“NEVER BEFORE HAD TOM EXPERIENCED SUCH A FEELING OF AWFUL DANGER.”
Samaro had been exceedingly well recommended to Tom as a perfect guide
for the wilds, but the very fact that he had been with his uncle would
in itself have been the best of testimony in the man’s favour.
He proved himself most active and energetic from the first.
And there was quite a deal to be seen to. All stores of every kind had
been brought from the ship and from Guayaquil, and shortly after sunrise
Samaro proceeded to muster his forces and take stock of everything.
The stores were a medley; but the heaviest packages were those that
contained articles for barter with the Indians of the interior, and
these consisted chiefly of light cloth, thread, needles, pins, beads,
axes, knives, spear-heads, looking-glasses, an African tom-tom, and a
couple of German concertinas. Many of these things would be given away
as presents, and there was even a gun or two that might also change
hands.
The stores for the use of Tom himself and his Indian followers consisted
for the most part of the tent, a grass hammock, a few blankets, with
plenty of rifles, revolvers, and ammunition. Fishing gear had not been
forgotten, nor useful tools of various sorts, to say nothing of
preserved meats and a few simple medicines.
Such was the outfit of the Hermit Hunter of the Wilds. A hermit of the
old school might have been content with far less, but your modern
wanderers do not despise anything which science may suggest as likely to
add to their comfort. The horses were wiry, useful, willing beasts;
strong too, and as sure-footed as mules even. The dogs were probably
better than they looked. Mongrel greyhounds they were--not unlike a
breed we find in Australia under the name of kangaroo-hounds.
The packages were carried by the horses in light, wicker baskets saddle
fashion, and all were covered with waterproof canvas.
Tom had already enjoyed some of the delights of Ecuador travelling--if,
indeed, there was very much delight in it--and his adventures as far as
Riobamba would be worth relating were it not that those which followed
were far more thrilling. But there had been rivers to cross, over
tumble-down bridges, mountains to climb along tracks called roads which
sheep in England would disdain, deep forests to force through, and long
stretches of sandy plains to struggle over by paths that seemed
interminable.
But although the rainy season was scarcely past the weather had been
comparatively fine; and the scenery, ever varying, according to the
altitude above the sea-level, was at times beautiful in the extreme, or
grand even to awesome sublimity.
Tom was fond of nature in all her varied aspects, and all through his
journeyings he had the pleasant companionship of birds and flowers and
ferns, to say nothing of many a little forest friend in fur, that
hardly thought of running away, so unused were the creatures of the
wilds to the presence of man.
The greater part of the population of Riobamba turned out to see Tom
start.
In addition to the pack-horses he had brought two others to ride--one
for himself and the other for Samaro. This guide went on first, then Tom
and the others followed in Indian file.
It was a delightful morning, with a breeze blowing from the distant
mountain slopes of Chimborazo; and the throng of Indians spear-armed and
clad in their gay-coloured ponchos, the huts and houses, the cattle,
horses, and strange-looking llamas, the greenery of the shrubs and
bushes, the jagged hills and blue sky above, flecked with many a fleecy
cloud, made up a scene that was both beautiful and picturesque.
But all was soon left behind, and solitude reigned supreme.
The pack-horses and men were lagging behind. Samaro was a long way
ahead, and when Tom pulled rein and looked about him, hearing nothing
but the rustling of the wind through the wild corn and dark-leaved aloe
bushes, he realized for the first time that he was really on his way to
the wilderness.
All the year round the sun sets about six o’clock in the land of
Ecuador, and a full hour before that time Tom gave orders for the halt;
and not far from the banks of a river the tent or toldo was erected, and
supper prepared. It would have been easy to have pushed on a few miles
farther to the village of Penipe, but for the time-being at all events
Tom was independent of villages of any kind. Nor did he have a very high
opinion of the cooking and accommodation to be obtained therein.
