruined sport shoes were unsightly indeed, he felt really more
conscious of his terrible growth of beard. Not being able to see
himself, he visualized his appearance as being nothing short of
disgraceful. Certainly, he was not fit to show himself before such a
vision as that girl was who was standing on the bank.
And so in disgust, Hal was about to hide himself until she had gone, but
he was just too late. She caught sight of him, hesitated with wonder,
then started toward him on a run.
With a graceful bow, Hal hurried toward her, also, and steeled himself
for the worst under a critical, feminine eye. But he was destined to be
surprised, for she seemed not to notice any deficiency in his attire.
Indeed, her first observation was quite unexpected.
“_A white man_—my goodness!” she exclaimed in a voice that was husky,
yet not harsh. “My goodness!”
“Just what I was going to say,” Hal returned, blushing consciously under
his beard. “A white girl—my goodness!”
They both laughed, then she cupped her tanned face in her right hand and
searched Hal’s face eagerly. He noted at once that her eyes were gray.
“You’ve been hurt—sick—lost?” she asked solicitously.
“All three,” Hal admitted with a chuckle. “I don’t know where I’ve been,
where I am, or where I’m headed for, but I do know that it’s darn sweet
music to see a white girl in this wilderness and hear her talking the
English language. _Gosh!_”
She laughed, huskily sweet.
“You’re not by any chance that person whom all the Amazon is being
searched for—Hallett Keen?”
“Now I know the reason they haven’t found me,” Hal laughed. “If they’re
searching for me with that name to go by, I wouldn’t care if I was ever
rescued.”
“Then you are _he_?”
“Not Hallett—_Hal_! Hal Keen is the only name my dog knows, and what’s
good enough for my dog is good enough for me. So I’m Hal Keen, by your
leave, young lady.”
“Oh, I’m so happy to meet you, Hal Keen,” she said laughing, but none
the less sincere. “I really am. Particularly am I glad to know you’re
alive. Word came through here four days ago that we were to watch out
for a young man of your description, and here you are! Think of it!”
Then, solicitously: “You’re pale and shaken looking, Mr. Hal—why, you’re
not well!”
“Better than I’ve been in a week,” Hal assured her. “I’ve been through
an awful lot,” he said, telling her the story of Big Boy.
She listened attentively while he talked, and, when he had finished,
regarded him gravely.
“I’ve an idea you’ve been through a great deal more than even that.”
“Some,” Hal smiled winningly. “But there’s plenty of time to talk about
my adventures—it’ll take me too long now. What I want to know is who you
are and why, where are we, and why?”
“It would take too long to tell you why,” she laughed with gentle
mockery, “but I can tell you where we are, first. We’re on the banks of
the _Pallida Mors_, known as _River of Pale Death_, also _Death River_.
It was so called by an Italian scientist who lost his party in the
rapids just about where your Indian boy was lost. And as for me, I’m
just Felice Pemberton and I live....”
“Did you say _just_?” Hal interrupted her.