VENGEANCE
With hopes revived the red-bearded man and his companion paddled their
stolen canoe up the creek and after some trouble reached the lake
where their dismantled plane was drawn upon the shore.
Now that they had a craft all their cocksureness had returned to them,
for they knew that in the maze of waterways they could escape from
their pursuers. Now that luck had again turned in their favor they had
no fears but what they would ultimately reach some port where they
would be safe. Moreover, the matter of food did not trouble them. They
knew that there were Indians scattered through the forest. Van Brunt
had told them that all the Guiana tribes were mild, peaceable people
and they felt confident that they could wrest supplies from the red
men even if they had to shoot them down to accomplish their ends.
But they were not such fools as to start out without some supplies and
necessities. There were still a few provisions remaining in their
shelter, as well as matches and other necessities, and beaching their
canoe, they hastily gathered what belongings they desired and pushing
off deserted their hapless airship with a curse and paddled towards
the nearest river. Before they had started, however, they had studied
their maps and had laid their plans. Although the Maipurisi Lake was
not shown, they knew in a general way where they were and they judged
that Mr. Pauling and his companions would follow the shortest and most
direct route, for they did not delude themselves with the idea that
the Americans were ignorant of their hiding place. In fact, they felt
confident that their radio conversation had been overheard and while
it had been in cipher and in Dutch at that, they had too much respect
for their enemies’ intelligence and experience to assume that the
Secret Service men had been unable to translate their messages.
The leader, like all successful crooks, always acted on the theory
that those who sought him knew far more than he planned to have them
and he invariably made his plans accordingly. So now he reasoned that
they would have information that the plane had passed over Wismar
headed southward, that they would follow up the Demerara River and
that having heard his radio signals and thus having located him, they
would cut across by one of the streams that led towards Maipurisi.
Accordingly, he decided that the only safe route was to make their way
to the Essequibo, descend that river and then, before they reached the
outskirts of civilization, follow some tributary that led westward to
the Venezuelan boundary. Once in that republic they would be far more
secure than even in Dutch Guiana, and, moreover, in order to reach the
Dutch colony they would be obliged to cross districts where Mr.
Pauling’s party had already passed and where, no doubt, watch would be
kept for them.
But for once the crafty master mind of the cutthroat gang had reasoned
erroneously. He had not taken the Indians into consideration; he did
not dream that these primitive savages were the most observant of
people; that an airplane, even flying thousands of feet above their
villages, would be heard and seen and would cause such wonder and fear
that the news of its passage would be spread far and wide. It never
entered his mind that the Americans were accompanied by Indians and
were guided by a man who had spent years in the bush and was
thoroughly familiar with Indian ways and Indian character. And so, as,
mightily pleased at the good fortune which had fallen them, the two
men headed their canoe westward towards the Essequibo, they were
running straight into the clutches of their enemies.
Had they but known of the sharp eyes that watched their every movement
and of the sinister being who, armed with the sacred Kenaima club, was
threading the jungle in their direction, they gladly would have sought
the Americans, for the punishment which awaited them in the Courts of
Justice was nothing compared to the awful vengeance that lurked in
that hideously painted savage on their trail.
In their aircraft, speeding through the sky at eighty miles an hour,
the distance from the great river to the lake had seemed nothing. From
far aloft, the country had been spread like a map beneath them and
from the height of a few thousand feet the lake had appeared close to
the big river with only a few miles of winding, forest-fringed creeks
connecting the two. But they soon realized that what seemed a short
run by aircraft was interminably long when paddling along the twisting
waterways in a canoe. They had expected to come out upon the bosom of
the Essequibo by nightfall at the latest, but sundown found them still
upon the dark and dismal creek surrounded by jungle. As they knew that
they could not go on in the darkness, they were compelled to stop and
camp for the night.