Certainly in a town a greater amount of so-called civilization was to be
met with; but there the insects were more civilized too. That is how Tom
Talisker argued. Out in the open country, even in the bush, although
these plagues were to be met with in every shape and form--flying
beetles, gigantic mosquitoes, cockroaches, earwigs, scorpions,
centipeds, and winged bugs, to say nothing of a host of other
creepie-creepies,--they were wild; while, on the other hand, those that
dwelt in houses were tame, disgustingly so, and _au fait_ in all the
ways of the world. Besides, there was in the open the blessings
obtainable from fresh air.
I have already said that hermit hunter though he was Tom did not despise
his comforts. On my honour now, I think he would have been a fool if he
had. What good would it have done himself or anybody else had he dressed
in sackcloth and ashes? He could have gotten plenty of both in Ecuador
had his fancy led him to adopt so sad a costume. But it did not. He
preferred alpaca and fine linen, and he actually carried an excellent
hunting watch. Every night, too, while in the wilderness he had his tent
erected, his hammock slung, and the whole of the latter neatly
surrounded by a mosquito curtain. If ever, dear reader, you go to the
wilds, I advise you to adopt the same plan.
Well then, after Samaro had tucked his master in, as you might say, he
threw up one side of the tent, and lo! the sweet pure air of heaven
swept in. The creepies came too--some of them at all events. The
scorpions and centipeds had not a chance, and the flying “ferlies” could
only grind their mandibles outside the curtain. Mosquitoes are very
insinuating though, and if there had been a hole in the curtain big
enough to admit the end of a pencil some enterprising mosquito would
have found it out and forthwith started a limited liability company,
thousands would have joined, and before morning Tom’s face would have
been a sight to see in the looking-glass--that is, if seeing was any
longer a possibility.
“Stay and talk with me to-night,” said Tom, after Samaro had tucked him
in. “Throw up the tent that I may see the stars. That’s right. Now
smoke.”
“Is this going to be the order of our evenings?” said Samaro.
It will be observed that this man talked excellent English, and well he
might: he had lived in every country under the sun.
“Yes,” replied Tom, “if you don’t mind. You see, it is too soon to go to
sleep, and if I have the lamp lit we will have more flying things about
us than I care for.”
To keep stray pumas, or a wandering and inquisitive jaguar--the American
tiger, at a respectable distance, a fire of wood was lit every evening,
and near this lay talking low, and sometimes singing strange uncouth
lilts of love and war, Tom’s five men. There was one drawback to their
pleasure--the snakes. But it was a very slight one; for as a rule snakes
do not bite unless you tread on their tails. They take good care you
never tread on their heads; they glide away quickly enough to save the
front portions of their anatomy. It is the after-part of the procession
that cannot be got away in time to save itself, and when the unhappy
man’s foot comes down the snake strikes at once, and there is but little
chance of life after that.
Well, when one goes first to the wilderness, if he be a green hand, or
tender-foot as the Yankees call a novice, he keeps thinking about snakes
all day long, and they even follow him into his dreams, fevering body as
well as mind, and destroying all chance of perfect happiness. But a few
weeks in the wilds harden even a tender-foot, and he finds out as his
face gets browner that even snakes never bite except in self-defence,
and that if he observes ordinary caution he is as safe on the plains as
he would be in Hyde Park.
“O,” said Samaro, “I shall be very much pleased.”
“Well then, tell me a story, and sing me a song if you can. I want to
feel perfectly at home.”
And Samaro not only this night but every night almost told Tom stories
of his wild life and adventures, and sang him songs, just as if he had
been a little boy at home in his own bed-room. And to tell the truth Tom
used very often to go to sleep before Samaro had done singing.
Tom, the black cat, invariably retired to the hammock with his master.
By day he rode on the saddle sometimes, or he might disappear altogether
for half a day at a time. Black Tom was permitted to do precisely as he
pleased, and that is the secret of his affection for White Tom.
Tom was never tired hearing Samaro tell all about Uncle Robert’s
adventures, and, to a great extent, he determined to do very much as his
uncle had done.
“It will be such a surprise, you know,” he told Samaro, “to collect
precisely the same kind of curios, and skins of birds and beasts, and
butterflies, and beetles as Uncle Robert did. Why, when I go home and
show him all these, he will be as happy as the good little boys in the
fairy-books.”
