Lost in the land of ice

“Surrounded!”

Such was the single word which burst from Barry Filmore’s lips as he gazed at the wild Patagonians.

“What’s up?” demanded Bob as he roused himself and rubbed his eyes.

“The Patagonian Indians are upon us, Bob!”

“What!” Bob leaped to his feet. “Well, I never!”

“I wonder if they will prove to be our enemies?” came from Captain Gordon, as he surveyed the circle of natives thoughtfully.

“They look wicked enough,” answered one of the sailors. “Look at those arrows pointed at us.”

“Ton’t shoot! Ton’t shoot!” burst out Gus Stults, as he fell upon his knees in momentary terror. “I vos did you no harm alretty, not me!”

“Get up, Stults,” ordered Barry. “I don’t believe they intend to shoot us—at least, not yet.”

Bob turned to Captain Gordon.

“Can’t you talk to them, captain? I believe you said you had once travelled in these parts.”

“I will try,” was the answer, and Captain Gordon moved forward, his hands held high over his head.

“We are friends!” he called out in the native tongue. “Do not shoot!”

The words took the Patagonians by surprise. They looked first at the captain and then at their leader, a fierce-looking individual, fully seven feet tall.

“Keep your arrows up,” said the leader, Kinona by name. “I will talk with them,” and then he advanced to meet the captain.

A long talk followed, which was, of course, unintelligible to Bob and Barry. When it came to an end, Kinona turned to his followers and all lowered their weapons.

“Well, how have you made out?” asked Barry of Captain Gordon.

“I have told them our story and asked them for aid,” answered the captain. “I have told them we will give them enough silver to cover the face of the moon if they will help us back to civilization, and Kinona is disposed to accept the offer. But he says that several of his party are inclined to refuse him as their leader.”

“Well, what are they going to do?”

“They will take us to their village and make up their minds later.”

“Where is their village?” asked Bob.

“On the seacoast, fifteen or twenty miles below here. The party was out on a hunting tour and was about to return home when that first chap we saw discovered us and took the news to his fellows.”

There remained nothing to do but to accompany the Patagonians, and inside of an hour, after a hasty breakfast on what remained of the hog, they set out through the bushes and forests.

The natives still surrounded them, and if one of the party happened to stroll apart from the rest, he was quickly ordered back, the Patagonians shaking their bows and arrows in his face.

It was a damp day, and within an hour it began to storm heavily, so that the jungle became little better than a marsh land, and they had to walk along in mud and water up to their ankles.

“This isn’t pleasant,” observed Barry.

“And there is no telling how the adventure is going to end,” put in Bob. “All told, I think this is the worst luck yet. Even if we escape from these people we will still be in an unknown country, and our ship will be gone.”

“Ton’t mention it!” groaned Stults, dismally. “I vos gif all mine money of only I peen pack on der Arrow vonce more, ain’t it!”

“With Fenlick and his crew of cutthroats?” asked Barry.

“No, no! I mean mid our crowd!” sighed the German cook.

In the afternoon the storm became so violent that the Patagonians held a consultation. After it was over Kinona came to Captain Gordon.

“Big storm and high wind,” he said in the native tongue. “We go to cave house and be safe. Not safe to travel now.”

Then the march was taken up in another direction, and they began to ascend a small hill not far from the coast of the ocean.

At last they came to the entrance of a large cave, and all went inside the opening.

They were none too soon, for hardly were they under shelter when the very heavens seemed to part.

The downpour was something awful, the rain forming a perfect sheet and running in a river to the ocean beyond.

With the rain came a driving wind and fierce thunder and lightning, which shook the forest to its foundation.

A number of trees were struck by lightning and they came crashing down, adding to the horror of the storm.

“The worst I ever saw!” declared one of the old sailors. “And I’ve knocked around the world for nigh on to forty years.”

“It is a heavy blow,” said Bob. “I’m glad we are not out in it.”

Night found the storm still raging, and now it grew colder and sleet and hail came down with the rain.

