Inside China
Biff placed a hand on his friend’s arm. Why, Chuba was trembling! The
realization of Chuba’s fear of the border patrol was startling to Biff.
Chuba showed no such fear in the jungle. He wasn’t afraid of crocodiles,
snakes, or tigers. He respected them as man’s natural enemies.
But now, confronted with the border guard, Chuba was near panic. Biff
thought back to Chuba’s talk about how easy it was to cross the border,
how he said he’d crossed several times. When they were discussing this
dangerous trip, Chuba had practically brushed the guards aside as no
problem. But the fear must have been there, just the same. Chuba was a
good actor. Biff realized just how much courage it must have taken on
Chuba’s part to agree to guide him into China. He gripped the native
boy’s arm in friendship and to reassure him.
“Take it easy, Chuba. We’re all right. But let’s cut back down the trail
and figure out what we can do.” Biff flashed a smile at Chuba and
signaled the direction he meant to take. Chuba followed close on his
heels like a puppy.
After retracing their steps for about one hundred yards down the path,
the boys ducked off the trail and found a hiding place behind a thick
clump of bushes.
For a few moments Biff talked quietly. He talked about Indianapolis, his
home, about the United States. He talked about anything that came into
his head. He wanted to calm Chuba down. “American talk,” he thought,
would do the trick since it was Chuba’s favorite subject. Soon a weak
smile came over Chuba’s face. “I’m sorry, Biff,” he apologized. “I’m
sorry I act like chicken.”
“That’s okay, Chuba. I’d have been scared, too, if I knew as much about
the border guard as you do.”
“I hear many things. All bad.”
“Tell me honestly, Chuba. You said you’ve crossed over several times.
Have you, really?”
“Yes, Biff. Chuba not lie. Only,” he paused, “never any border guard
around when Chuba slip over before.”
“I see. Well, what do we do about it? You think the guard will stay
there all day?”
“Can’t tell. Much likely they will stay long time.”
“I suppose so,” Biff said. He thought a minute. “It might be that
there’s been a lot of slipping across the border here lately, and these
guards have been assigned to stop it.”
“I think you right, Biff.”
Neither spoke for several minutes. Both were trying to figure a way out
of the spot they found themselves in.
“How about this, Chuba? Couldn’t we either go up the river a couple
hundred yards or more, or down the river and slip across?”
Chuba shook his head. “No, Biff. River narrow, run very quick on both
sides of the clearing. Too deep. Jungle grow real thick and fierce right
to water’s edge. Can’t get through.”
“Well, we’ve just got to get across somehow. We’re losing time.” As Biff
spoke, another thought was building in his head.
“Now let me ask you this, Chuba. See if you think this plan might work.
Supposing I cut off the trail about a hundred feet from the clearing.
I’ll make my way through the underbrush to a spot say seventy-five feet
away from the trail. You go hide behind that tree where we first spotted
the guard. You follow me?”
“Okay so far.”
“Right. Then I’ll yell like a Comanche. That ought to distract the
guard. They’ll try to find who’s making the noise. If they leave the
clearing, you can slip across the river.”
“Good idea, Biff. But how about you? How you going to get across?”
“Same way. Only this time _you_ do the distracting. You yell like a
Comanche.”
Chuba grinned. “Could work. But how does Comanche bird yell?”
Biff decided to postpone his lecture on TV westerns until another time.
“Don’t worry about it. Just yell like I do. We’ve got to try it. It’s
our only chance. Now, if you get across all right, wait. Wait a good
long time. By then, the guards will probably give up the search and
return to their post in the clearing. I don’t imagine they like prowling
around the jungle too much.”
“No, too many wild animals.”
“Okay. So, you’d better make your way a good distance from the clearing.
Say you go to a place about a hundred yards opposite the
river—downriver—so I’ll know where to listen for you. You’re going to be
on the same side as the guards, so be sure you’re in a safe place and
can make a fast getaway if they should come anywhere near you.”
“Don’t worry about that. Chuba can hide good in jungle.”
“All right, let’s get moving.” But neither moved for a few minutes. Both
boys were reluctant to part company. They knew the danger lying before
them. They might never see one another again, if Biff’s plan failed.
“Now, where will we meet?” Biff asked.
“You just keep running down path after you cross river. Get as far as
you can. Then find good hiding place. When I know guard has gone back to
clearing, I’ll move along trail making sound like a crow. Like this.”
Chuba let out a soft “caw, caw.” It was an exact imitation. Chuba
wouldn’t have any trouble being a “Comanche bird,” either, Biff thought.
“Good. I’m off.” Biff pushed his way into the underbrush. It was tough
going. The low, dense vegetation tore at him. Vines dropped like heavy
curtains from the tall trees hiding whatever lay ahead. It was steaming
hot. Biff wrestled the jungle growth, sweat streaming down his face and
body. It must have taken him nearly half an hour to penetrate a distance
of about 75 or 100 feet.
Chuba could hear Biff making his way through the brush. At first, he
didn’t move. He knew he had to go back to the clearing, but the thought
was frightening. It took all his courage to force himself back up the
path. But he knew that if he didn’t, he would let his friend down.
