THE END OF THE TRAIL
For some time after their precipitate departure from the spot where
the red-bearded man’s body had been found, those in the boat remained
silent.
The Indians, frightened and with all their primitive superstitions
aroused, plied their paddles and glanced fearfully first at one shore
and then at the other, but uttered no words. Colcord, half Indian as
he was, shared his copper-skinned companions’ terror to some extent
and kept the boat in midstream, swinging her wide of each point and
islet. The boys, still shuddering at the horrible sight they had seen,
were subdued and too much impressed to talk; Mr. Pauling, Mr.
Henderson and the explorer were deep in thought and even the
irrepressible Rawlins had no comment to make in the face of this awful
tragedy.
But as the point where lay the gruesome remains of what had once been
the red-bearded giant was left behind and the trees hid the circling
birds of ill omen from sight, the spirits of those in the boat revived
and their thoughts turned to the future and what might lie ahead of
them. There was now but one man to search for, the chase had narrowed
down, but this very fact added to their problems and reduced their
chances of success.
“As you remarked, Rawlins, I would like to know where the other man
is,” said Mr. Pauling, breaking the silence. “There’s a deep mystery
here.”
“I’ll say there is!” assented the diver, “but the whole thing’s been
one darned mystery after another, ever since the boys first heard
those signals back in New York.”
“Yes and they’ve usually solved themselves as they arose,” Mr.
Henderson reminded him. “But it looks as if this one would never be
solved. I’m afraid the answer died with that chap back there in the
bush.”
“And I’m afraid we’ll never set eyes on the chief of the rascally
gang,” declared Mr. Pauling. “I expect he’s come to a violent end
also.”
“What puzzles me,” said Mr. Thorne, “is why they left their plane and
how they became separated. Of course, there’s a chance that they
wrecked their machine in landing or that some accident happened to it
later or perhaps they tried to fly away and came a cropper, but even
then it seems natural that the men should have remained together.”
“Perhaps they were,” suggested Mr. Pauling. “Isn’t it possible that
they were attacked and one was killed while the other escaped?”
“No, I hardly think so,” replied Mr. Thorne. “The avenger never
attacks a victim openly--the very nature of his vengeance precludes
that. His only weapon is a short club or his bare hands and he’d have
no chance against a well-armed man and still less against two. No, he
invariably sneaks upon his victim while the latter sleeps or is off
his guard.”
“But are you sure that fellow was killed by a Kenaima?” asked Mr.
Henderson. “Isn’t it possible they had a quarrel with the Indians and
that he was struck down and his comrade taken prisoner or carried off
wounded?”
The explorer shook his head. “There are no hostile Indians in Guiana,”
he averred. “They are all peaceable and would never dream of
quarreling with white men, no matter how great the provocation.
Besides, there’s not the least doubt that he was the victim of
Kenaima--the wooden spear through his body proves that--and there was
no sign of a struggle. No, that man killed an Indian and thereby
sealed his own doom. It’s quite possible that his companion was
innocent and was not included in the Kenaima and hence was unharmed,
but if so, where can he be?”
“I’ll bet old Red-whiskers deserted his bunkie and skipped off,”
declared Rawlins. “Then he did up a Buck and got what was coming to
him. Let’s beat it for the plane--maybe the Grand Panjandrum’s still
over there waiting for his mate to come back.”
“By Jove! that’s a possible solution to the puzzle,” exclaimed Mr.
Pauling, “and even if he did not desert he may have gone off on a hunt
and while away killed an Indian. Yes, I think we’ll find the answer at
the plane--if we can find it.”
“It’s a plausible theory,” admitted Mr. Henderson. “But there’s a flaw
in it. How did the victim of the Kenaima cross this river? Mr. Thorne
says Maipurisi is to the east and as far as we know the fellows had no
boat.”
“Hmm, that’s true,” mused Mr. Pauling. “Looks as if we’re up against
another mystery.”
“Perhaps they carried a folding boat or found an Indian canoe,”
suggested Tom.
“Yes, that’s possible,” agreed his father, “but whatever the
explanation our best plan is to go to the plane at once. How far are
we from Maipurisi, Thorne?”
