curator crawled slowly up the slope. Another arrow came singing out of
the jungle and sailed close over their heads. With a curse of rage,
he turned and shelled the spot with his air gun. A crackle of fire
followed the detonation. The dry thicket seemed to leap into red flame,
set afire by the shell, and clouds of white smoke swept up the slope
after them. Meanwhile a heavy sputtering of pistol shots came from over
the crater brim. Acting on a sudden impulse, the curator bore off to
the east and dropped Sadok behind some bowlders near the rim of the
precipice. Then he crawled down carefully from rock to rock, looking
up anxiously over his shoulder at the summit, for they were evidently
hard pressed up there. The yawning abyss fell away below him as he came
to the edge and looked over. Below was the green jungle of no-man’s
land, the vegetation creeping up the lava talus part way, where it was
finally stopped by lack of moisture and soil. From the brink to the
nearest point below was at least a hundred feet of sheer fall, and from
there on down the slope was the limit angle of repose. Without a long
rope there was no escape that way.
“Well,” said the curator to himself, after an examination, “of the two
impossibilities, we’ll have to give up Red Mountain and try this! Eight
miles through pygmy land, with them buzzing like hornets about us--good
Lord!” he groaned. “Our report will have to go as it stands.”
A yell came from Dwight, up in the crater.
“Where are you, Mr. Baldwin?” it called. “We stood ’em off! Close call!
Hurry up! they’re getting ready for another rush.”
“Bring everything and come on down here!” he yelled back. “Now’s your
chance.”
Presently Dwight, Nicky, and Baderoon came creeping over the brink
on the north side. They slid down the slope on their backs and flung
themselves among the first large bowlders. The jungle to the north was
now a crackling mass of fire, driven on by the west monsoon, while a
fog of smoke covered that side. Behind it lay the pygmies, unable to
pass, and they were safe for the present from that quarter. But how
soon a rush would be made from the west and south they could not tell.
The curator crept back and brought Sadok from where he lay hidden in
the bowlders. Bandaging the gash on his right shoulder as swiftly as
he could, he got their party together on the precipice brink and each
man contributed whatever he had that would go toward making a rope. The
boys’ two tent ropes, the curator’s hammock rope, and Sadok’s turban
cloth were knotted together hastily. Then came the curator’s hammock
and the two tent flies. Tying the upper end to a gnarly ironwood bush
that grew near the brink, they let it all down over the cliff, where
the lower end dangled far below, still some twenty feet above the slope.
“Won’t do!” said the curator, grimly, hauling it up again. “A man’s got
to land there on his feet or he’ll never escape pitching on down that
steep slope. Quick, now, all your belts, boys!” They were added on and
the rope lowered again. Shouts and yells came from the summit. At least
forty of the little men were up there, singing and dancing with victory
around the crater.
“Well, I’m off!” said Nicky, who was the most fearless climber of them
all. He shook hands abruptly and swung over the brink.
X
CINNABAR MOUNTAIN
A chorus of shouts arose from the pygmies as they discovered the
little knot of whites clustered on the precipice brink. Brandishing
their weapons, they climbed on down, shooting as they ran. The
curator stopped them with a shell that shook the mountain side like
an earthquake and sent a shower of stones rolling down upon their own
position. A yell came up from below. Nicky had arrived on the slope
and was stamping a shelf in the lava stones, sending showers of them
rolling on down below him. Dwight grabbed the rope and went down after
him, leaving his automatic with the curator. The hill men were now
sneaking down toward them, exposing themselves only occasionally to the
sumpitan and pistol.
“Good-by, _Orang-kaya_!” said Baderoon, fumbling next at the rope.
“Me prenty ’fraid--but me go!” He swung himself over and dropped down
swiftly.
“You next, Sadok. Can you manage it?” said the curator, anxiously. The
Dyak smiled grimly; wounds, weakness, physical disability, were nothing
when the spirit commanded. His fearless face showed that his mind could
overrule the frailties of his body.
“Me do!” he grunted, and down over the cliff he went, his wounded right
arm forced to do its part. The curator turned and faced the pygmies.