This was a happy thought, and Samaro entered into the scheme with great
spirit and joy.
Between Riobamba, therefore, and Banyos they spent three whole weeks.
But bird skins and butterflies were almost the sole objects that Tom
collected in these regions. They had hardly yet come to lions and
tigers. He gathered, however, specimens of ore, which Samaro assured him
contained gold as well as other precious metals.
Sometimes they met wandering bands of Indians. They were quiet and civil
as yet, but they were extremely curious to know what brought the white
hunter to these regions. They were satisfied each and all of them with
Samaro’s explanations. All Englishmen were mad, the guide told them,
except a very few, and these were fools.
Seeing Tom pursuing bright-winged butterflies they naturally concluded
he belonged to the latter section.
“It is well it should be thought so,” said Samaro. “Your fame and
reputation will go before you into the wilds.”
“My reputation as a fool--eh?” said Tom laughing.
“Yes, as a fool. Then if your friend Bernard does indeed live among the
Jivaros, you will be more likely to find and free him. They will not
suspect a fool.”
They found the horses very handy at present; but by and by the country
would be far too wild to make any use of them.
The dogs, however, were as yet of little service. However they
occasionally caught a cavy or agouti, and these, roasted whole in gypsy
fashion, formed occasionally a very appetizing supper.
Fruit was everywhere abundant here, and eggs of various kinds of birds
added considerably to the contents of the larder.
The rain, however, spoiled many a good day’s sport, and always after a
“spate” or downfall the streams became swollen.
They would have to ford these at times with considerable risk; while at
other times they found bridges. But terrible bridges they were. It
really makes me shudder a little to think of them, although I am not
much given to shuddering as a general rule. The best of them were
suspension bridges, and the method adopted in their construction was
simplicity itself. Three or four chains were swung across the stream and
tied to the tree trunks, and on these pieces of wood were fastened with
withes, and lo! the bridge was complete, but fearfully unsafe. They were
very high above the water to prevent their being washed away during
floods, and as they were stretched over the narrowest gulleys, the water
beneath rushed onward with such rapidity, that the strongest swimmer
that ever lived would not have had the ghost of a chance for his life
had he fallen off the bridge.
Imagine if you can horses having to cross such a bridge. But they often
had to.
Tom had one adventure on a bridge that he is never likely to forget. He
was all alone too; that is, no human being was within reach. About four
miles down a stream he had found a ford in the morning, but on returning
about an hour before sunset he came to this fearful bridge and
determined to cross over. He tied his horse up first, then ventured on
himself, and went backwards and forwards several times to test its
strength. The bridge was not more than four feet wide, but felt firm
enough, and it was all right with Tom so long as he did not let his eyes
fall in the direction of the roaring, tumbling torrent far down beneath.
If he did so for a moment he felt as if the whole structure were gliding
from under him.
But now for the horse. It was not difficult to get the wise creature on,
though he walked with excessive care and caution, feeling his way as it
were step by step, with his eyes fixed steadfastly on the bank beyond.
Tom walked on before holding the bridle. The bridge bent as they neared
the centre till it assumed almost the shape of a hammock, and Tom began
to think it must break. He kept up his heart, however, and with gentle,
encouraging words urged his beast to follow.
They had reached the middle when, without the slightest warning, a
squall came suddenly roaring down the gulley, and the bridge began to
sway and swing and creak and crack. Never in his lifetime before had Tom
experienced such a feeling of awful danger. The horse stood still now,
shaking with dread, and emitting a low, frightened kind of a whinny,
while the sweat poured over his hoofs.
Tom crouched lower and lower to save himself from falling, but he still
kept hold of the bridle; for even in the extremity of his own danger, he
did not forget that the touch from man’s hand gives confidence to the
brute, even when seemingly paralysed with terror.
The squall luckily did not last many minutes. Then it fell calm again,
and in a very short time he and his faithful horse were safely across.
But even then he dared scarcely look back and down into that frightful
chasm that seemed to have been yawning hungrily for his life.