“A good long day’s paddle,” replied the explorer. “Taguma Creek flows
from the lake and empties into this river about three miles above
here. We might make the lake by to-morrow noon.”
“Well, whatever’s happened has happened within the past four days,”
declared Rawlins. “They were there and talking by radio then. How long
should you think that man had been dead?”
“Impossible to say,” replied Mr. Thorne. “Probably not over two days.
If he’d been there longer than that, there would have been nothing but
bones left.”
“Gosh! the last time they talked they were asking for help,” cried
Frank. “Perhaps the Kenaima was after them then.”
“You’re right!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “That must have been it. They
knew their danger and probably tried to escape. But why didn’t they
get off in their plane?”
“Search me!” said Rawlins. “Let’s get hold of old Monocle Eye and ask
him!”
Suddenly Colcord bent forward, shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed
ahead. “They’s a coorial yander!” he announced.
Instantly all turned and peered forward to where, barely visible among
some rocks, they could now see a dug-out canoe apparently deserted.
“Run over and let’s have a look at it,” Mr. Thorne commanded the
captain.
Swinging his big steering paddle and with a word to the Indians, the
Boviander turned the boat from its course and headed for the little
derelict.
As they drew near, they saw that it was drawn upon a ledge and was
secured to the rocks and so placed that it was completely hidden from
view except when approached from downstream.
“Odd!” ejaculated Mr. Thorne. “Some one left it here, but where can
they be? This little pile of rocks wouldn’t conceal a rabbit and it’s
fifty yards from shore. Funny place to leave a boat.”
The next moment they were alongside and as Rawlins leaned over and
peered into the craft, he uttered a surprised exclamation. “By glory,
it’s theirs!”
“Jove, you’re right!” affirmed Mr. Pauling.
There was no doubt of it. In the canoe was a Luger pistol, a cartridge
belt, a few cans of food, a short-handled ax and a roll of
kahki-colored cloth.
Rawlins leaped into the coorial and examined the various articles.
“Now what the dickens do you suppose they left their pistol for?” he
cried as he picked up the weapon. “And they were off for a trip
too--took grub along and a tent. Hello! Their plane’s done for! Look
here! This cloth’s the covering of one of her wings!”
“I’ll he hanged!” exploded Mr. Henderson. “Then they had deserted the
machine and were getting off in this canoe. They can’t be far away!”
Rawlins laughed. “I’ll say one of ’em’s a blamed long ways off!” he
cried. “But the other chap may be hanging about. Great Scott, he may
be watching us from shore now!”
At the diver’s words every one started and glanced at the
forest-covered banks as if half expecting to see the leader of the
“reds” peering at them from the foliage. Then Sam, who had been
holding to the rail of the canoe, leaned over and reaching into the
bottom of the craft picked up some object and examined it.
“Tha’s a cur’ous lookin’ feather, Chief,” he remarked, handing his
find to Mr. Pauling.
“Hmm, ’tis odd,” agreed the latter. “Guess they must have killed some
bird.”
Joseph, who was seated next to Sam, had turned and as he saw the soft,
curled black plume his eyes seemed about to pop from his head, his
mouth gaped and in a gasping whisper, he exclaimed, “Kenaima!”
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Thorne, as with one accord every Indian
wheeled about and sat staring with frightened eyes at the innocent
black feather in Mr. Pauling’s hand. “How you sabby him Kenaima,
Joseph?”
“Me sabby too much!” stammered the terrified Indian. “No likeum, must
for makeum walk plenty quick this place!”
“What does he mean?” asked Tom who could see nothing in the little
feather to cause such excitement and terror in the Indians.
“He means that feather came from the Kenaima,” replied the explorer,
“and I’ll swear he’s right. The avenger always wears a girdle or
mantle of black Powi feathers--the Indians believe they are magic and
render the wearer invisible--and this feather is from a Powi and has
been used in a cape or girdle. You can see where the quill has been
split and stripped--the way the Indians always prepare them when
making feather ornaments.”
