IN CULEBRA CUT
Joe sprang to his feet at the sound of his chum’s voice. He had come
ashore, after splashing around in the water, and, for the moment, Blake
was alone in the river.
As Joe looked he saw a black, ugly snout, and back of it a glistening,
black and knobby body, moving along after Blake, who was making frantic
efforts to get out of the way.
“I’m coming, Blake! I’m coming!” cried Joe, as he ran to the edge of
the stream, with the intention of plunging in.
“You will be too late,” declared Mr. Alcando. “The alligator will have
him before you reach him. Oh, that I was a good swimmer, or that I had
a weapon.”
But Joe did not stay to hear what he said. But one idea was in his
mind, that of rescuing his chum from peril. That he might not be in
time never occurred to him.
Blake gave a gurgling cry, threw up his hands, and disappeared from
sight as Joe plunged in to go to his rescue.
“It’s got him--the beast has him!” cried the Spaniard, excitedly.
“No, not yet. I guess maybe he sank to fool the alligator,” said the
guide, an educated Indian named Ramo. “I wonder if I can stop him with
one shot?” he went on, taking up a powerful rifle that had been brought
with the camp equipment.
Joe was swimming out with all his power, Blake was nowhere to be seen,
and the alligator was in plain sight, heading for the spot where Blake
had last been observed.
“It’s my only chance!” muttered Ramo.
“I hope the boy stays under water.”
As he spoke the guide raised the rifle, took quick but careful aim, and
fired. There was no puff of smoke, for the new high-powered, smokeless
powder was used. Following the shot, there was a commotion in the
water. Amid a smother of foam, bright red showed.
“You hit him, Ramo!” cried the Spaniard. “You hit him!”
“I guess I did,” the Indian answered. “But where is Blake?”
That was what Joe was asking himself as he plunged on through the
stream, using the Australian crawl stroke, which takes one through the
water at such speed. Just what Joe could do when he reached his chum he
did not stop to think. Certainly the two would have been no match for
the big alligator.
But the monster had met his match in the steel-jacketed mushrooming
bullet. It had struck true and after a death struggle the horrid
creature sank beneath the surface just as Blake shot up, having stayed
under as long as he could.
“All right, Blake! Here you are! I’m with you!” cried Joe, changing his
course to bring himself to his chum. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, except for this cramp. The alligator didn’t get near enough to do
any damage. But where is he?”
“Ramo shot him,” answered Joe, for he had seen the creature sink to its
death. “You’re all right now. Put your hand on my shoulder, and I’ll
tow you in.”
“Guess you’ll have to. I can’t seem to swim. I dived down when I saw
how near the beast was getting, thinking I might fool him. I hated to
come up, but I had to,” Blake panted.
“Well, you’re all right now,” Joe assured him, “but it was a close
call. How did it happen?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Blake, still out of breath from trying to
swim under water. “If I’d known there were alligators in this river
I’d never have gone so far from shore.”
“That’s right,” agreed Joe, looking around as though to make sure no
more of the creatures were in sight.
He saw none. On the shore stood Ramo, the guide, with ready rifle.
“Feel better now?” asked Joe.
“Yes, the cramp seems to be leaving me. I think I went in swimming too
soon after eating those plantains,” for they had been given some of the
yellow bananas by a native when they stopped at his hut for some water.
“They upset me,” Blake explained. “I was swimming about, waiting for
you to come back and join me, when I saw what I thought was a log in
the water. When it headed for me I thought it was funny, and then, when
I saw what it was, I realized I’d better be getting back to shore. I
tried, but was taken with a fierce cramp. You heard me just in time.”
“Yes,” responded Joe, as he and Blake reached water shallow enough to
wade in, “but if it hadn’t been for Ramo’s gun--well, there might be a
different story to tell.”
“And one that wouldn’t look nice in moving pictures,” Blake went on
with a laugh. “You did me a good turn,” he said to Ramo a little
later, as he shook hands with the dusky guide. “I shan’t forget it.”
“Oh, it wasn’t anything to pop over an alligator that way,” Ramo
returned. “I’ve often done it for sport. Though I will admit I was a
bit nervous this time, for fear of hitting you.”
“I wish I had been the one to shoot it,” said the Spaniard.
“Why?” asked Joe, as he sat down on the warm sandy bank of the stream
to rest.
“Why, then I should have repaid, in a small measure, the debt I am
under to you boys for saving my life. I shall never forget that.”
“It wasn’t anything,” declared Blake quickly. “I mean, what we did for
you.”
“It meant a great deal--to me,” returned the Spaniard quietly, but with
considerable meaning in his tone. “Perhaps I shall soon be able to--but
no matter. Are there many alligators in this stream?” he asked of Ramo.
“Oh, yes, more or less, just as there are in most of the Panaman
rivers. But I never knew one to be so bold as to attack anyone in
daylight. Mostly they take dogs, pigs, or something like that. This
must have been a big, hungry one.”
“You’d have thought so if you were as close to him as I was,” spoke
Blake with a little shudder.
No one else felt like going in swimming just then, and the two boys
dressed. Blake had fully recovered from the cramp that had so nearly
been his undoing.
For a week longer they lived in the jungle, moving from place to place,
camping in different locations and enjoying as much as they could the
life in the wild. Blake and Joe made some good moving picture films,
Mr. Alcando helping them, for he was rapidly learning how to work the
cameras.
But the views, of course, were not as good as those the boys had
obtained when in the African jungle. These of the Panama wilds,
however, were useful as showing the kind of country through which the
Canal ran, and, as such, they were of value in the series of films.
“Well, we’ll soon be afloat again,” remarked Blake, one night, when
they had started back for Gamboa. “I’ve had about enough jungle.”
“And so have I,” agreed Joe, for the last two days it had rained, and
they were wet and miserable. They could get no pictures.
Their tug was waiting for them as arranged and, once more on board,
they resumed their trip through the Canal.
Soon after leaving Gamboa the vessel entered a part of the waterway, on
either side of which towered a high hill through which had been dug a
great gash.
“Culebra Cut!” cried Blake, as he saw, in the distance, Gold Hill, the
highest point. “We must get some pictures of this, Joe.”
“That’s right, so we must. Whew! It is a big cut all right!” he went
on. “No wonder they said it was harder work here than at the Gatun Dam.
And it’s here where those big slides have been?”
“Yes, and there may be again,” said Blake.
“I hope not!” exclaimed Captain Watson. “They are not only dangerous,
but they do terrible damage to the Canal and the machinery. We want no
more slides.”
“But some are predicted,” Blake remarked.
“Yes, I know they say they come every so often. But now it would take a
pretty big one to do much damage. We have nearly tamed Culebra.”
“If there came a big slide here it would block the Canal,” observed Mr.
Alcando, speculatively.
“Yes, but what would cause a slide?” asked the captain.
“Dynamite could do it,” was the low-voiced answer.
“Dynamite? Yes, but that is guarded against,” the commander said. “We
are taking no chances. Now, boys, you get a good view of Culebra,”
and he pointed ahead. Blake and Joe were soon busy with their cameras,
making different sets of views.
“Hand me that other roll of film; will you, please?” asked Blake of the
Spaniard, who was helping them. “Mine is used up.”
As Mr. Alcando passed over the box he muttered, though possibly he was
unaware of it:
“Yes, dynamite here, or at the dam, would do the work.”
“What--what’s that?” cried Blake, in surprise.