“Fine little men!” he grinned. “Some day you will be swept away like
chaff--but here’s one explorer who can appreciate you! Good-by!”
He swung over and dropped down the rope, hand over hand. The men of
that old, old race, centuries before the first Papuan came to these
shores, were still in his mind as he descended. He regretted that he
could not have lived with them peacefully and studied their natures
more thoroughly. The ancient civilization of the hunting tribes was
theirs, and with it a mental quality that had kept them inviolate among
their hills in spite of a ring of hostile Papuan savages below them,
far superior in stature and numbers to all their tribes put together.
Like most of the real aborigines of the world, they would well repay
study.
When he arrived at the foot of the rope the rest of the party had
tramped quite a trail along the foot of the cliff. Stones that now
showered over from above told them that it was essential to get to the
jungle as quickly as possible, and the shortest way was obviously along
the cliff base and over the turn of the volcanic cone poured down here
by former eruptions.
But Nicky looked back at the rope, longingly. He hated to leave all
that good equipment behind. The rope part they could dispense with, but
without the curator’s hammock and their own tent flies the jungle would
be a misery during the afternoon thunderstorms.
“Hike along, boys. I’m going to make a try at that rope before they
find it and haul it up!”
Unmindful of the curator’s expostulations, amid the rain of falling
stones, he crouched close to the cliff face and drew out his revolver.
Most of the stones were dropping far out; it would be a mere chance
if he were hit. Three times he fired at the knot above the curator’s
hammock, a mark perhaps forty feet off. Then an arrow struck the
rock at his feet with a sharp tang, and, looking up, he saw one of
the pygmies leaning far out over the cliff, aiming at him again. The
rope had shaken a little at one of the shots and on this faint hope he
sprang for the tent fly and tugged fiercely at it. He thought he felt a
strand or two of it break and so jumped up on the tent fly, coming down
with all his weight. Another arrow spun past him. He realized that it
was only the peculiarity of having a vertical target that saved him,
for the archer above was overshooting him because of it. With a last
violent tug the rope strand parted, and Nicky sprawled headlong down
the lava slope. Like a cat he spread-eagled, flattening himself out on
the rubble of small stones, and finally he fetched up a considerable
distance down the slope.
He was now a mark for a dozen arrows from above and they buzzed at him
like hornets. Rising, he leaped on down, stabbing with his feet and
sending an avalanche of rocks on before him. His strides kept getting
longer and longer. A breathless feeling of getting out of control,
falling down the slope faster and faster, made him think quick. He must
stop himself at any hazard, risk a fall, if need be! He resolved on
the latter, and, throwing himself sidewise, came down with a bump that
jarred every bone in his body. He saw stars for an instant, but held
his consciousness. Looking back, he could see that he was far out of
range now. Rubbing himself painfully, he got up and started to step
gingerly from rock to rock across the slope.
But the hill men weren’t done with him yet. A great stone fell over the
cliff and came bounding down straight toward him. Nicky dodged it, as
derisive yells came from up above. Two more rocks came whizzing down
the slope, bounding like cannon balls. They seemed very terrific, but
the boy stood his ground and watched them pass, shooting in a great arc
high overhead and landing with a shock against the trees down in the
jungle below. He realized that he was not so easy to hit; that all it
required was watchfulness and care to win out.
The slope was so steep that he could toss a pebble clear down to the
jungle below him, it seemed. Rocks, cactus, and century plants covered
the hill, the former so unstable that they had to be tested before
putting weight on them. As quickly as he could the boy picked his way
along the slope, dodging rocks of all sizes flung down from above.
Shouts of encouragement came from his own party under the cliff, who
now were moving along fast, calling for him to hurry. Then a yell of
warning echoed down from the curator, and Nicky looked up, bewildered.
The hill men had brought a pole from the jungle and were prying off a
whole ledge of stones hanging loosely poised above the cliff edge.
He leaped along like a mountain goat, stumbling and sliding, starting
rocks by the dozen. The pygmies had chosen a place where the avalanche
would fall right across his path, and he could hear the distant grumble
of it as he jumped. Desperately his eyes looked below for a refuge, and
then he dove for a huge bowlder and fell flat behind it as the roar, it
seemed, of the whole slope coming down upon him sounded in his ears.
