"Caught Out"
It was easier said than done. The overnight conflagration had
destroyed every vestige of brushwood. With the prospect of being
leapt upon by a highly formidable jaguar or seized by a
boa-constrictor already incensed by the proximity of a high-velocity
bullet, it was not advisable to attempt to gather driftwood under
the base of the low cliff. To attempt to fish pieces of floating
brushwood from the river, when in the dim light it was a matter of
impossibility to distinguish between a waterlogged tendril and a
watersnake--and at the same time to present their backs to the
lurking foe on the rocks--was also too risky a proposition.
"We'll have to sacrifice some of our petrol," decided Uncle Brian.
"There's some cotton waste in the locker under the fore-deck."
The waste soaked in petrol was placed on the ground at a safe
distance from the boat. A match was applied and the flames shot high
in the air, accompanied by a hissing sound that could not be
attributed to the combustion of the highly volatile spirit.
At intervals Peter replenished the fuel by the simple expedient of
squirting petrol from a syringe. The flames were brilliant enough,
but still the spluttering noise continued.
Thus the two men spent the weary and anxious hours until the time
should come when there would be enough light to enable them to
continue their voyage, the while keeping eyes strained and ears
alert for indications of danger.
Suddenly the air was rent by a terrific shriek ending in a
long-drawn-out howl. Somewhere beyond the edge of the low cliff a
heavy body was thudding violently against the hard ground.
Then for a few seconds, exposed to the full glare of the petrol
flare, appeared the head and fore-quarters of the jaguar. The
animal's eyes were almost starting from its head; its mouth was wide
open, displaying a double row of glistening teeth and a red, lolling
tongue.
Peter raised his rifle, but before he could press the trigger, the
head and shoulders disappeared. A brief interval ensued, then the
jaguar's hind-quarters appeared, the clawed feet pawing aimlessly in
the air.
"Don't fire!" shouted Uncle Brian. "He's got more than he bargained
for. The anaconda's seized him."
The rest of the tragedy was hidden from human view, although the
sounds from the scene of anguish gave a pretty clear indication of
what was taking place. Held in the remorseless tension of several
coils, the jaguar was being slowly crushed to death. Nevertheless,
it was putting up a strenuous resistance, rolling over and over in a
vain attempt to crush the anaconda by the weight of its body. Gasps
and howls of agony rent the night air which, already heavy with
pestilential odours, now reeked of blood and the nauseating smell
from the huge reptile.
The cracking of the jaguar's ribs under the irresistible pressure
was now distinctly audible. The groans ceased. The anaconda was
preparing for its gargantuan meal.
"Can't we make a move?" asked Peter. "This stench is simply
unbearable."
He would have willingly risked the hidden dangers of that uncharted,
cayman-infested river in the darkness to get away from the noxious
camping-place, but Uncle Brian was obdurate.
"We must stick it till dawn," he declared firmly, but without giving
any reason.
At length the day broke with the rapidity common in the Tropics. The
roaring of the beasts of the forest died away and a strange
stillness brooded over the now languid river.
"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated Peter fervently. "Now for a fresh start."
"We'll have a look at our friend the anaconda," suggested Uncle
Brian. "The reptile did us a good turn, I fancy, for the jaguar was
on the point of springing at us when he was seized."
There was little need for caution. On climbing up the rocky ledge
they found the anaconda still engaged in swallowing its prodigious
meal. The reptile was about twenty-five feet in length and normally
as big round as a man's thigh, but now it was tremendously distended
in spite of the fact that the head and half of the body of the
jaguar, crushed almost to a pulp, had yet to be consumed.
It was not a sight to watch for long. The men returned to the boat.
Then Uncle Brian unburdened himself.
"Don Ramon and his pals evidently don't want us to return to El
Toro," he said abruptly.
"I'm not altogether surprised at that," rejoined Peter. "But where
are your proofs, Uncle?"
"Here," replied Brian, indicating his double-barrelled gun and the
petrol tins. "This gun has been tampered with. The striking
mechanism has been thrown out of action. That's why you had two
missfires. And the petrol has been liberally watered; I guessed as
much when it spluttered. Before we get under way, we must pass every
drop of petrol through a strainer."
The gun was beyond repair with the limited tools at their disposal.
For all useful purposes the weapon and a hundred shot-cartridges
were so much lumber. They had better luck with the "doctored"
petrol. By means of a strainer and a piece of fine muslin, the
spirit was practically freed from water. In the process the fuel
supply was appreciably diminished, for every tin had been tampered
with, except the one which had supplied the petrol for the previous
day's run.
The double discovery was a disconcerting one. Nevertheless, it left
Brian Strong a tolerably free hand. The mask was off. Either Don
Ramon Diaz had his suspicions, or else he had no longer any need for
the Englishman's services, and in that case had no scruples about
descending to a trick by which Brian and Peter might meet with
disaster and death in the wilds of the Upper Rio Guaya, or its
tributary the Rio Tinto.
It was half-past eight in the morning before the voyage was resumed.
Before long, the confluence of the Rio Tinto and the Rio del Morte
was sighted. Brian, who was steering, ported helm and shaped a
course towards the left bank, where the latter tributary joined its
coffee-coloured waters with those of the Rio Guaya.
Presently Peter, who was engaged in cleaning out the barrel of his
Express rifle, happened to glance skywards. Following the boat at a
height of about two thousand feet was one of the units of the
Rioguayan air fleet.
How long the flying-boat had had them under observation, neither
Peter nor his uncle could say. The rapid throb of the outboard motor
had prevented them hearing the deeper roar of the flying-boat's
quadruple engines.