“Then the Kenaima’s been here!” exclaimed Frank, “Uugh, let’s get out
of here.”
“Not till we get at the bottom of all this,” declared Mr. Pauling
decisively. “If these fool Indians are frightened by their
superstitions, I’m not and they’ll have to get over it, Kenaima or no
Kenaima.”
The Indians were now jabbering excitedly in low tones and Mr. Thorne
was doing his utmost to quiet them and allay their terror.
“No makeum ’fraid!” he admonished them. “This fellow Kenaima long time
gone. You sabby him no makeum Kenaima for Buckman. Him killum white
fellow like so! Him makeum gone topside same way. This fellow Mr.
Pauling good frien’ Kenaima, him want killum bad white fellow all same
Kenaima. Him gotum plenty peai--plenty peai. Must for no makeup
’fraid. Must for do all same him tellum.”
Somewhat reassured and quite willing to believe--after having
witnessed and heard the radio messages--that Mr. Pauling and his
friends had “plenty peai,” and seeing no reason why a white man should
not be traveling into the bush on a little “Kenaima” of his own, the
Indians quieted down, although they looked askance at the innocent
feather and breathed a sigh of relief as Mr. Pauling tucked it into
his pocket.
“What do you make of it, Thorne?” he asked. “You’re the only one who
knows the bush and the Indians. How do you account for this boat with
the rascals’ property in it, being moored here in midstream and with a
feather--which these Indians claim is from the Kenaima--in it also?”
“I can’t account for it,” replied the explorer, “but I _can_
offer a theory. It is quite possible that the Kenaima trailed the men,
that he saw them land here and that he examined their boat after they
had left and dropped one of his feathers. Or again he may purposely
have placed the feather here as a token that he was on their
trail--not stopping to realize that it would mean nothing to them.”
“Hmm, but why should they land here and how did that red-bearded
rascal get miles below here to be killed?” queried the other.
“That baffles me,” admitted Mr. Thorne. “And the fact that the pistol
is here adds to the mystery. If they started out to hunt, or went
ashore for any purpose, it seems unreasonable to think they would not
carry their weapons.”
“Well, we know it’s no use going on to Maipurisi and trying to find
their plane,” declared Mr. Henderson. “It seems to me we’ve come to
the end of the trail and might as well go back. Wherever the other
villain is, it’s hopeless to try to locate him.”
“I’ll say it’s not!” contradicted Rawlins. “He’ll come back to his
boat and we can lie low and nab him when he does.”
“Provided he lives and hasn’t seen us, perhaps,” said Mr. Pauling.
“Well, I’ve a hunch he’s not dead and he can’t go on, without a boat
or grub,” argued the diver. “I vote we sneak in somewhere and hide and
wait. If he don’t come back by dark we won’t be any worse off than we
are now.”
“We might as well try that scheme,” agreed Mr. Thorne. “He may be off
in the bush hunting for his comrade and if he hasn’t seen us, he’ll
return in time as Mr. Rawlins says.”
“Very well,” assented Mr. Pauling. “I’ll try anything once and it’s
one last chance.”
Accordingly, the explorer explained to Colcord what was wanted and the
Boviander, after a few words with the Indians and peering about the
shores of the river, swung the boat clear and, rounding the tiny rocky
islet, headed for a dark and shadowy creek that emptied into the river
several hundred yards upstream.
They had proceeded but a short distance when one of the Indians turned
and said something to Colcord in the Akawoia tongue. Instantly, the
Boviander sniffed the air and muttered a reply.
“What’s up, Colcord?” demanded Mr. Thorne.
“They’s a fire here ’bout,” replied the captain. “Don’ you smell him?”
“Yes, I believe I do!” exclaimed the explorer also sniffing.
“Cautiously, Colcord--if there’s a fire there must be men. We may be
close to our quarry. Go silently and we may surprise him.”
At the surprising news that there was a camp fire near, every one grew
tense with excitement and expectancy, for while there was a chance
that it might prove to be an Indian encampment, yet there was also a
chance--and a very promising one--that it might be the fire of the
fugitive they sought. Moreover, even were it an Indian’s fire the man
they were hunting might be there and silently they waited as with
noiseless strokes of their saddles the Indians urged the boat towards
the bank, following the scent of pungent smoke as unerringly as hounds
on the trail.