Determined to die game, he rose behind his rock as the noise swept down
toward him, for he was more afraid that his own rock would start and
crush him than anything else, and had determined to leap out at the
first sign of its going.
Then came the roar of hurtling stones passing over him in a flying
cloud of dust. The thunder of it was appalling. His own rock moved
with the jar, slightly, and then settled back on its foundations again
as Nicky recalled the impulse to jump clear. Then came a wave of fine
pebbles and dust, curling around the ends of his rock and forming a
sort of pit around him. Showers of small stones cascaded over the top
and fell down on him like a rain. It gave him an idea. As the landslide
subsided he crouched, hidden behind the rock. Anxious calls came from
under the cliff, but Nicky lay hid. Why not pretend that the avalanche
had buried him? He only hoped that the curator or Dwight would not
attempt to come out and rescue him.
The silence up on the cliff was broken by exulting yells, and he could
hear them stringing along now above the precipice, searching for the
whereabouts of the curator’s party below. If they would only keep on
without him!
Another “_Coo-eee!_” came from under the cliff. “_Nicky! Are you alive,
old scout?_” came the yell of Dwight’s voice.
He dared not call back. The hill men were too keen, and not easily
fooled. He lay quiet, listening. Presently the crackle of falling
stones and more yells and cries along the cliff told that their party
had been located. They were probably retreating along under the cliff
as fast as possible. Nicky turned and crept down the slope on his
stomach, looking back to see that the rock still hid him from sight
of the cliff top above. Then he worked over behind a small bush and
peered up through it. Whether there were hill men watching the slope,
concealed among the rocks above, he could not tell, but there probably
were. The whole north side of the volcano was smoking with the jungle
fire and it crept down until the thickets on the verge of the precipice
were red with burning trees. He noted with relief that it barred the
passage of their pursuers that way, or at least it necessitated a
detour, and he hoped that their party had gotten away.
Whether to risk exposing himself now was the question. He was alone in
the heart of wildest New Guinea, and it was necessary to rejoin their
party and make a speed back toward the boat, for undoubtedly the hill
men knew of a defile down the precipice somewhere which would let them
out into no-man’s land. Also thunderheads were sweeping up from the
south, and it would not be an hour before the afternoon storm would be
due.
Well, one thing was certain, he ought to let his people know that
he was still alive before they got out of hearing. Nicky drew his
revolver and fired two shots quick with it. A whoop came from up on
the mountain. They were watching the slope still! Then two shots from
Dwight’s automatic barked, muffled, from over the shoulder of the cone.
It sounded as if from the jungle. They would either wait for him there
or circle, the boy reasoned. Probably the latter, and he could rejoin
them down below at the foot of the slope. And now was the time to run,
for he could hear the hill men above calling for their companions and
presently the whole tribe would be back.
Nicky rose and jumped down the slope. He got a glimpse over his
shoulder of two tiny black fellows dancing and hurling rocks
impotently, and then gave all his attention to getting down, for the
slide was steeper than a log chute. Swiftly the jungle seemed to rise
up to meet him, and with a final bound he reached the friendly shelter
of the trees and darted out of sight.
Then, for the first time, his aching, bruised leg forced itself into
consciousness and he began to limp. Directing shots between him and
Dwight gave them his location, and then calls and shouts brought them
together.
Dwight came running through the jungle, grinning with joy.
“Gee! old man, we’d given you up for lost!” he yelled, capering about
and punching Nicky with delight. “Got all the plunder with you, too,
haven’t you!”
“Sure!” gurgled Nicky, happily. “That’s what this war’s all about!
Where’s Mr. Baldwin?”
“Back there a bit, waiting for us,” said Dwight. “We got to make time.
Forced march all night.”
“Going to be a wet one, too!” retorted Nicky, limping along as a mutter
of thunder came rolling up from the south. “We’d better keep the tent
flies out.”