Fortunately the red-bearded fellow had had the foresight to strip some
of the waterproof linen covering from the plane’s wings and this they
erected for a tent. They built a rousing fire and tired out with their
unaccustomed labor of paddling, stretched themselves on another strip
of linen and prepared to sleep. They were no longer worried, all their
self-confidence had returned and they joked and laughed to think how
the Americans would have all their long trip for nothing and would
find only the useless, deserted aircraft at the end of their journey.
Their one regret was that they could not be present to gloat over the
discomfiture of their enemies and to see their puzzled looks and hear
their comments when they found the fugitives flown and were utterly at
a loss to fathom the means of their escape.
But despite their feeling of security, they were uneasy. They had
nothing to fear for they knew there were no hostile Indians in the
country; they had the utmost contempt for any wild animals and they
were armed and could protect themselves even if they were attacked.
Yet as the hours passed and the myriad strange noises and calls and
cries of the wild things shrilled and grunted and croaked through the
jungle, the slender highly strung leader tossed uneasily on his hard
couch and found himself staring, wide-eyed and sleepless into the
blackness of the night. His companion--brutal, phlegmatic and
absolutely without nerves, was snoring lustily, and ashamed of his
ridiculous fears, the other tried to follow his example.
Then, just as he was dozing off, a low unearthly cry reverberated
through the forest, a blood-curdling moan, rising and falling in weird
cadence like the wail of a Banshee. At the sound, the noises of frogs,
insects and night birds ceased as with one accord and an awful deathly
silence followed. With a sharp cry of terror the man sprang up, a cold
sweat breaking out on his skin, shivers running up and down his spine
and yet his companion slumbered on.
Never in his life had this unprincipled, heartless villain known the
meaning of fear, but like all of his sort he was an arrant coward at
heart and, though he would be the last to admit it, thoroughly
superstitious, and that awful cry, ringing through the midnight
forest, was enough to bring terror to the bravest man.
In a vague way he knew that jaguars dwelt in the forest, but Van Brunt
had often talked of the bush and had laughed at the idea of a jaguar
attacking a human being. It never entered his mind that the moaning
scream, like that of a tortured soul, was merely the hunting cry of
the big spotted cat. To him it was supernatural, something that could
not come from a form of flesh and blood, and trembling and shaking he
cowered there under his shelter with straining ears listening for a
repetition of the awful sound. For a space he was tempted to arouse
his sleeping comrade, but pride stopped him. The red-bearded fellow
had not heard the cry, he would scoff at the story, would claim his
comrade had been dreaming or had had a nightmare and would curse at
being aroused, and so he kept his vigil alone, starting at each sound
of crackling twig or rustling leaf, gasping when a frog plumped with a
splash into the creek and shivering as he crouched beside the fire.
But the minutes passed, the cry was not repeated, the frogs and
creeping things resumed their chorus and at last, utterly exhausted,
the man threw himself upon the rough couch and slept.
With daylight the memories of the terrors of the night seemed scarcely
more than a dream and, indeed, the man tried to convince himself that
it had been a dream and forebore mentioning it to his companion. But
all through the day, as they paddled down the creek, he was nervous.
He had a strange unaccountable sensation of being followed and from
time to time he glanced back, half expecting to see something--he did
not, could not imagine what--behind them. So strong was this feeling
that when noon came and they stopped for lunch, he insisted upon
landing at a small island in the creek and as the red-bearded man had
long been accustomed to obeying his chief without question, he made no
comment and followed commands.
Throughout the afternoon they paddled on and again sunset found them
upon the creek and they began to fear that they had lost their way,
that through some error they were following the wrong watercourse and
that they would not reach the river by continuing. And yet they could
not see how this could be. They had passed no branches or other creeks
of any size, the water still flowed in the direction they were going
and reasoning that it must eventually empty into a larger stream, they
dismissed their fears on this score, decided that they had
miscalculated the distance and the speed of their canoe and prepared
to camp.
The leader, however, had no desire to repeat his terrifying
experiences of the preceding night and once more he headed the canoe
for a tiny islet in the stream. Leaving his companion to start the
fire and prepare for the night, he followed about the shore of the
island, pushed through the tangle of brash, investigated it
thoroughly, and convinced that there was nothing on the place which
could possibly be feared, he returned with an easier mind to the camp.
