LOST ON THE ORINOCO
“Well did you ever see such impudent beggars!” cried Mark, as Frank
reached his side. “If they haven’t gone and taken possession of our
canoe!”
“O Mark, we must get it back somehow!” ejaculated Frank, aghast. “If we
don’t, how will we ever get back to camp?”
“Of course we must get it back. But how to do it I don’t know. Come,
let us run down the stream a bit and try to head them off.”
Frank was willing enough to do anything which might give them back the
canoe and away they started, as close to the bank of the stream as the
jungle permitted.
But the way was dark and uncertain, for the sun was now hanging over
the forest to the westward, and they had not gone far when Frank went
into a boggy hole up to his knees. As he sank his gun went off, the
charge luckily passing upward through the tree branches.
“What’s up?” called Mark, who had gone ahead by a somewhat different
route.
“I’m in a hole! Help me out!”
“I will!”
Mark was soon at his chum’s side and Frank was helped from the hole
without much difficulty. But his going down had disturbed a number of
ugly looking spiders and one of these bit him on the hand before he
could brush the creature away.
“Ough!” cried the boy, for the pain was intense.
“Did it bite you?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad! But come on, or those monkeys and the canoe will be gone.”
For the moment the bite of the spider, though smarting hotly, was
forgotten and side by side they continued along the watercourse until
they reached an inlet. Close to the river this inlet was all of fifty
feet across and they had to make a long detour in order to avoid the
many bog holes with which it was surrounded. All this took time and
when they reached the Orinoco again the canoe with its load of monkeys
was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s gone!” burst out Mark. “I can’t see the canoe anywhere.”
“Perhaps they are already around the bend,” suggested Frank. “Let us
try for a short cut. It’s our only chance.”
As he spoke he kept whipping his hand in the air, showing the pain he
was suffering. Already the skin around the bite was beginning to swell.
“It’s too bad, Frank,” said Mark, sympathetically. “Put some soft mud
on it. I’ve heard that is good for bee and spider bites,” and his chum
did as suggested. This lessened the pain but the swelling steadily
continued.
On they went through the jungle, keeping close together, for here it
was darker than ever. Both thought they knew the course they were
pursuing and that they would regain the stream at a point half a mile
below where they had left it. They made no allowance for the fact that
it is the easiest thing in the world to become completely turned around
in any dense mass of growth where one has to turn this way and that in
order to make progress of any sort. Old hunters are often bothered even
in woods which they think they know thoroughly.
A half mile was covered when both came to a halt in dismay. Instead of
sighting the Orinoco they found before them a cliff of rocks twenty to
thirty feet in height.
“Hullo, we’ve made a mistake!” burst out Mark.
“The river can’t be in this direction,” answered Frank. “We have got
turned around somehow.”
“Well, the river ought to be on our right.”
“So it had. Let us turn in that direction.”
Again they went on, fairly tearing their course through the entangling
vines and over the rough roots of trees, sprawling in all directions.
“I--I can’t go much further,” panted Frank. “I--I’m out of wind.”
“I’m pretty well blown myself,” was the reply. “But we ought to be
close to the river. Shall I go ahead and look?”
“No! no! don’t leave me!”
Frank moved on again, tired as he was, and thus several rods more were
covered.
“Water! The river!” cried Mark, and made a wild dash forward. But alas!
it was not the Orinoco at all, only a long and shallow pool having
apparently no outlet. Around the pool were a big flock of birds of
every color imaginable, but the boys never thought to fire into the
game.
“We are on the wrong tack again!” groaned Mark. “I don’t believe the
river is anywhere near here.”
“Oh, Mark, if that is so, we are lost!”
_Lost!_ It was a horrifying word. Were they really lost in that immense
jungle, perhaps miles away from where they had left their companions?
The face of each whitened and Frank sank down on a tree root in despair.
“Yes, we must be lost!” he murmured. “And if we are, how will we ever
find our way back to camp?”
“We must find our way back--we simply must!” was Mark’s reply. “The
river can’t be so very far off.”