A big fire was started in the centre of the cave, and all crouched around this, glad to get the benefit of the warmth thus afforded.

The Americans were, of course, still unarmed, while the Patagonians kept their bows and arrows, as well as their long hunting knives and war clubs, within easy reach.

Once Bob took up one of the knives to examine the richly carved handle, when the Indian snatched it away and made a move as if to bury the knife in the lad’s heart.

Bob squared off, and there would have been a fight then and there, had not Captain Gordon and Kinona interfered.

Matters were explained, and peace was restored, but the Americans realized then that they were prisoners and nothing less.

“They will do with us as they see fit,” said Barry, and he was right.

By morning the storm had cleared away and the march to the native village was resumed.

“I think we ought to get away from these fellows,” said Bob to Barry, as the two chums pushed on side by side. “They are not going to be any too friendly.”

“How can we get away? They would shoot us down before we had gotten a hundred yards.”

“Supposing they take it into their heads to eat us up?”

“I don’t believe they are cannibals.”

“There is no telling what they are. They look wild enough to do anything.”

“We can’t get away now. But we can watch our chances.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the natives, and no more could be said on the subject.

The morning passed slowly, and a little after noon they came within sight of the native village of Peontanili, occupied by about fifteen hundred Patagonian Indians, known as the Gumbolo tribe.

The Gumbolos are the most uneducated of all the South American Indians, and were in years gone by known as the Blood Suckers, because of their habit of sucking human blood.

The entrance of the hunters of the tribe into the village was made to the loud beating of tom-toms and a blowing of cow horns, accompanied by an odd dance of Patagonian maidens attired in flowers and feathers, fantastically arranged.

The Indians were much surprised to see the whites, and immediately surrounded them with fierce cries.

“We are in for it, that’s certain,” muttered Captain Gordon. He did not like the looks of the crowd at all.

Kinona held a long consultation with the chief of the village, an old man with a white beard that came to his waist and was tied up with strips of sheepskin.

At the end of the talk the whites were led to a big hut at the end of the village street, and told to enter and make themselves at home.

“You will soon be served with dinner,” said Kinona.

There was no use to resist, and the Americans proceeded to make themselves as comfortable as possible.

Around the hut was placed a guard of ten tall and strong-looking young Patagonians, each armed with bow and arrow, knife, and war club.

“Now we are prisoners for sure,” muttered Barry. “I wonder what the next move will be?”

“They’ll eat us sure!” said one of the sailors.

An hour went by, and a native woman came in carrying a big bowl of fish chowder.

Another woman followed with a couple of loaves of Indian corn bread and a few iron spoons.

“Not a Waldorf-Astoria feed, but better than nothing,” said Barry, “especially to a chap that is half starved.”

Then he took one of the iron spoons, dipped it into the chowder, and tasted the mess.

The next instant his face puckered up and he spat out the food.

“Ugh!” he ejaculated. “What a dose!”

“What does it taste like?” asked Bob.

“Cod-liver oil and burnt leather.”

Bob tried a mouthful and so did Captain Gordon.

Neither could swallow the stuff, and they and Barry had to content themselves with a chunk of corn bread apiece. Some of the sailors ate a little of the chowder, but one and all declared it a filthy mess.

Toward nightfall the Patagonians gathered around a large campfire and held council.

“I would like to know what is going on,” said Captain Gordon.

Presently he climbed to the top of the hut and put his head out of a hole in the thatching.

By listening intently he caught a few words of those spoken at the council.

There was a lively discussion, lasting far into the night.

Then the council broke up in a wild song that ended in blood-curdling shrieks.

When Captain Gordon came down from above, his face was white and set.

“We must get away from here,” he whispered. “And we must get away before sunrise, too.”

“Why, what is up now?” asked Barry.

“To-morrow these natives have their Feast of the White Head, and they have decided that all of us are to be bound hands and feet, rolled up in blankets of clay, and then roasted!”