SOME RARE PICTURES
Happy One sent back the call to the porters in the rear, and at the
news of elephants there were mingled expressions. While some of the
black men chanted of the power of the mighty beast, seemingly somewhat
afraid of it, others declaimed of the sure-shooting abilities of the
white men, and improvised chants concerning the amount of meat they
would soon have to feast upon.
“And there sure is some meat on an elephant,” said the former soldier.
“I hope we don’t have to kill any; but, if we do, there’ll be a feast
such as you never saw before.”
“Is elephant meat good to eat?” asked Joe.
“The natives will eat almost anything,” said the sergeant, “as long as
it’s meat. But, of course, there are some parts of an elephant better
than another. The heart is as good eating as I ever enjoyed, and the
trunk makes fine soup. Elephant’s feet, properly cooked, are delicious.”
“Elephant’s feet!” cried Blake. “I’ve eaten pig’s trotters, but
elephant’s----”
“The way to do it,” said the former soldier, “is to make a hole in the
ground, build a fire in it, get a lot of hot embers ready, and bury
the foot in them. Go off for the day, and when you come back the meat
inside the foot will be roasted to a turn and no beef or mutton can
equal it. But we may not get an elephant.”
“We’ll make a hard try for some pictures, anyhow,” said Blake. “Let’s
get our cameras ready, Joe.”
“Oh, you’ve got plenty of time,” said the sergeant. “Though this trail
is comparatively fresh, still a herd of elephants can travel much
faster than you would think, merely to look at them. They are a good
many miles off now, and, though they may stop to feed, we can hardly
come up to them to-day. It may take three days.”
“But it’s a good trail to follow,” spoke Joe.
“Yes, indeed,” agreed C. C. Piper. “When a herd of elephants go along,
they don’t stop for small obstacles. They knock down anything that gets
in their way. That makes it good for us. But if we go after these big
beasts we may all----”
Unconsciously he was falling into his old habit of predicting
misfortune, but he caught himself in time, as he saw Blake and Joe
looking curiously at him.
“You didn’t catch me that time!” he cried, gaily. “Everything is going
to be lovely, and you’ll get some fine views; I’m sure.”
“That’s the way to talk!” cried Blake, encouragingly.
“Well, let’s move,” suggested Joe. “This is better than crawling
through a jungle.”
“But won’t it take us too far away from our search?” asked Mr. Duncan,
anxiously. “I want to get to the village where those desperate
kidnappers are. My poor Jessie may be suffering all sorts of hardships.”
“I appreciate that,” said the sergeant, gently; “and we won’t lose a
moment more of time than is necessary. But we must keep the porters
well supplied with meat, or they will desert us, and then we would be
helpless in the midst of the jungle. So if we can get an elephant it
will be to our advantage.
“Then, too, this trail is an easy one to follow, and though it is
somewhat out of our way we can, in the end, save time by following it.”
“That’s all I want to know,” said the father. “I want the boys to get
their pictures; but, oh! I do so want to find Jessie!”
“And so do I, Dad!” cried Joe. “And we will find her, too. We won’t
waste any time, but we’ve got to depend on our porters when it comes to
the last, and there may be a fight.”
“Yes, that is so,” admitted Mr. Duncan.
They took up the elephant trail, and followed it until nightfall. They
made camp near a spring, and Joe, who went out to trace a bird with a
peculiar call, was lucky enough to shoot an eland, which furnished the
camp with meat, and sent the porters into transports of joy.
Early the next morning, after an uneventful night, save that lions
roared in the distance, and hyenas howled, they again took up the
trail. They followed it for three days, but could not seem to come up
to the big creatures. Once or twice they heard them in the distance,
crashing through the underbrush, and pulling up thorn trees on which
they fed. But the wind was blowing from behind, carrying the scent from
the hunters directly to the pachyderms, so that they were continually
being alarmed and kept on the march.
“But when the wind dies down, or changes, we’ll have a good chance,”
said the sergeant, and C. C. Piper agreed with him. “They’ll get tired
of being continually on the move,” went on the former soldier, “and
stop to rest.”
“Maybe they’ll lie down and go to sleep,” suggested Joe.
“Elephants sleep standing up, as a rule,” said the sergeant. “It’s only
one of their queer habits.”
But if the boys did not get elephant pictures as soon as they hoped,
they did get some other rare films. Once they were lucky enough to snap
a herd of zebras, and again a number of wild ostriches were come upon.
The latter were nearly the cause of a tragedy, for, after the pictures
had been taken, one of the porters, not understanding what was going
on, came from where the other blacks had made a temporary camp, and
started across the plain where the big birds were.
A cock ostrich chased him, and as the kick of these birds is as bad as
one from a horse, with the additional danger that the toe-nails can cut
like a knife, the black man was in peril. He started to run, but the
ostrich was speeding after him.
Happy One saw his fellow porter’s danger and called out something in
their queer tongue.
“What is he saying?” asked Blake, while C. C. caught up his gun and
drew a bead on the angry bird.
“He is telling him,” translated the sergeant, “to pick up a piece of
thorn bush, and hold it in front of the bird.”
“What good will that do; charm it?” asked Blake.
“No, but there is a very tender spot in the neck of an ostrich, just
under the head,” said the sergeant, “and it dreads the prick of a thorn
there more than anything else. That’s the only way to protect yourself
from one of the big birds.”
The black man did as directed. As he ran he caught up a long piece of
thorn bush. Turning, he faced the ostrich, and, as he advanced the
thorns toward the bird’s neck, the creature stopped and then began to
“waltz” around the porter, seeking an opening. But the man continually
presented the thorn bush at the creature, and then, getting a good
chance, C. C. shot the big bird.
“Too bad,” said the actor-hunter; “but it had to be done.” Blake and
Joe had filmed the odd scene, and later they took some of the ostrich
feathers as souvenirs, some of the porters adding the plumes to their
already fantastic headdresses.
“I wonder when we will come up to those elephants?” asked Blake a
little later that day, when they were once more on the march.
“The trail is getting fresher,” said C. C. “We ought to be up to them
soon.”
“I’ll have one of the porters climb a tree, and see if he can make them
out,” said the sergeant.
The black man had scarcely reached the top of a tall bamboo standing on
the edge of the broad trail, than he set up a shout.
“What does he say?” demanded Blake.
“He sees the elephants!” cried the sergeant. “Get ready now, boys. The
wind is in our favor, and you may be able to get some pictures of them
feeding.”