Feeling perfectly secure, he soon fell asleep beside his comrade, but
his slumber was uneasy; he awoke from a fearful nightmare shaking as
if with fever and tossing an armful of dry wood on the dying fire, he
squatted near it. Suddenly, from a tree above his head, an owl uttered
its mournful cry and so frazzled were the man’s nerves that he jumped
and yelled in alarm. Drowsily the red-bearded fellow opened his eyes,
mumbled an oath when the other confusedly tried to explain and was
soon snoring again. Ashamed of his fright at the owl, the leader threw
himself down and closed his eyes, blaming his own foolishness. But
though the monotonous chirping of insects and the soft gurgle of the
water lulled and soothed, he found himself still straining his ears
for any unusual sound and was as nervous as ever.
Once he thought he heard the sound of a cautious footstep and
instantly he sprang up, cocked pistol in hand and peered anxiously
into the shadows. For a brief instant he seemed to glimpse a moving,
shapeless form and raising his weapon he was about to fire, but his
hand shook and trembled so he could not aim. Before he could steady
himself by an almost superhuman effort, there was nothing to be seen
but the dark sluggishly flowing creek and the ghostly outlines of the
trees.
But sleep was out of the question. For hour after hour he sat wide
awake and with every sense alert until the gray dawn broke and the
shadows of the night gave way to the faint morning light. Rising, he
stepped towards the canoe and as he crossed the narrow strip of muddy
shore between the water’s edge and the fire he halted in his tracks,
staring with unbelieving eyes at the ground. Plainly visible in the
oozy soil were the imprints of naked human feet!
Some one had been there in the darkness! Some one had crept about the
camp, and with fears once more aroused, but with murder in his heart,
the fellow cocked his pistol and hurriedly strode about the islet. But
there was no sign of a human being. No boat, no mark of a canoe having
been drawn ashore; only those footprints near the fire, footprints
which came from nowhere and led nowhere. As far as appearances went
the being who made them might have dropped from the sky and afterwards
have taken flight on wings.
All of the man’s superstitions were now aroused and regardless of his
companion’s possible sneers and scoffings, he shook the slumbering
red-bearded fellow awake and showed him the footprints. But the burly
rascal gave little heed to them, declaring they were merely footprints
of some Indian and might have been there for days. Swearing
vociferously that he didn’t see what there was about an Indian’s track
to cause worry anyway, he vowed that he for one would be glad to run
across an Indian or an Indian village in order to get food, for unless
they gained the river and managed to secure provisions they would be
facing starvation as there were barely two days’ rations remaining.
But even with this very real and pressing danger confronting them, the
memory of the mysterious footprints were uppermost in the leader’s
mind. He was brave enough in the face of real danger; as long as
tangible enemies were to be met he had nerves of steel, and he had
never quailed when peril threatened. But this nerve-wracking, haunting
fear of an unknown, invisible something was beyond his control and
somehow he could not avoid connecting the terrible wailing cry he had
heard with the strange footprints on the island. And then, just before
noon, the creek widened and, through the trees ahead, the broad river
came into view and a great weight seemed lifted from his mind as the
dismal creek was left behind.
Just below the mouth of the creek they stopped for their midday rest
on a jutting, wooded point. The meal over, the red-bearded man yawned
prodigiously, vowed he was going to have a nap before going farther
and lighting his pipe, threw himself down in the shade of a tree. The
other, all his fears flown, now they were on the big river and with
the bright sunshine all about, remarked that he would wander off in
the hope of finding game and filling the magazine of his pistol with
cartridges, he fastened the canoe securely, and puffing contentedly at
his pipe strolled up the bank into the forest.
There was little undergrowth, the huge trees, with their outjutting
roots and their drapery of trailing vines and lianas, stood well apart
and treading softly and glancing here and there, the man walked among
the trees with pistol cocked and ready.