Knowing to an almost absolute certainty that the aircraft's crew had
them under clear observation by means of powerful binoculars, Uncle
Brian carefully avoided looking up. A sudden alteration of helm
would be a false move. He kept steadily in his course for a few
minutes before putting the helm to starboard and making for the Rio
Tinto.
"That's awkward," remarked Uncle Brian. "They won't leave us alone.
We'll have to make a feint of ascending the Rio Tinto. It will mean
a day's delay and a night dash for the Rio del Morte."
"Perhaps when they see we're well on our way up the Rio Tinto
they'll clear off," hazarded Peter.
Apparently his surmise was correct, for after circling overhead for
three hours, the flying-boat disappeared in the direction of
Tepecicoa, without having made any attempt to molest or even
communicate with the Englishmen.
During the heat of the day the fugitives rested, anchoring their
little craft by means of a big stone and a rope in the shade of an
overhanging tree. Here they were screened from aerial observation,
but no buzz of propellers disturbed their rest. The flying-boat had,
in fact, returned to the base with the news that the mad Englishmen
had really taken the Rio Tinto course.
It was not until four in the afternoon that the outboard motor was
restarted and the course retraced to the Rio Guaya. Not without
considerable trepidation, Brian steered across the broad river and
made the narrow entrance to the sinister Rio del Morte.
Here the banks were lofty and precipitous, the stream flowing at the
rate of four miles an hour through a bottle-necked gorge of less
than a hundred yards in width and nearly a mile in length.
Progress was in consequence tediously slow, an hour elapsing before
the boat joined the wider expanse above the defile. Ahead the river
broadened still more into a fairly large lake which the map had
entirely ignored. At the farthermost end the flat shores were broken
by a number of rocky pinnacles, but whether they were small islands
or merely parts of the mainland, it was as yet impossible to
determine. The forests had now been left behind, the shores of the
lake being treeless and bare, save for occasional patches of pampas
grass and cacti.
"Think we'll fetch the other end before dark, Uncle?" asked Peter.
"It's quite five miles off."
"Might," replied Brian unconcernedly. "It doesn't matter much if we
don't. We're carrying on at night. I think we decided upon that?"
"Yes," agreed his nephew, "we did. But we didn't reckon on having to
navigate a lake. We don't know where the inlet is. It might be
between any of those projections we can see ahead; and it will be no
joke barging about on a dark night trying to find a way out."
"We'll do it, never you fear," rejoined his uncle, with one of those
bursts of sublime optimism that characterized his mercurial spirits.
Soon it became evident that Peter had miscalculated the length of
the lake. Darkness was drawing nigh and still the range of rocky
pinnacles was far enough away to baffle any attempt to fix the
channel with any degree of reliability.
The wind, too, hitherto light, was piping up dead astern and against
the slight but distinctly perceptible current.
Peter was steering. More than once he glanced astern at the curling
waves. In a craft possessing any degree of seaworthiness he would
not have troubled to look behind him, knowing the short-crested
waves would pass harmlessly under the boat's keel. But the keelless
type of freak construction was already giving signs of trouble. The
metal rudder, of absurdly insignificant proportions, had little or
no grip, except when at short intervals the narrow stern, weighted
by the heavy outboard engine, dipped dangerously in the hollow
water. At one moment the engine was almost stopped by the increased
resistance of the deeply immersed blades; at another, the motor was
racing furiously as the "orange-box" buried her bows and threatened
to broach-to.
Both men realized the danger. Wave-crests were flicking over the
sides of the little craft. Brian Strong was busily engaged in
baling. Peter was endeavouring to keep the boat on her course, the
while striving to discern an outlet between the still distant rocks.
Presently darkness fell upon the scene. The wind was increasing and
now blew with the force of a "fresh breeze". Peter would have
laughed at it in a seaworthy centre-board dinghy, but in present
conditions, he knew it was far from being a laughing matter.
Somewhere, and not very far distant by this time, was a lee shore.
The "rebound" from the land at this end of the lake was already
becoming apparent, for the waves were now becoming irregular and
confused. Uncle Brian's task was a difficult one, for of all sorts
of craft those with flat bottoms are the most awkward to bale out.
In spite of his strenuous efforts the water was gaining. He
communicated the news to his nephew.
"All right!" shouted Peter encouragingly. "I'll round to. Pass an
oar through one of the sleeping-bags and weight the lower end of the
bag. It will make a sea-anchor and we can ride to that. Call out
when you're ready."
Uncle Brian understood. Although not a seaman, he was used to small
boat work. He began to prepare the sea-anchor, which when hove
overboard would keep the boat's head to wind, act as a floating
breakwater, and reduce her drift to a little less than a mile an
hour.
Suddenly the boat's stern dipped more than before. A wave broke
inboard, sweeping completely over the outboard motor. The engine
stopped. Either the water had short-circuited the high-tension wire,
or else had found its way into the carburettor.
Immediately, the "orange-box" swung round broadside on to the wind,
with the water already up to her crew's knees.
"Be sharp!" cautioned Peter, at the same time grasping a can of
lubricating oil, unscrewing the cap, and throwing a quantity of the
heavy liquid to wind'ard.
The action of the oil immediately quelled the waves, the boat
drifting to lee'ard of a wide and steadily increasing patch of
smooth water. But so rapid was her drift that she quickly drove
beyond the oil-quelled area, and once more the waves swept over her
side. Again Peter attempted to pour oil upon the troubled waters,
but the can slipped from his grasp and disappeared overboard.
A moment later, the flat-bottomed craft heeled, recovered herself
sluggishly, and slid beneath the waves.