They rejoined the curator, who noticed the game leg as soon as Nicky
came up. “Tough luck, kid!” he said, after congratulations had been
exchanged. “I’ll have to ask you to grin and bear it as best you can,
for we’ve got our work cut out for us to-night!” He drew his compass,
took a bearing--and started _south_, through the jungle!
A general grunt of amazement ran through the party. “Why, Mr. Baldwin,
I thought we were to hurry north, so as to get back to the canoe ahead
of them!” cried Dwight, voicing the feeling of them all.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” replied the curator, heading on steadily through
the thickets just below the base of the volcanic talus. “It’s a bit of
psychology that I’ve been working out. In the first place the pygmies,
I’m sure, think as you all thought. They judged by our actions that we
were beaten and would think of nothing but hurrying back to the sea
again. They will make forced marches, to-night, to head us off, I’ll
bet! And then we must reckon on the human nature of our own folks, too.
‘Seeing is believing’ is one of the truest old sayings there are. In
other words, we’ve simply _got_ to bring back some real specimens of
that cinnabar and be able to swear where we got it. No financier that I
know will back a company to open up mines on the mere say-so of a red
mountain seen eight miles off. I know red mercury ore strata as far as
I can see it--but I _might_ be mistaken. Suppose it should turn out to
be just red clay, or red iron ore!”
“Gosh, sir! you’re right!” put in Nicky. “I sort of felt that way
myself, but I suppose I did not feel it hard enough to really do a
stunt like this!”
“Sure!” smiled the curator. “It’s the difference between a youth and
a man, Nick. The youth gets the vague feeling, but he’s as like as
not to do nothing about it; the man reasons until he is convinced by
the force of logic--then he acts. Now I was studying the wall of the
Great Precipice when we were on the brink doing the rope fire-escape
trick, with just this idea in mind. There are gaps in this precipice
all along it, where the rivers tumble down from the hill country to the
low jungle on their way to the sea. I marked one, some distance beyond
that first signal fire to the south. It can’t be more than five miles
from there in to Cinnabar Mountain, and the gap’s about five miles from
here. Can we do ten miles to-night? That’s the question.”
“How about getting past that village?” asked Dwight.
“That’s the nice thing about my scheme,” laughed the curator. “I figure
that all their fighting men have gone north, long ago, to aid the men
of our village in repelling invaders. Those signal fires are evidently
used to call the clans when war parties of the Outanatas attack them.
The women and children, and perhaps a few old men, will be all that we
are likely to encounter, and we ought to slip by them successfully in
the night.”
“Won’t they come down our rope and track us, sir?” said Nicky. “I’ve
been worrying about that, although no one tried it while I was on that
slope.”
“You answered that with your revolver, Nick!” chuckled the curator.
“No man can drop forty feet to that talus and live. Of course they may
bring up more ropes, in time, but my idea is that all that’s left of
them, with perhaps a party of fighting men from this village ahead, are
now hot-footing it for some pass that they know of to the north. We’ll
be on Red Mountain and giving them the laugh while they are looking for
us up near the lagoon--and let’s hope they fall in with a war party of
the Outanatas while they are about it! Here comes the rain, men,” he
broke off. “We’ll make camp and cook something and get a bit of sleep
until the moon comes up.”
They chose a spot well hidden in the jungle and the tent flies were
spread on poles. A monumental feed was cooked, between Nicky’s alcohol
burner and a small fire well hidden in the rocks under the tents,
while the rain came down in its usual torrential downpour. Then they
all turned in for some much-needed sleep. By nine o’clock the rain had
stopped and a faint light over the jungle promised moonlight through
the thinning clouds. The party was roused out and they broke camp,
Nicky and Sadok, who were stiff and sore, being rubbed down with arnica
by the curator before setting out. With the tent flies wrapped around
them, the three whites set out through the wet jungle, with Sadok and
Baderoon, whose naked skins seemed to revel in the raindrops, leading
on ahead.
In an hour they had reached the banks of a small, swift stream, the
headwaters of some river that emptied into the sea fifty miles away.