From the lofty branches bits of falling fruit and nuts told of birds
or other creatures feeding among the leaves; the hoarse yelping of
toucans sounded from the foliage; occasionally, a macaw uttered its
raucous scream and unseen parrots screeched and squawked. Once too, a
troop of great, red, howling monkeys crashed off through the tree
tops, leaping from branch to branch and uttering hoarse barks of
protest at the intruder. But no creature appeared within pistol shot
and at last, thoroughly disgusted and realizing that he and his
comrade were wasting valuable time and should be on their way, he
turned about and started to retrace his steps towards the river.
The next moment he halted in his tracks, shaking with nameless terror.
His thin-lipped cruel mouth gaped, the ever present monocle dropped
unnoticed from his eye, the hand that grasped his weapon trembled, for
once again that awful, blood curdling scream had echoed through the
jungle.
For a moment he stood, as though frozen to the spot, and then,
thinking only to escape from the shadowy mysterious forest, to reach
his companion and the canoe, he dashed forward and raced panting
towards the river. Once again, and seeming close behind him, came that
maniacal wail and madly he tore downstream, leaping from rock to rock,
plunging to his knees through the shoal water, while from the depths
of the jungle wavered and rose and fell the tiger’s call with a note
of triumph and mockery in its unearthly cadence.
As the terrifying sound ceased and the fear-mad man came in sight of
the point, he gasped and halting stared about with unbelieving eyes.
The canoe was gone!
Instantly, his unreasoning terror of the screaming cry was forgotten,
for here was something real and tangible, a calamity so great it drove
all superstitious fears, all imaginary dangers from his overwrought
mind. He had left the boat securely fastened and he could not imagine
how it had gone adrift. But the fact had to be faced, the only chance
was to hurry down stream in the hopes that they might find the canoe
stranded on a bar or point, and cursing his companion for sleeping and
thus permitting the craft to drift away unnoticed, he shouted to the
other at the top of his lungs. But there was no response, no answering
cry, and swearing at the soundness of the fellow’s sleep, he raced up
the bank to arouse him by more forcible methods.
Then once again he stood staring in incredulous amazement. The
red-bearded man was not there! Beside the tree his pipe was lying on
the ground, the imprint of his bulky body still showed upon the soft
ferns and tender leaves, but the man himself had vanished.
Then the master criminal burst out with such a torrent of abuse,
oaths, curses and epithets as should have caused the very leaves to
shrivel, for now he realized what had happened. It came over him in a
flash, goading him into a frenzy of anger. His companion had deserted
him. His nap had been but an excuse, a ruse, and taking advantage of
his leader’s absence, he had made off with the boat and the slender
stock of food, leaving his comrade to perish there in the heart of the
wilderness.
Then, his stock of expletives and profanity exhausted, realizing the
utter uselessness of raving at the empty air and with his ungovernable
temper somewhat relieved, his reason returned and calmly, with
determined mind, he looked the matter squarely in the face.
His case seemed utterly hopeless, but was it? Was it not possible for
him to win out? Back there by the lake their predicament had seemed
equally without hope. They had thought that only by a miracle could
they escape and the miracle, in the form of an Indian and a canoe, had
happened. And with the thought of Indians new hope surged through him.
To attempt to make his way downstream over the rough and rocky shores
and without food or shelter was, he knew, impossible; but there was a
chance, a slender chance, that there might be an Indian camp in the
vicinity. He could do without food for a day or two he felt sure, and
perhaps, by summoning all his strength, all his indomitable will power
to the effort, he could manage to reach an Indian village. To be sure
he did not know if such existed, he had no idea in which direction to
go, but even if he perished from hunger and exhaustion in the forest,
it would be preferable to standing here beside the river and cursing
the villain who had deserted him and who was now, no doubt, miles down
the stream.
Possibly, he thought, he might find a trail or a path and feeling that
action of any sort was better than inaction, he started into the
forest, searching the ground for a trail. A moment later he uttered an
exclamation of satisfaction, for there, faintly visible among the
weeds and broad-leaved plants, was a narrow pathway leading inland.