“But the canoe is gone. We won’t get that back. It must be miles from
here by this time,” insisted Frank.
“Well, if it’s gone we’ll have to tramp back, that’s all, Frank. I
know it’s a long way, and not a very inviting way either, but there is
nothing else to do.”
The sun was now setting and the blackness of night began to creep
swiftly over the immense forest. Still further alarmed, they pushed on
until, without warning, Frank fell headlong and lay like a log. Mark
raised him up and saw that the hand which had been bitten by the spider
was swollen to twice its size and that the swelling was beginning to
creep up the arm.
“He is poisoned, that’s all there is to that,” thought Mark. “Perhaps
it will kill him.”
The thought of his chum dying there, on his hands, in that lonely
place, made him frantic. He tore off the handkerchief Frank had placed
on his hand and brushed the soft mud from the bite. He had heard how
poison can sometimes be sucked from a wound and now he set to work
fearlessly, not thinking of himself, but only praying mentally that the
action would restore Frank to consciousness.
The hours of the night to follow were such that Mark, if he lives a
hundred years, will never forget. After sucking the bite thoroughly,
he plastered it with fresh mud and bound it up again. Then, carrying
Frank to the edge of the pool, he lit a camp-fire, to keep off any
wild beasts that might be prowling in the vicinity. He bathed his
chum’s face and raised him up. At first Frank did not respond to
this treatment but at last he opened his eyes and stared around in
bewilderment.
“Frank! Frank! wake up!” cried Mark “Please try to rouse yourself.”
“Wha--what happened to me?” was the uncertain question.
“You fell unconscious, don’t you remember? I guess it was the spider
bite did it. Please rouse up.” And as Frank tried to settle back once
more Mark shook him vigorously.
It was all of two hours before Frank roused up sufficiently to stand on
his feet. His eyes were much swollen and he felt sick at his stomach.
But the poison had now spent its force and from that time on he grew
gradually better. But the swelling of his hand remained for several
days.
The night passed without sleep on Mark’s part, for he was afraid to
leave off watching Frank. To pass the early morning hours, Mark dressed
one of the curassows, covered it with mud, as he had been taught by
Cubara, and placed it in the hot ashes of the fire to bake. By the
time the sun came up the bird was done and to Mark it proved delicious
eating, although Frank declared he could taste nothing on account of
the poison still in his system.
“I’m as weak as a rag,” declared the younger boy. “When I stand up my
legs fairly tremble under me.”
“Then we had better not attempt to do too much to-day,” answered Mark,
trying to speak cheerfully.
“But we must get back to camp, Mark. What will they think of our
absence?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. But getting back will not be so easy. Remember,
we must first locate the river.”
“We ought to be able to do that by the position of the sun.”
“I thought of that. But I’d rather climb up one of these big trees and
take a look around.”
“All right,--if you can get up.” Frank gazed along the trunk of one of
the monsters. “It will be no easy task.”
“The vines will aid me,” answered Mark, and made his preparations to
ascend the tree without further delay.
As Frank had said, it was no easy task, and it was fully quarter of an
hour before Mark was half way to the top of the giant of the jungle.
“Can you see anything?” called up Frank.
“Not yet, but I am getting on a level with the trees around this one,”
was the reply. Mark continued to climb. It was now easier work, for at
the top of the tree the branches were closer together than they were
below.
“Hurrah! the river!” came the cry. “Frank, we are not so far away from
it after all.”
“In what direction?” demanded the younger boy.
“To the northward. We have become badly turned around I can tell you.”
“Do you see anything of the camp?”
“No, that is too far off. But if we can only get to the river bank
we’ll be sure to strike the camp sooner or later,” went on Mark. “I’ll
come down as soon----”
Mark broke off short, as a peculiar noise just below him caught his
ear. Looking down he saw a strange looking creature sitting on a
branch, gazing fiercely at him, a creature covered with black and white
quills and with a scaly tail that wound itself several times around the
branch behind it. The animal was a coendoo, commonly called a South
American porcupine.