RED BEARD SEALS HIS DOOM
Far up in the Guiana jungles and strangely incongruous and out of
place in the heart of the bush, a seaplane rested half drawn upon the
shore of a small lake. High above the mighty trees it had flown from
Georgetown, following the course of the great river stretching like a
silver ribbon through the endless jungle and like a giant bird it had
circled and swooped to the surface of Maipurisi Lake. For a hundred
miles and more its occupants had seen no break in the forest, no sign
of civilization, no house or clearing save the scattered thatched
benabs of Indians or the small, half-cleared patches of forest that
marked the red mens’ gardens. Hounded from one secret rendezvous to
another, their submarine wrecked and many of her crew killed in a
collision; with their own steamship blown up in St. John’s harbor and
with a destroyer hot on their trail, the master mind of the gang of
international rogues and his trusted assistant had sought refuge in
the heart of unknown Guiana. Confident that they had thrown their
pursuers off their track; certain that their fellows had hoodwinked
their enemies and had wrecked the destroyer in the Bocas, and
congratulating themselves on their clever ruse of boldly entering
Denierara and departing in an airship while posing as explorers, yet
the two rascals were taking no chances.
They well knew that the men trailing them were no amateurs; that they
were matching wits with the most resourceful members of the Secret
Service and they also knew that their enemies, by almost uncanny
intuition, had foreseen and had checkmated their every move for weeks
past. There was a chance that in some way their well-laid plans had
miscarried: that the destroyer had escaped destruction, and that
finding--as they inevitably must--that the story of the
_Devonshire_ was a myth and that an aircraft had left the
_Devon_, Mr. Pauling and the others would leave no stone unturned
to capture the ship and her crew. The two arch fiends had no desire to
be present when this took place.
Months before this they had kept British Guiana in view as a last
resort in case of just such an emergency as had arisen, for Van Brunt
had told of an ancient ruined city hidden in the heart of the
unexplored district. A city of a prehistoric race upon the shores of a
great lake and within the ruins of which were vast stores of golden
ornaments and bullion. But he had never divulged the exact locality of
this lost and supposedly fabulous golden city of Manoa--the El Dorado
that sent Sir Walter Raleigh on his travels. Van Brunt was no fool and
he knew his fellow rogues too well to trust them with his secret, but
he had sworn that, should occasion arise, he would accompany them and
guide them to the lost city.
But Van Brunt had met a sudden and violent death upon the tramp and
his secret had died with him. Not until the two men in the plane had
looked down from the clouds upon that vast, illimitable sea of green
stretching away in billowing hills to the distant mountains, did they
realize what a hopeless task it would be to locate the city by the
lake. That mattered little, however. For the present, they planned
merely to hide for a short time, to await word from confederates in
Dutch Guiana that the coast was clear and then, by an easy flight,
travel into the Dutch colony, gather their men together to resume
their interrupted activities and wreak vengeance on those who had
relentlessly hunted them down. So, having left every trace of
civilization far behind, and feeling confident that even the Americans
would never dream of attempting to trail them into the heart of the
hush, they selected Maipurisi as a promising spot and swiftly dropped
to the smooth surface of the lake.
But fate was against them. As their great plane dropped below the tree
tops and, with the cessation of the motor’s exhaust, skittered across
the black surface of the forest lake, an unseen, undreamed of snag lay
hidden among the lily pads and with a rending, sickening sound, the
thin skin of their boat was ripped open for a dozen feet. The
propeller had not ceased to revolve and realizing their one chance lay
in making the shore, the pilot switched on the motor and slowly the
crippled plane dragged across the few hundred feet of water until its
bow grated on the sand.
With the after half of its hull submerged, injured beyond repair, but
safe from sinking, the now useless aircraft rested like some huge
wounded bird in the shelter of the overhanging trees.
Cursing and raging, the two men clambered out. Their plight was indeed
serious and none realized it better than they. The machine in which
they had expected to fly so easily to the Dutch colony was absolutely
useless; they had no boat, canoe or other craft and to tramp through
the bush to civilization would, they knew, be practically impossible,
even had they known the way. They were as effectually stranded as
though marooned on a desert island in mid-ocean and, worst of all,
they were not over supplied with provisions. They had counted on
staying but a few days in hiding and had carried supplies accordingly
and now, for all they knew, they might be weeks in the jungle. They
had no firearms save their automatic pistols and as neither was
familiar with the bush or an experienced hunter, they felt sure that
they would starve before they could secure enough game to keep them
provided with food if they had to do their killing with their pistols.
Their only hope was in their radio. With this they could communicate
with their friends and make known their plight, but even if their
fellows in Surinam started out to rescue them they knew it would be
many days--weeks perhaps--before their friends could traverse the
country and paddle up the rivers to the spot where they were stranded.