They had almost reached the rocky shores and, with weapons ready, the
men were preparing to leap ashore and dash into the forest towards the
thin wisp of blue haze that was now visible among the trees, when from
the jungle ahead, the sharp report of a pistol rang out. So totally
unexpected and startling was the sound that even the stolid Indians
uttered cries of alarm and surprise.
“By glory, he’s seen us!” exclaimed Rawlins. “Missed us though--come
on! Over the top, boys! We’ll--”
His words died on his lips as from the dark forest came a quavering,
blood-curdling scream; an unearthly awful sound.
“What in blazes is that?” cried Rawlins, as the boat grated on the
rocks and he sprang ashore.
“Jaguar!” snapped out Mr. Thorne. “He must have fired at the beast!
Come on!”
But before he could leap onto the rocks the Indians had seized their
paddles and with terrified cries of “Kenaima! Kenaima!” were
struggling madly to push the boat from shore.
“Stop that!” commanded Mr. Thorne. “No makeum fool!”
But his orders were unheeded, the Indians were panic stricken. The
next second Sam had leaped forward and with his huge black hands was
cuffing the cowering Indians right and left. Wrenching the paddles
from their grasps he heaved them onto the beach. Almost before the
others realized what had happened, the Bahaman sprang onto the rocks,
the boat’s painter in one hand and his paddle in the other.
“Ah guess he won’ humbug yo’ no more,” he announced grinning. “Yo’ go
’long, Chief. Ah’ll ten’ to these boys!”
“I’ll say you will!” cried Rawlins and realizing that Sam was
perfectly capable of “tending” to the Indians and the boat, he dashed
up the bank followed by the others.
As the diver reached the first trees, the jaguar’s cry again came from
the jungle, but faint and far away, and the next moment Rawlins
uttered a shout.
“Here he is!” he yelled as with drawn revolver he leaped towards a
smouldering fire. “But by glory, I guess the jaguar’s beat us to it!”
Huddled near the fire was a ragged, human form. As the diver and the
others bent over the body, they knew that their search was over, for
instantly all recognized it as that of the master criminal they
sought. Dangling from its string was a cracked monocle; a German
automatic pistol was lying by the outstretched hand, and blood was
oozing from a great gash across the back of the man’s head.
“It’s he!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “But Rawlins is right--that jaguar
finished him.”
Mr. Pauling had torn open the fellow’s tattered garments and was
listening at his chest. “He’s not dead!” he announced. “Just knocked
out. Hurry up, get the first aid kit and fix up his wound. He may live
to answer for his crimes yet.”
Mr. Thorne had been examining the ground about the unconscious man and
as Tom and Frank rushed back to the boat for the first aid kit, he
stooped and examined the bloody wound on the man’s head.
“You’re dead wrong about one thing,” he announced in grave tones. “No
jaguar made that gash--and there’s not a sign of a jaguar about.”
“I’ll say there was!” declared Rawlins. “By glory! Didn’t we hear him
yell?”
The explorer smiled. “That was no jaguar,” he replied positively. “I’m
not surprised the Indians were terrified. This man was struck down by
the Kenaima!”
“What!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling, looking up in amazement. “You mean to
say--”
“That we arrived in the nick of time to save this rascal from the fate
of his red-bearded friend,” declared the explorer. “The avenger crept
upon him and struck him down, but was undoubtedly frightened off by
hearing us approach--remember he cannot be seen by human beings until
his mission is accomplished--and he had no time to finish his job.”
“By glory, you’re right!” exclaimed the diver who had been examining
the earth while Mr. Thorne spoke. “There’s a trail of bare feet
leading away from here, but nary a track of a big cat.”
“Well my thanks to the Kenaima,” remarked Mr. Pauling. “I guess you
hit nearer the mark than you thought when you said he was ‘plenty good
fren’ of ours. But I’m mighty glad he didn’t finish this chap off.