Encouraged and not stopping to think that it might be a game trail
leading nowhere, he stepped forward along the almost indistinguishable
path. A score of paces ahead was a tangled thicket of high grass into
which the trail led and hurrying along, he pressed through the
herbage. The next instant a piercing cry of horror rang through the
jungle, startling the birds in the tree tops and silencing the
chattering monkeys.
Lying face down upon the grass, his head resting in a pool of blood,
was the body of the red-bearded man pinned to the forest floor by a
spear driven between his shoulder blades!
The horrified man gave a single glance at the lifeless, bleeding form
and then, utterly bereft of his senses, crazed with terror of the
unseen, mysterious assassin, he turned and dashed blindly, madly, from
the spot.
Unheeding, unreasoning, he raced among the trees, stumbling over
rocks, tripping on upjutting roots, ripping his clothes as he tore
through thorny vines and palms, barking his shins, crashing into trees
in his headlong flight, until utterly exhausted, he sank limply to the
earth.
How long he lay there he did not know. Possibly he lost consciousness,
possibly his half-crazed mind was incapable of judging time; but when
at last he raised himself and glanced about, the sun was low in the
west and new terrors filled him as he realized that he must remain in
the jungle throughout the night. But his first nameless, unreasoning,
mad fright had passed and while he was still weak and trembling, his
mind was clear and he knew that if he ever was to escape from this
dread forest he must have shelter and a fire. Near him a huge mora
tree spread twenty-feet, slablike, buttressed roots and between two of
these he would be somewhat protected. Gathering a quantity of dead
branches and twigs, he piled them near the tree and after a few futile
attempts had a roaring fire going. He was desperately hungry, but food
was out of the question, and seated between the mora roots in the
grateful warmth of the blaze, he steeled himself to withstand the
gnawing pangs of his famished stomach.
Presently there was a scratching sound above him, a bit of bark
dropped upon his head and glancing quickly up he saw a squirrel
clinging to the trunk of the tree and gazing wonderingly at the
intruder. Quickly raising his pistol and taking careful aim, the man
fired and at the echoing report, the little creature dropped lifeless
at his feet. Quickly he skinned and cleaned the animal and ere the
flesh was cold had spitted it on a pointed stick and was broiling it
over the fire. It was a pitifully small morsel for a hungry, tired
man, but it was far better than nothing and ravenously he devoured the
half-cooked, blackened flesh. And as he did so the thin lips smiled
and a look of satisfaction spread across his features. If he could
kill one squirrel he could kill more--or perhaps larger game. He had
learned a lesson of the bush; he had discovered that by sitting
motionless the wild things could be found more readily than by moving
about. He vowed that he would yet win out, that he would escape and
would reach civilization despite fate and his enemies.
With his hunger somewhat appeased he leaned back against the mora
roots and mentally determining that he would not again give way to
craven fear, he strove to dismiss the thoughts of the spear-pierced
body of his dead companion.
But he could not forget it, could not drive it from his mind, and
despite every effort he found himself dwelling on the subject,
wondering how and by whom the red-bearded giant had been killed. That
it was the work of Indians he knew--the spear thrust through the body
proved that--and he felt that the redskins who had done the deed had
also taken the boat. Perhaps, he thought, that was it, possibly the
Indians had followed them to recover their craft and surprising the
white man asleep had murdered him. But if so, why was he not lying
dead beneath the tree where he had been sleeping? How did his body
happen to be some distance away in the thicket? It was a puzzle, a
mystery. The fact that “red-beard” was dead did not trouble him, or at
least it would not have troubled him had he possessed the canoe.
Rather it would have been welcome, for it would have meant more food
for himself. He had seen and dealt out swift and sudden death too
often to feel the ordinary man’s horror of murder or a dead body, but
for some unaccountable reason this was different. There was something
strange, something mysterious about it and then there were the
nervous, groundless fears he had endured while they had been upon the
creek.
