_A Condensed Novel_
_By_ JULIAN KILMAN
When Ericson quietly toppled over and the paddle slipped from his grasp,
our canoe was instantly broadside in the rapids. But Zangaree immediately
brought the heavily-laden craft head on, his skill once more saving our
slender expedition from the disaster that had trailed us so persistently
since leaving the large steamer at Itacoatiara.
A faint shout from the second canoe sounded through the din of racing
water. Evidently Van Dusee and Hardy had observed our mishap. I waved
a hand in reply, and then I bent over Ericson who lay with his eyes
rolling. Instead of sunstroke, as I had assumed, he had been wounded; a
thin stream of blood ran from his temple. Zangaree whirled the canoe to
the small islet we were just passing. But we were too late. Ericson was
dead.
The shock of our fellow-voyageur’s death was still on me as, amid the
amazing splendor of that tropical scene, we made preparations to dispose
of the body. Much later in the night, when all were sleeping, I felt a
tug at my mosquito netting, and in the dim starlight I made out Hardy’s
pioneer head, with its square-jawed face, peering at me.
He motioned me to follow him quietly. Wonderingly, I made my way after
this soldier of fortune, who, by the sheerest good luck, we had picked up
in the Brazilian capital. Presently he stopped.
“Do you wish to continue your journey?” he asked.
Despite Ericson’s death, I could not think otherwise; already we had come
four thousand miles, of which the last fifteen hundred had brought us
into the very interior of the South American continent. Too much capital
and energy had been expended for us lightly to abandon our project. And I
said so.
“You misunderstand,” he returned quickly. “It is not Ericson’s finish
that made me ask, _but the manner of it_!”
The thin edge of doubt as to Hardy’s fortitude perhaps began to insert
itself into my mind. He observed it.
“Damn it, man!” he exclaimed. “I am game. But you are to know that from
now on we’ll have to buck not only the elements, but that toad-faced _de_
Silva as well.”
At mention of the Spaniard who had tricked and nearly outmaneuvered us at
Rio de Janiero with the officials, something like a chill came over me.
“What brings him into this?” I demanded.
Hardy’s answer was dramatic enough.
“Only this,” he said. “It is a little thing. But it killed Ericson.”
I gazed at the slender blow-pipe arrow in Hardy’s hand. It had done for
our archaeologist.
“That type of arrow is unknown hereabouts,” went on Hardy. “It is
poisoned and is used by the Amajuca Indians six hundred miles back on the
Amazon. It means that we are being followed.”
The camp fire was dying out when Hardy and I returned from our talk,
both of us determined to make the additional four hundred miles that we
estimated lay between us and the point we planned to reach—and to gain
it by land if the water route on the gradually diminishing stream was to
afford our enemies too easy an opportunity to decimate us.
I stood there, surveying the sleeping figures of my comrades: Van Dusee,
the true scientist, whose interest in his beloved hemiptera seemed to
render him impervious to the sting of insect pests and the pains and
dangers of our journey; young Anderson, son of the president of our
Institute; Zangaree, sleeping in his giant strength like a child.
And Ericson! A lump came into my throat at the thought of the gallant
fellow who had so suddenly come to an end. Had I known then what was in
store for the surviving members of our little band, surely I would have
cried aloud, for all told, counting the mighty Zangaree, the half-breeds
and Indians, we numbered only ten men.
By the time the morning sun was flooding the ravine with light, we were
all astir. Caching much of our supplies, we ferried to the right-hand
bank of the stream farther down. Here, with no sign of the enemy we
secreted our canoes in the bushes, and, distributing among ourselves
ammunition, food, a light silk tent, blankets and scientific impedimenta,
we shouldered our packs and started on the long hike inland.
For two days we made slow progress, because of the luxuriance of the
undergrowth; but in time this gave way to vast primeval woods. Never
shall I forget the solemn mystery of it! Trees rivaling in size the
gigantic redwoods of California raised themselves to enormous height,
where their tremendous columns spread out in Gothic curves, which
interlaced to form a great matted roof of green—architecture of the
Greatest of All Architects!
As we walked noiselessly but hurriedly under the lash of Hardy’s
impatience amid the thick carpet of decaying vegetation, we were hushed
in spite of ourselves. Vivid orchids and marvelously-colored lichens
smouldered upon the swarthy tree trunks. Climbing plants, monstrous and
riotous in verdure, fought their way upward, seeking futilely at once to
throttle tree-life and to reach the sunlight.
Of animal life there was little movement amid the majestic vaulted aisles
which stretched from us as we pursued our way; but the slight though
constant agitation far above us told of that multitudinous world of snake
and monkey, bird and sloth, which lived in the sunshine and regarded with
wonder our puny stumbling figures in the depths below. At dawn the howler
monkeys and parrakeets filled the air with shrill chatter; and in the hot
hours came the drone of insects.
As yet there had been no indication that any one was following us.
Indeed, we seemed to be untold miles from civilization and I was
commenting to young Anderson on the likelihood of our escape from the
pursuit of _de_ Silva when I caught a look in Hardy’s eyes.
“Oh, pshaw!” I exclaimed later, slightly nettled. “You are pessimistic,
Hardy. Had _de_ Silva been after us we should surely have heard from him
before this.”
“No. That isn’t so,” retorted Hardy. “Our leaving the river has deceived
him. I am satisfied that he planned an ambush farther along the stream.
In a short time he’ll discover we have given him the slip. Then he’ll be
after us.”
“And just why, Hardy,” I demanded, “is this insane Spaniard following us?”
Hardy’s expression was quizzical.
