DESPERATE WORK.
It seemed to be the only course left. Whether it was or not, it was
too late to try anything else. That the natives had discovered the
explorers was proven by several low, tremulous whistles which at that
instant sounded on the night.
It was risky running along the dark trail, even though illuminated here
and there by the rays of the moon: but, feeling that the situation was
desperate, Ashman broke into a swift lope, with Johnston at his heels,
urging him to make haste.
"If they come too close," thought the young man, "we can dodge among
the trees again and pick our way back to the river as best we
can--helloa! what's that?"
Well might he ask himself the question, for the whizz of something
close to his ear left no doubt that one of their pursuers had hurled a
poisoned javelin at them.
An instant after he heard a faint but peculiar noise which he could not
describe nor identify. Johnston at the same instant uttered a
suppressed exclamation, not intended for his ears, and he called out in
a recklessly loud voice,
"Into the woods, quick!"
Ashman did not hesitate, but darted to his right, halting after a
couple of steps, through fear of betraying himself.
"Where are you?" asked Johnston, speaking more guardedly.
His groping hand touched Ashman, who seized it and silently drew him
forward, neither speaking again.
Even in that trying moment, the younger was impressed by the
singularity of his friend's actions, though there was no opportunity to
ask an explanation.
The savages could be plainly heard, as they hurried past, evidently
believing they would overtake the fugitives the next minute and certain
of locating them, wherever they might be.
Sure enough, they had not gone fifty feet, when they detected the trick
and turned about to catch the whites before they could steal any
distance from the trail.
"We must leave," said Ashman; "we are too close to the path, and they
are sure to find us."
Johnston made no answer, and, instead of following him, sank heavily to
the ground, with a groan.
"Great heaven! what is the matter, Aaron?" gasped his friend.
"I'm done for," was the feeble reply; "never mind me:
look--out--for--for--good-bye!"
Struck almost dumb by an awful fear, Fred forgot the natives for the
time and stooped over his friend. It was as he suspected; the poor
fellow had been struck full in the back by one of the poisoned
javelins. The exclamation which he uttered at the moment of receiving
the wound was that which puzzled Ashman. The sailor had withdrawn the
weapon, and the wound bled but little. The young man, however,
identified it on the instant.
"Aaron, rouse up!" he called, shaking his shoulder; "fight off your
drowsiness!"
He suddenly ceased, for at that moment, he realized that his companion
was dead. Thus fearfully did the virus do its work.
Before Ashman, could do more than rally from his shock, a muttered
exclamation at his elbow announced that the savages had located him.
"Curse you!" he exclaimed, whipping out his revolver and letting fly in
the dark at the point where he knew several of his foes were standing,
waiting for a chance to hurl their missiles at him.
A screech announced that the bullet had found its mark, and he followed
it with a couple more shots, which inflicted wounds, even if they
caused no mortal ones.
The effect of this volley was to throw the natives into consternation
and panic. There is nothing go appalling as an unknown peril, and the
flashes of fire lighting up the gloom sent them flying toward their
village.
The path was open for the young man's escape, but could he leave the
body of his friend behind?
Alas! it was that all he could do, and unless that were done within the
next few minutes, it would be too late.
Stooping over, he grasped the shoulders of the body and drew it further
from the path, in the hope that it would remain unnoticed. Then he
loosed the Winchester from the death grip, removed the revolver, and
stepping back into the trail, started on his sorrowful return to his
friends.
"I wish they would follow me," he muttered; glaring into the gloom
behind him; "the man they have killed is worth more than the whole
tribe of miscreants."
He was in a savage mood, and, despite the fearful danger from the
poisoned arrows and spears, he yearned for another chance at the
wretches who fought so unfairly.
He held a couple of loaded and repeating Winchesters, with which he
could pour the most destructive of volleys among the savages, and he
longed for the opportunity; but the profound silence which followed the
fierce encounter was so striking that to Fred it all seemed like some
horrid vision of sleep.
But he dare not wait. These wretches had come from the direction of
the Xingu, and he was apprehensive of trouble at the camp, where the
three native attendants had been left. His services might be needed at
that very moment.
He did not run, but advanced with the stealth of an American Indian
stealing upon an enemy. It seemed to him his senses were strung to a
higher pitch than ever before, for he had not walked far, when he
became aware that some one was ahead of him, in the path and travelling
in the same direction.
As yet he could catch no glimpse of the stranger, but there could be no
mistake about the stealthy tread. He was sure, too, that sooner or
later the broken rays of moonlight would give him the sight for which
he was waiting.
"Yonder is a spot where he will betray himself," he added a moment
later, as he observed the faint light ahead.
Instead of following on, Fred paused and laying the rifle of his dead
friend on the ground he knelt and sighted his own piece as best he
could in the darkness. Where the hunter is placed in such a situation
he instinctively _feels_ how to aim his weapon.
He was not kept long waiting. A dark form became dimly outlined in the
faint moonlight and an instant later the infuriated Ashman fired.
The rasping screech which followed was enough to curdle one's blood,
but the young man only uttered an exclamation of disgust. He had
driven a ball through the vitals of a South American cougar, instead of
through one of the natives, a score of whom he gladly would have wiped
out of existence had he possessed the power.
The shot could not have been better aimed, had the sun been shining.
The furious beast dropped in the middle of the path, rolled over on his
back, clawed the air for a moment or two, and then became motionless.
Had not Ashman been on the lookout when he reached the spot, he would
have stumbled over the carcass.
"It is only so much ammunition thrown away," he muttered, again glaring
into the gloom behind him, in the hope of catching sight or sound of
his pursuers; but they were too thoroughly panic-stricken by the
frightful experience a few minutes before to trouble the white man for
some time to come.
The dull roar of the rapids grew plainer, and, increasing his pace, he
had but to walk a short distance when the clear moonlight, unobstructed
by cloud or vegetation, was discerned where the path debouched from the
forest.
The feeling that something had gone amiss in the camp during his
absence was so strong with Ashman that he slowed his walk and stopped
before emerging from the wood. He paused, however, at a point where he
had a full view not only of the camp but of the river and dark shore
beyond.
The sight which met his gaze was not calculated to soothe his nerves.
From some cause Bippo, Pedros and Quincal seemed to have been seized
with a panic, hardly less than that produced among their countrymen by
the discharge of the firearms of Ashman. They were in the act of
shoving the canoe back into the water in such haste that there could be
no doubt they intended to flee from some enemy that had driven all
thoughts of resistance out of their minds.
"What the mischief are you doing?" shouted the young man, dashing from
cover and hurrying down the bank to intercept them before they could
get away.