Moreover, they did not know their exact position. They had followed
the courses of the Demerara and Essequibo rivers in a general way, but
they had cut across forests between the streams and their map showed
no lake to correspond with Maipurisi. And worst of all there was no
one at fault, no one to blame but fate and so, to relieve their
feelings, they cursed their pursuers, cursed their luck, cursed
everything and everybody until they could curse no more.
But swearing did no good. The parrots screamed and the monkeys
chattered mockingly from the tangled tree tops. A bold carrion hawk
cocked his head on one side and screeched derisively and a big
alligator, lifting his head cautiously above the surface of the lake,
cast a baleful eye upon them and promptly submerged.
Then, realizing that whatever the future held they must live for the
present, the two men ceased their futile ravings and busied themselves
salvaging everything possible from the crippled plane. The radio set
was unhurt, their pistols and ammunition were safe; they found matches
in watertight containers and there was a small ax. But much of their
food was ruined. It had been stowed in the hull and while the canned
goods were of course uninjured, the flour, sugar, salt and dry
provisions were water soaked and ruined.
Between them and starvation were provisions for less than three days,
aside from what game they might be lucky enough to obtain, and as they
once more commenced to curse in half a dozen languages, the rain came
down in torrents. Their only shelter was the plane and splashing
through the water they clambered aboard and shivering and drenched
cowered in the protection of the broad wings. Chilled to the bone,
utterly miserable they sat there, until at last, unable to endure it
any longer, the huge red-bearded giant jerked out an oath and leaping
ashore, gathered wood and pouring gasoline over it succeeded in
starting a fire.
Encouraged by the warmth, both fell to work and ruthlessly cutting
struts and stays, dragged the wings of their machine ashore and by
dint of hard work managed to brace and guy them into position to form
a water-tight shed. A portion of another wing served to keep their
bodies from the sodden ground and had they been well supplied with
food their predicament would not have been so bad.
Misfortunes seldom come singly, however, and when, in somewhat more
cheerful mood, they attempted to get into communication with their
friends by radio, they discovered that the apparatus would not work.
Fortunately for them, the red-bearded man was an expert mechanic and
electrician and he diligently set to work. The motor was still in good
condition and after he had overhauled the instruments and had set them
up on shore the motor was started and the batteries recharged.
All this took time, however, and in the meantime the slender stock of
provisions was dwindling at an alarming rate. They tried adding to
their larder by hunting, but with no success. The birds kept high in
the trees, the pheasants and wild turkeys they flushed gave them no
chance of a standing shot and the only animals they saw were agoutis
that flashed out of sight like streaks of brown light and a few
monkeys romping among the branches far above their heads. They had no
knowledge of trapping, they possessed no fishing tackle and when, in
desperation, they succeeded in shooting an alligator, the creature
promptly sank and was lost. Knowing nothing of the bush and fearing to
poison themselves, they refrained from eating the berries, fruits, and
nuts which they found. Had they but known it, they could have
sustained life for weeks on the Souari nuts and palm berries that were
abundant all about their improvised camp.
Even the narrow trails and paths through the forest were meaningless
to them and their untrained eyes could not distinguish between the
game trails and an Indian pathway which led to a large Akuria village
less than five miles distant. And when at last their radio was in
working order and they sent out their first message calling for help
and the answer came back, their worst fears were realized. The
_Devon_ had been taken, those on board were prisoners and their
friends in Surinam not only stated that they were suspected and dared
not attempt an expedition, but added that the Americans had left for
the bush, that they were even now in the interior and that to attempt
to communicate by radio would be merely to divulge their whereabouts
to Mr. Pauling and his party.
Resourceful, bold and self-confident as the two were, yet now they
could see nothing but death or capture in store for them. Indeed, if
some miracle did not intervene, death would most certainly be their
portion, for they well knew that to be taken prisoners meant an end on
the gallows or in the electric chair for them and both vowed to take
their own lives before submitting to their pursuers.
But as long as they were alive there still remained a chance that they
might escape. The Americans might fail to locate them--although
knowing that the boys possessed the latest devices in the way of radio
instruments they were confident the messages which had passed between
themselves and their confederates had been heard--and in the past they
had always managed to slip out of the tightest places by some means.
Their one hope was in a boat, in a craft of some sort in which to
navigate the lake and the rivers. They swore and racked their brains
striving to devise some means of constructing a raft or a makeshift
which would float. With their single, short-handled ax it was an
impossible task to cut trees large enough to support their weight--and
even had it been possible this would require so much time that the
last of the food would be gone ere they could embark. Then they
attempted to make use of the plane’s wings and although these floated,
the men’s weight sank them so low that the hollow surfaces were ankle
deep with water. Moreover, they were too clumsy and unwieldy to
navigate.