Dead men tell no tales and I’ve hopes this rascal will live to tell a
lot.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that poor devil of a Kenaima lad,” declared
Rawlins. “According to Hoyle, as you might say, he’ll have to go on
bumping people off indefinitely as long as he didn’t run a stick
through the old High Muck a Muck here.”
Mr. Thorne chuckled. “I don’t think you need worry over him,” he
responded. “I expect he’ll consider that as long as he did a good job
with the other victim, he’s fulfilled the spirit if not the letter of
the law. But I’d like to know what these two rascals did to bring the
Kenaima after them.”
“I’ll say they did a plenty!” said Rawlins. “Leave it to them to do
dirty work--even if they’re in an uninhabited jungle.”
“Well they won’t do any more,” averred Mr. Pauling who, with the
others’ assistance, was dressing and bandaging the man’s wound. “If we
get him out of the bush alive, he’ll rue the day he ever went into the
jungle.”
At last all that could be done was accomplished and the still
unconscious man was lifted to an improvised stretcher and carried to
the boat. The Indians were still sullen and Colcord wore a scowl, his
spirits evidently ruffled, as he carried on a wordy argument with Sam
who stood guard, holding the rope with one big fist and a threatening
paddle with the other.
Placing the wounded man on his stretcher beneath the arched awning in
the stern of the boat, Mr. Pauling called the Bahaman aboard, the
explorer ordered the Boviander to push off, and the Indians, vastly
relieved at being able to get clear of the spot, seized their paddles
and swung the big coorial into the stream.
“I suppose it’s ‘home James,’ now,” remarked Rawlins. “We’ve got the
goods--even if they are damaged, and by glory, I’m dead sorry it’s all
over but the shouting.”
“So am I,” declared Tom. “Gosh, it’s hard to believe the excitement’s
over and the man we’ve been after so long is really captured.”
“Gee, yes, and isn’t it too bad we can’t radio to Colonel Maidley that
we’ve got him?” put in Frank. “I wish we had our sending set here.”
“Jehoshaphat!” ejaculated Tom, a sudden idea coming to him. “Perhaps
we’ll have some excitement yet--I’d forgotten about the loot. Perhaps
this fellow’ll tell us where ’tis.”
“Little chance of that,” declared his father. “He’d die with the
secret, just to baffle us. Hello, he’s coming to! I’m sorry to do it,
but we’ll have to put irons on him, Henderson. No knowing what he may
do when he finds himself here.”
“Yes, it seems inhuman to manacle an injured man,” agreed Mr.
Henderson as he rummaged in his kit bag and got out handcuffs. “But we
can’t afford to take chances. He’d drown himself in a moment rather
than go to trial. But we’ll be as merciful as we can. Just lock one
wrist and ankle.”
An instant later the steel rings snapped about one of the man’s wrists
and an ankle and Mr. Henderson snapped the others to the boat’s
timbers. A few minutes after he had been thus secured, the fellow
opened his eyes and looked about; but there was no sign of recognition
in his glance, and mumbling a few incoherent words he again closed his
eyes. Mr. Pauling poured a glass of water and put it to the fellow’s
lips and he gulped it down eagerly, but said nothing.
“Off his bean a bit yet,” commented Rawlins, “and I’m not surprised.
That was an almighty wallop he got.”
“Possibly he may never regain his senses,” said Mr. Pauling. “It will
be a mercy for him if he doesn’t.” Then, glancing about, he exclaimed,
“Here, where are we going? Have them swing this boat around, Thorne.”
“Aren’t you starting back?” inquired the explorer in surprise.
“Not yet,” declared Mr. Pauling. “I want to see that plane. We’ve got
to have all the evidence we can get and I’ve an idea some may be
there.”
“Hurrah!” cried Tom. “Then it’s not all over yet.”
Meanwhile the boat had been swung and once more was being paddled
upstream, but Colcord and the Indians kept it as far as possible from
the western bank and hugged the eastern shores. Two hours later they
reached the mouth of a wide, dark creek and leaving the big river,
paddled rapidly along the black and silent waterway into the very
heart of the jungle. Once, as they passed a small island, the
Boviander drew Mr. Thome’s attention to a pile of charred and
blackened sticks a few yards from the beach and remarked that some one
had camped there recently.