“I have a sort of hunch—that’s all,” he returned, non-committally.
The next day one of our Indians was missing. He had been sent back over
the trail a mile or so to recover a small rifle that had been lost. Hardy
himself and young Anderson made the tiresome hike to the rear to learn if
possible the whereabouts of the Indian. Later, when the two rejoined us
without the Indian, Hardy did not have anything to say.
Anderson told me afterwards that they had found the Indian curled up at
the foot of a tree. He was dead without a mark on him.
Depressing as was this development, our little party found scant time
to discuss it. The way had grown much more difficult, for our road
persistently ascended. Huge trees now gave place to palms, with thick
underbrush growing between. We traveled entirely by compass, but missed
Ericson, who had been a navigator and had from time to time “shot the
sun” to verify our position.
On the fifth day we encountered a tremendous wilderness of bamboo, which
grew so thickly that we could only penetrate it by cutting a pathway with
the machetes and bill-hooks of the Indians. It took us a long day, with
only two pauses of a half hour each to get clear of this yellow-walled
obstacle.
Once free of it, we were glad to throw ourselves down for the first real
rest which Hardy was willing that we should take. But it proved to be of
short duration, because Anderson, eternally on the move, discovered, less
than half a mile away, that another path recently had been cut through
the bamboo nearly paralleling ours.
That night we slept behind some slight attempt at a barricade. This
protection, consisting of a circle of thorn brush piled three feet high,
at least sufficed to keep out a few wailing animals that filled the air
with weird noises, and most of us rested the night through without fear.
Next morning I discovered the presence of a soil that was like sand. This
was consistent with the dryness of the air, but was disconcerting as I
knew that the terrain and climate of the spot whither we were bound was
of no such character as that which surrounded us.
It was about this time that young Anderson made a second startling
discovery, and one fraught with momentous consequences for our
expedition. Our compass was out of order. This defection was serious in
the extreme. It meant that we were lost, for there was no knowing how
long the instrument had been untrue.
The day went badly. The farther we progressed the more sandy it became.
We seemed about to enter upon a great desert, and to make matters worse
our Indians showed signs of discontent. Our supply of water was low;
still we knew that only a day’s march behind us we had passed a stream
of clear water. Study of the maps that night failed to account for any
considerable expanse of desert, and it was decided to push boldly across
on the chance of later picking up our route.
We waited two days while Zangaree and the half-breeds made the trip
back for additional water. Then we started. If our suffering in the
past had been great, it now increased a hundredfold. The heat, instead
of having that suffocating quality peculiar to humidity, was burning in
its intensity; and, to add to our discomfort, Hardy kept us going at top
speed.
In this the rest of us felt he was justified, as there could be no doubt
that _de_ Silva, with a larger party than ours, was in the general
neighborhood, and looking for us. Hour after hour, until four days
dragged by, we trudged on late into the night, with the aid of an erratic
compass, through that Sahara-like sea of rippling sand.
By the severest rationing of our supply it was estimated that we had less
than one day’s water. Our situation was serious. To go back was as deadly
as to go on.
And it was at this point that our spirits were sent to low ebb by
Zangaree’s astounding discovery that we had doubled in our tracks in the
night and for two days _had been traveling in a circle_!
_II._
I think even young Anderson, for the time being, lost heart at sight
of that bit of inanimate evidence—a trifle of card board that had been
tossed aside—which drove home the knowledge that we were hopelessly lost.
But not for long was that restless youth depressed, and while Hardy and
the rest of us sat in solemn council that evening, he wandered off by
himself. Perhaps he had been gone half an hour when we heard him shout:
“_Water!_”
We ran toward him, and presently came to what might be called a minute
oasis. Quickly a spade was brought and work was started at the damp spot
located in the center.
In the meantime I studied the environs. A few scrubby bushes grew about,
while at one side stood a low triangular column of stones. I discovered
that each stone had cut in it a series of cuneiform inscriptions which
even the untold years of contact with the eroding sand had failed to
eradicate.
Quite idly I had laid my arm on the top when a curious thing happened;
half of the upper stone, under the slight weight of my elbow, swung down
silently, as if on a ballasted hinge. Then I stared into the interior of
the column, which I had supposed solid, and saw, to my amazement, that a
narrow stairway led down.
It was the work of only a moment for me to crawl in, and presently, in
pitch darkness, I was following the steep stairway. My fingers told me
that the sides were firm and well-bricked.
I came shortly to what seemed to be a tunnel, and in this I spent some
fifteen minutes, finding the air good and congratulating myself on my
successful descent and discovery of the unique underground passage.
I was about to start up again to tell my companions of my strange
discovery when there was an explosion. It lifted the helmet from my head
and was followed by the rattle of stones and debris that deluged and
buffeted and pounded me until I sank under the weight of the impact.
When I regained consciousness I lay in the open air. Anderson was bending
over me solicitously.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Here you are—all sound except for a cracked arm.”
“What happened?” I asked.
He grinned at me. “Why, we were all helping at the water-hole when Van
Dusee missed you. He remembered that you had been standing by the stone
column one minute; the next you were gone, absolutely vanished, just as
if the earth had opened up and swallowed you.”
“Which in fact it had,” I said, grimly. “But wasn’t the top open?”
“Open!” shouted Anderson. “I should say not. Hardy and I hammered that
pile of stone and we couldn’t make a dent in it. We never thought of
trying the top. Finally Hardy slipped a little dynamite under the column
and we followed you down the stairway.”
By degrees I got my strength back.
“Ready for some big news?” Anderson said, presently.