This brought to mind the awful screams he had heard and he shivered as
he thought of them, but there were no unusual sounds in the forest
now, all seemed peaceful and at last he dropped into a deep sleep.
With morning came hunger and bearing in mind the squirrel of the
previous evening, he peered about, searching for some other creature
to kill. At last, with a gleam of almost savage satisfaction, he saw a
plump, long-legged black and gray bird stepping daintily among the
trees and with another lucky shot secured it. He now felt sure that he
would not starve and having cleaned, picked and broiled the trumpet
bird, he rose, stretched himself, adjusted his monocle, which by some
miracle had escaped destruction in his mad flight, and glanced about.
Then, for the first time, he realized that he did not know in which
direction the river lay. With the discovery he cursed vociferously in
his native German and then burst into a mirthless laugh. After all, it
made little difference. He was gambling on chance, on the faint hope
of finding an Indian village, and, as far as he could tell, one
direction was as promising as another and so, scanning the earth in
the hope that he might find a trail, he walked from his temporary
resting place through the forest.
A few hours later he came upon a small brook or creek and, knowing
that if he followed this he must eventually come out somewhere, and
finding the bed of the stream an easier road than the jungle floor
with the cool water comforting to his blistered, aching feet, he
splashed along ankle deep in the stream.
He had wisely refrained from devouring all of the trumpet bird and
now, feeling hungry and seeing nothing to shoot, he seated himself on
a fallen tree and munched the bird’s drumsticks. Throughout the
afternoon he tramped on, forcing himself forward by sheer will power,
for he was exhausted by the tramp, his feet were swollen and sore, he
was half starved and his skin was scratched, bruised, barked and
bitten by insects. Then, when he felt that he could go no farther,
that perhaps after all the best thing to do would be to put a bullet
through his own head, he smelled smoke. There was no question of it,
he sniffed the air and knew that near at hand was a fire, that he was
close to a camp or hut, that there were fellow men not far away and,
leaving the stream and following the scent of pungent wood smoke, he
hurried onwards.
Stronger and stronger became the odor. Now he could see the faint
bluish haze among the trees and feeling that he was saved, that food
and help were near, he hurried forward. A moment later he saw the
fire, a smouldering pile of branches, and with a despairing cry he
flung himself down. The fire was his own! Close to it were the great
mora roots where he had spent the night; all about were scattered the
feathers of the trumpet bird. He had traveled in a circle, had come
back to his starting point and all that heartbreaking, terrible tramp
had been for nothing!
Utterly done up, thoroughly discouraged, feeling that he could do no
more, he lay there striving to summon sufficient courage to place his
pistol at his ear and pull the trigger. Then to his dulling senses,
came the sound of a stealthy footfall and roused to sudden interest,
he raised his head, glanced about and cocked his pistol as he did so.
And at the sight which met his eyes, he was galvanized into life and
action. Within ten feet of where he lay, crouched a hideous,
terrifying apparition, a figure red as blood from whose chest glared
two huge, painted eyes and a fang-filled mouth, a figure whose matted
tangled hair framed a face demoniacal in his expression of mingled
hate and fury and whose upraised hand grasped a heavy, hardwood club.
With a yell that rang through the forest, the white man whirled and
throwing up his pistol pulled the trigger. But at the same instant the
avenger leaped like his tiger namesake, the bullet whistled harmlessly
past his head, the club descended and his victim sank with a moan.
With the savage, terrible cry of the jaguar gloating over its kill,
the Indian stood above the huddled motionless form, fierce eyes
watching for the slightest movement, club upraised.
Then suddenly, he turned, listening intently, as to his keen ears came
unexpected sounds, the noise of a boat’s keel grating on rock and the
shouts of men.
For a brief instant the avenger hesitated, then with a bound he
vanished in the shadows and from the depths of the forest came his
mocking, triumphant cry--the bloodcurdling, awesome wail of the
jaguar, He had accomplished his purpose. His murdered tribesman was
avenged.