“Hmm, I expect that’s where these precious scoundrels stopped on the
way out from Maipurisi,” said the explorer. “That looks as if we were
right in our conjectures as to the location of the plane. By the way,
Colcord, did the Indians recognize that canoe we found? Do they know
what tribe it belonged to.”
“They say it Akuria, Chief,” replied the Boviander. “Akurias have
plenty big camp topside Maipurisi.”
“Then that settles it,” declared Mr. Thorne. “They landed in Maipurisi
and got their coorial from the Akuria village. Speed her up, Colcord,
the sooner we get there the sooner you’ll be back to Wismar.”
But there was no chance of making the lake by nightfall and camp was
made beside the creek. Strangely enough the Indians appeared to have
completely overcome their fears of the Kenaima and worked as willingly
and were as light-hearted as ever.
The wounded man was conscious, but appeared utterly oblivious to his
surroundings and uttered no word. He ate the food which Sam fed to
him, but he was evidently partly paralyzed and moved himself with an
effort, not making any attempt to even lift his hands or arms.
“I’m rather glad of that,” said Mr. Pauling in a low tone. “He doesn’t
realize he’s manacled and he doesn’t know yet that he’s a prisoner. It
makes me feel a brute to keep him locked that way and if he continues
as he is, I shall free him. No danger of his making a break as long as
he cannot move a finger.”
“Well, I don’t know,” remarked Rawlins who had been watching the man
closely. “He’s a slippery duck as you know and I’ve a hunch he knows a
heap more than you think and isn’t as helpless as he’d have you
believe. I’ve caught him looking at your back in a darned nasty way.
He may be nutty, but by glory, a nutty murderer’s as dangerous as a
sane one. I’d keep the bracelets on him if I were you.”
“I think Rawlins is right,” agreed Mr. Henderson. “Even if he is
helpless and not himself, you can’t tell at what moment he may recover
and we’d better be on the safe side.”
“Perhaps you’re both right,” acknowledged Mr. Pauling. “After all, I
don’t suppose he’s worthy of much consideration.”
Throughout the night, some one was constantly on watch beside the
wounded man, but he made no move, seemed to sleep well and in the
morning was in exactly the same condition as before.
Before noon the canoe emerged from the creek onto a small lake and Mr.
Thorne announced that they had reached their journey’s end.
“The plane may be anywhere along shore,” he said. “We’ll have to skirt
around and hunt for it. But the, lake’s small and we should have
little trouble.”
With all eyes searching each indentation and cove in the forest-clad
shores, the coorial was paddled around the southern borders of the
lake and before they had covered half its circumference, Tom gave a
shout of triumph. “There ’tis!” he cried. “In that little bay.”
“Right you are!” affirmed the explorer. “Pretty bad wreck though.”
A minute later the boat was run ashore beside the dismantled plane and
all scrambled out to examine it.
“Hurrah!” yelled Frank who had caught sight of the “reds,” camp and
the radio instruments. “Now we can send a message to Colonel Maidley.”
“Righto!” agreed Mr. Pauling. “Get it off. No need of cipher now.”
Quickly adjusting the instruments, the boys called the government
station at Georgetown and ticked off the message telling of their
success and the fact that they had captured the long-sought ringleader
of the gang. Then, telling Sam to load the instruments into the boat,
they joined the others who were examining and searching the plane.
There was little to be found, however. The hull was filled with water,
but the nine Indians with the Boviander’s help dragged the plane high
and dry and, the water having drained off, Mr. Pauling and his friends
removed everything within. Then they searched for possible secret
lockers or compartments and were busy at this when Sam approached.
Touching Mr. Pauling on the sleeve, he drew him to one side. “Tha’ man
he mek to watch yo’,” he announced in low tones. “Ah was puttin’ tha’
ins’ments abo’d an’ Ah looks up an’ see he liftin’ he haid an’ tryin’
fo’ see what yo’ doin’. An, Chief, he move he han’s O. K. Ah sees he
clutch he fis’s an’ Ah knows he was cursin’ under he breath. Ah’s
pos’tive he’s jus’ playin’ possum, Chief.”