In every effort, every plan, they were balked and then, when their
case seemed utterly hopeless, fate suddenly seemed to favor them. In a
despairing attempt to secure something to eat, the two had pushed
through the forest until, a mile or more from their stranded aircraft,
they had come out at a small, dark creek and there, drawn upon the
bank, was a canoe. Beside it a naked Indian was squatting, cleaning a
string of fish and the next instant the two desperate men had leaped
from cover and had seized the dug-out. The Indian, startled at this
sudden and unexpected appearance of the unkempt, wild-looking men, had
uttered a frightened cry, and dropping his fish, had sprung away. But
as he saw the strangers taking possession of his craft and realized
they were human beings and not spirits or “bush devils” he rushed to
the canoe, jabbering excitedly in his native tongue and strove to
prevent the rascals from shoving his boat into the stream.
But he might as well have essayed to stem the flow of the river or to
argue or plead with the forest trees. The “reds” were desperate; a
human life more or less meant nothing to them and the red-bearded
giant whipped out his pistol and fired. With a gurgling moan the
Akuria staggered back, swayed drunkenly and dropped limply upon the
muddy shore. The murderer, seizing a paddle swung the canoe into the
creek and headed it towards the lake.
But their crime had been witnessed. Unseen among the trees, a mere
brown shadow in the jungle, the dead Indian’s companion had peered
from his hiding place and had seen all. And although the two in the
canoe never dreamed of it, they were nearer to death at that instant
than ever before in their lives of crime.
Slipping a tiny arrow into his long blowpipe, the watching Indian
rested the deadly weapon across a low-growing branch and with a puff
of his breath the fatal dart flashed silently through the air straight
at the red-bearded fellow’s chest. But at the same instant the man
leaned backward to avoid an overhanging limb and the tiny messenger of
death sped by and dropped harmlessly into the water unseen and
unsuspected by the intended victim. Before another dart could be
fired, the canoe had slipped behind a bend and the Indian, baffled,
stepped from his hiding place and hurried to the side of his dead
tribesman. A single glance sufficed to show that he was beyond human
help and only stopping to cover the body with broad palm leaves, the
Akuria sprang into the jungle and silently as a shadow raced along a
dim and indistinct trail toward the distant Akuria village.
As he came into the clearing and uttered the moaning wail that told of
death, the Akurias swarmed about like a hive of angry bees. Instantly
two men were despatched in a canoe to bring in the body of the
murdered Indian and with scowling brows, flashing eyes and vehement
gestures, the villagers gathered about their wrinkled old chief,
demanding vengeance. Gravely the old man spoke, promising that tribal
law and tribal customs would be followed to the letter and as the
women and boys drifted back to their huts, the chief and the older men
entered the great, conical-roofed house in the center of the village
and seated themselves in a circle with the younger men standing about.
Presently, from his sacred hut, the “peaiman” or medicine man
approached, his face concealed by a baltata mask, a gorgeous feather
crown upon his head, strings of tinkling seeds about his neck, his
body hideously painted and bearing a calabash rattle in one hand and a
carved and decorated staff in the other.
Prancing and dancing, chanting a low, monotonous dirge, the peaiman
moved through the silent throng of Indians to the side of the fire in
the center of the immense house. Squatting beside the flames, the
medicine man made mystic figures in the air with his wand, muttering
in a low voice meanwhile, and punctuating his words with angry shaking
of his calabash rattle. At last he straightened up, fumbled in the
monkey-skin pouch at his side and drew forth a bundle of feathers
tightly wrapped with bark fiber so that only the ends of the quills
were visible. Holding the bundle forth, the medicine man spoke and
gravely and silently the men approached, each in turn drawing a
feather from the bundle.
As the plumes were drawn from their covering and showed green, red,
yellow or blue, sighs or low moans came from the lips of those who
drew them, until at last, the Indian who had witnessed the murder of
his fellow approached and drawing a feather, uttered a cry of triumph
as he held it up for all to see. The plume he had drawn was black as
night!
The next second he had slipped away and the gathering Indians,
preceded by the medicine man, filed from the house and squatted on the
bare ground without; all eyes fixed upon a small hut near the edge of
the forest. Presently from this, a weird figure emerged. Upon its head
was a halo-like crown of macaw feathers, and about its shoulders and
waist were mantles of ink black plumes of the Curassow or “powi.” From
head to foot the copper brown skin was hidden under a coat of scarlet
paint striped and spotted with black and white, with two staring eyes
and a grinning, fang-filled mouth painted upon the chest. In one hand
he held a long bow and arrows, in the other a short, carved,
paddle-shaped club of dark, heavy wood.
Stepping to the edge of the jungle, the man turned and faced the
silent waiting tribesmen. For a moment he stood there, motionless as a
statue, and then, with a swift movement, he tore off his feather
headdress, cast it on the ground, tossed his bow and arrows beside it,
whirled his club about his head and with a ringing, blood-curdling
scream, leaped into the forest and disappeared.
The tiger Kenaima was on the murderer’s trail!