Alligators, water snakes, and giant frogs plopped into its eddying
depths as they came up. The splash and gurgle of waterfalls came from
up the slope. Pushing along carefully, on the lookout for pythons and
snakes of lesser degree, they climbed up along its banks. Steeper and
more rocky became the gorge through which it defiled. Then rocky ledges
of black basalt hemmed them in on both sides, and out of the gap
cascaded a foaming waterfall.
In the weird moonlight, with the black shadows almost solid to the
touch, it seemed to Nicky and Dwight that that was the most perilous
climb they had ever ventured upon. Baderoon was quaking with fear and
hanging back reluctantly, for he was no hill man, but the curator
and the intrepid Sadok led on upward, pioneering out the way and
hauling them up the steeper ledges by a tent fly let down for a rope.
Higher and higher they climbed, the jungle falling away below almost
vertically, while towering above them rose the walls of the gorge for
thousands of feet. It seemed good to be at last buried deep in the
cleft, with visions of the awful fate that would befall them below, if
any slipped, hid mercifully from sight.
The stream came down in a series of cascades, varied by steep stretches
where it sluiced along through deep channels in the rock. At one place
they came to a veritable waterwheel where the whole torrent raced down
a slope into a shallow basin scooped out of the solid basalt, and it
shot up in a roaring pinwheel of water through which not even Sadok’s
sumpitan could be driven.
Above it the walls of the gorge closed in to a narrow cleft, with high,
vertical sides. There was no getting past, on either side!
“Case of swim!” ejaculated the curator, as they all stopped and looked
in at the deep pool filling the cleft from wall to wall like a black
ribbon. “Get out your flashers, boys. There’s one grain of comfort in
it, anyway--no one would ever dream that we’d come up this way!”
They undressed and did up the bundles in the tent flies.
“Glory be to Mike, there are no anacondas in New Guinea!” shivered
Nicky, looking at the black pool and thinking of former Guiana jungle
days.
Still, it took courage to negotiate that pool! They scanned every
inch of the wall for snakes and then plunged in, close together for
mutual protection, the flashlights tied atop the boys’ heads with their
bandannas, and the packs strapped on their shoulders. It seemed that
that pool would never end! Its narrow ribbon of still water wound on
and on through the cleft, with here and there a ledge or a rock shelf
over which the water tumbled in a silent spillway, and where they could
get out and rest. From ahead came, louder and louder, the roar of a
waterfall. The curator listened uneasily. Such a cascade would be a
catastrophe, for, if there was no way around it, by no possibility
could they get up farther.
They hurried on eagerly, now, anxious to learn their fate, fear of
some unknown thing seizing them from under water forgotten. A final
pool showed up in the glare of the flashlights. The curator heaved a
huge sigh of relief, for the head of the pool was a foaming suds of
eddying water into which the stream of the cascade tumbled from above,
and--blessed sight!--sticking up out of it was a huge tree, jammed in
there by some freshet, its upper end jutting out into the stars which
shone through the opening of the cleft!
“Praise be!” ejaculated the curator, plunging in. “Come here, tree--I
love you!”
They all swam over, and one by one crept up the log. A low hail from
the curator, and the hissed caution, “Lights out!” told them that
he had arrived safely in the ravine above. They found him already
dressing. They were in a steep, rocky ravine, filled with jungle
growth, and out of the bare rocks at last. Hastily the boys dressed
and made up their packs again. Sadok and Baderoon had merely to shake
themselves and they were ready for further adventures.
“All aboard--and no talking!” whispered the curator, as they pushed on
up the ravine. For a mile it climbed steeply, and then Sadok halted and
pointed silently into the jungle. A well-defined path came down to the
brook here; and there were empty gourds and crude pottery jars on the
bank.
“We are opposite the second village,” whispered the curator. “Step
lightly, fellows, and be careful not to break a stick. We’ll bear off
to the left, to high ground.”
They went on noiselessly, following the general windings of the creek
in the bright moonlight. After another mile of it the curator halted.
“I’ve a hunch that Red Mountain is somewhere near us by now,” he
muttered, cautiously. “Nicky, you’re the best climber. Swarm up that
pandanus, as high as you can get, and take a look-see.”