Biff’s plan depended on Chuba’s being at the clearing at the right
moment. Yet, if the plan misfired—Chuba shuddered.
Back at the edge of the clearing, Chuba crawled on his stomach to where
the low growth stopped. Carefully he parted the bush he lay behind. The
peephole allowed him a full view of the clearing.
They were still there. The two guards squatted on their haunches. One
was munching some food. The other braced himself by holding onto the
barrel of his sub-machine gun, the gun’s butt resting on the ground.
Chuba inched backward. He took up his position behind the tree. Biff’s
yelling could come any moment now. What would the guards do? Would they
come charging across the stream to do their searching? Chuba didn’t
think so. If they did, then they would be crossing the border illegally,
although Chuba knew that often the guards paid scant attention to this
regulation.
What if only one guard took up the search, the other remaining behind to
guard the clearing? One good thing, Chuba knew, was that from the
direction Biff had taken, it might appear that the yelling came from the
same side of the river that the guards were on. There was a sharp turn
in the stream about thirty feet to the west of the clearing. If Biff
made his way toward the riverbank, he might actually be behind the
guards, but still on the side opposite from them.
“Eeeeee-owieeeee!”
The sharp, piercing scream rose above the constant chattering of the
monkeys, the shrill calls of jungle birds. For a moment, the jungle
became silent. The monkeys and birds were as startled as the two guards.
So _that_ was American bird yell! “Much wow!” Chuba was impressed.
Chuba, moving slightly forward, saw the guards leap to their feet. They
looked about them quickly. Both released the safety catches on their
weapons. They raised their guns to firing position.
“Eeeee-owieeeee!” Again the wild cry blasted through the jungle.
The guards turned in the direction the cry came from.
“Yow! Yow! Yow! Yow!”
The series of short cries came in rapid succession.
The jungle had never heard a sound like it. It could only come from a
human being. One of the guards motioned in the direction of the cries.
Then he started toward the spot. The other guard held back, until his
companion turned and spoke to him in an angry voice. The two plunged
into the undergrowth.
Now was his chance. With his heart pounding, fear tightening his throat
muscles, Chuba made his dash. He was in mid-stream when once more Biff
let out a series of short cries, followed by a long “Eeeee-owieeee!”
A good thing he did, too. His shouting drowned out the splashes made by
Chuba as he raced through the water which tugged at his legs. Now Chuba
had reached the opposite shore. He tore down the trail, his lungs
bursting from his effort.
When he felt the guards were well behind him, Chuba cut off to the left
of the trail, spotted a hiding place, and dived under the sprawling
bush. He lay there gasping for breath.
How long he lay there, Chuba had no way of telling. Finally, he forced
himself to his feet. Biff might already be at the tree, waiting for
Chuba to take over his part in the action.
Chuba moved along the path back toward the river. He moved cautiously,
silently, making no more noise than a big cat stalking its prey. When he
neared the clearing, Chuba went down to his hands and knees. Taking
advantage of the cover offered by the low bushes, he crept forward.
Again carefully parting a heavy bush, he looked into the clearing.
The guards had returned. They were talking rapidly to one another. Chuba
couldn’t make out their words, but he felt sure they were talking about
the strange cry they had heard. They were probably frightened by it, and
at this thought, Chuba smiled. He felt a lot better now. He had made it
over the border. But even as he had this thought, he remembered Biff.
Biff had to get across. Only half the job was done.
Biff would surely be back at the tree by now. Time for more action. A
frown of doubt crossed Chuba’s face. Would the guard be fooled a second
time?
Chuba went ahead with the plan. He walked back up the trail for one
hundred paces. Then he slithered into the underbrush, crawling, forcing
his way through the wall of thick, spiny growth.
If he, Chuba, made the same kind of noise Biff had made, wouldn’t the
guards’ suspicions be aroused? Already they would be tense, nervous.
They hadn’t found anything the first time. Wouldn’t they just ignore a
second set of strange “Yows” and “Eeeee-owieeees?” Chuba felt sure they
would. So what could he do? He just had to help Biff cross. Okay, he
knew what he would do. He could outsmart the guard in the denseness of
the jungle. They would never be able to catch him.
Chuba reached a position he thought would do. It was near the spot he
and Biff had discussed, as far as he could figure. He took a deep
breath, then, shouting in Chinese, he called out, “Help! Help! Strange
man here! Strange man! Help! Help!”
He waited. Moments passed. He repeated his call for help. Seconds later,
he heard the crashing of the guards as they fought through the
underbrush.
Chuba waited no longer. He got himself away from the spot where he had
called out as fast as he could wriggle his body along. He knew he had
made a safe getaway when he could no longer hear the guards struggling
against the brush. Chuba smiled to himself. He knew he was only about
fifty feet from the trail. He sat down. He would wait, a long wait this
time, to make sure the guard had gotten back to the clearing, and that
Biff had had plenty of time to put a good distance between himself and
the river.
Chuba leaned back against the base of a tree. He felt good about the way
things had gone.
Suddenly, the noises of the jungle were drowned out by the most horrible
noise of all—the angry, “_bup_, _bup_, _bup_” of a sub-machine gun’s
fire. First there was a short burst. Another short burst. This was
followed by a longer burst as several rounds were fired. Then, silence.