“Hmm,” mused Mr. Pauling. “Well, you stay there and keep a strict
guard over him, Sam. Thank you for telling me.”
“Didn’t I say so?” exclaimed the diver when Mr. Pauling repeated Sam’s
information. “He’ll bear watching all right.”
“Well, I think we may, as well leave,” declared Mr. Henderson.
“There’s nothing more of interest here--only water-soaked provisions,
extra clothes and--by Jove! what’s this?”
As he spoke he had tossed a sodden coat onto the shore and as he did
so a dark leather wallet or bill book had dropped from a pocket.
Stooping quickly, he picked it up and opened it while the others
gathered close about. Within were bank notes of large denominations, a
few letters absolutely illegible from the water and a larger folded
sheet of tough parchmentlike paper. Carefully, Mr. Henderson unfolded
it and glanced at it.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “It’s a chart.”
“I’ll say it is!” cried Rawlins. “And of the West Indies! By the great
horn spoon, now we’ve got ’em dead to rights!”
“Gosh, perhaps it’s a map of where they hid their loot!” cried Tom
excitedly.
“And we can go and get it!” put in Frank.
“I’ll say ’tis and we can!” yelled Rawlins. “It’s all over but the
shouting! Come on, let’s beat it for Georgetown with this duck and
then hike after their loot! This bush work may be all right, but me
for the ocean. I’m itching to get under water again. By glory,
treasure hunting’s my middle name!”
Mr. Pauling laughed. “I had an idea that hunches were,” he chuckled.
“But come on. Nothing more to keep us here and it’s mainly your
hunches, Rawlins, that have carried us through.”
“Not a bit of it,” declared the diver. “You’ll have to thank the radio
detectives for that. I’d never have had any hunches if it hadn’t been
for them.”
A few minutes later the lonely jungle lake had been left behind. The
boat sped down the creek towards the great river, while the Indians’
rousing, homeward bound chantey startled the screeching parrots from
the tree tops. A monkey crept curiously from his hiding place and
gazed quizzically at the deserted seaplane. Beside a jungle stream an
Indian washed the painted eyes and grinning fang-filled mouth from his
chest and smiled contentedly and with grim satisfaction as he thought
of how well his tribesman had been avenged. The long search which had
carried Mr. Pauling and his friends so far and into such strange
places was over. Their mission had been accomplished. The radio
detectives had done their part, the arch criminal was a prisoner; they
had come to the end of the trail and now only the plunging, swirling,
thrilling rush down the great river and through the churning rapids
lay between them and civilization.
THE END
SPLENDID STORIES FOR BOYS
OVER TWO SEAS, by RALPH HENRY BARBOUR and H. P. HOLT
A splendid story of two boys’ adventures in the South Seas.
RENFREW OF THE ROYAL MOUNTED, by LAURIE YORKE ERSKINE
Seldom does a book catch so vividly the brave spirit and dramatic
deeds of men in the wilderness.
SPOTTED DEER, by ELMER RUSSELL GREGOR
Another of this author’s well-known stories of what an Indian’s life
was really like.
THE DEEP SEA HUNTERS, by A. HYATT VERRILL
A popular writer for boys and authority on the sea, tells a story of
exciting whale hunting.
SCOTT BURTON AND THE TIMBER THIEVES, by EDWARD G. CHENEY
Again this writer combines a lively yarn with a great deal of forestry
information.
NED DEALS, FRESHMAN, by EARL REED SILVERS
The author of the Dick Arnold stories gives the boys a true-to-life
tale of freshman year.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
New York--London
By A. HYATT VERRILL
THE RADIO DETECTIVES
THE RADIO DETECTIVES UNDER THE SEA
THE RADIO DETECTIVES SOUTHWARD BOUND
THE RADIO DETECTIVES IN THE JUNGLE
THE DEEP SEA HUNTERS
THE BOOK OF THE MOTOR BOAT
ISLES OF SPICE AND PALM