And such confusion! Such a chaos of live stock, baggage, squalling babies, and wildly clucking and clacking fowls! How they would ever get straightened out; how they would ever find their own belongings, or how the tiny side-wheel steamer could ever accommodate them all was a mystery to the boys. But gradually order came out of chaos; the big, heavily booted, blue-clad “bobbies” shooed and berated and shoved and ordered and helped and at last, with a toot of the whistle, the gang plank was drawn in, the mooring lines were cast off and loaded to the gunwales, the little steamer swung into the swirling muddy stream and poked her blunt bow up river to the deafening cheers, farewells, and parting shouts of the kaleidoscopic crowd upon the stelling.
“Well, we’re off!” exclaimed Rawlins, “We may not know where we’re going but we’re on our way!”
“Yes, and to think we’re way down in South America!” cried Tom. “I can’t really believe it yet.”
“It isn’t much like the popular idea of South America, I admit,” laughed the explorer who had joined them. “But you’ve only begun to see unexpected and surprising things.”
“You’ll have to tell us everything,” declared Frank. “We want to learn all we can and everything’s absolutely new to us, you know.”
“I’ll do my best,” replied Mr. Thorne, “but even I learn something new every time I go into the bush.”
“If we learn where that plane’s hanging out, I’ll be satisfied,” declared the diver.
CHAPTER VII—OFF FOR THE JUNGLE
Never will the two boys forget that first trip up the big, turbid South American river. From start to finish it was one never ending succession of surprises, interests, wonders and delight. The miles of mangrove swamps, with their aerial roots drooping from the branches into the water, lured the boys’ imaginations with their mysterious, dark depths. A great flock of scarlet ibis, that rose from their feeding ground upon a mud flat and, lighting on the trees, looked like gorgeous fiery blossoms, brought cries of delight from the boys. They watched the big greenheart rafts floating silently downstream with their Indian crews lolling in hammocks beneath the thatched shelters on the logs. Mr. Thorne pointed out dozing alligators which Tom and Frank had mistaken for logs; he showed them the giant, lily-like water plants which he said were “mucka mucka,” and he called their attention to countless bright-plumaged birds which flitted in the foliage of the riverside trees. At times the steamer swung in so close to shore that the boys caught glimpses of frightened, scurrying iguanas or great lizards; at other times, it slowed down and stopped before some tiny thatched hut at the edge of a clearing and unloaded merchandise or people into the huge dugout canoes that put off from shore pulled by bronze-skinned, half-naked men.
“Are they Indians?” asked Tom, as they watched the fellows handling the heavy barrels and boxes with ease.
“No, Bovianders,” replied Mr. Thorne, “a mixture of Dutch, negro and Indian blood. They’re the best boatmen in the colony. I always have a Boviander captain for my boat.”
“What does Boviander mean?” asked Frank. “Is it an Indian name?”
“It has a curious origin,” the explorer informed him. “It’s a corruption of ‘above yonder.’ In the old days, any one who lived up the river from the coast was said to live ‘above yonder’ and gradually the expression was transformed to ‘Boviander.’”
“Well, that is funny!” declared Tom. “I never would have guessed it.”
“You’ll find a lot of queer expressions here,” laughed the explorer. “You’ll hear the people speak of ‘taking a walk’ when they mean a trip in a canoe and you’ll hear them say ‘topside’ when they mean some place which is indefinite. They also speak of the turns of a stream as ‘streets’ and they all use the native Indian names for birds, animals, and trees. They never say ‘tapir’ but ‘maipuri,’ a boa or anaconda is a ‘camudi,’ a camp is always a ‘logi’ or ‘benab,’ a canoe is a ‘coorial’ and so on.”
“Gosh, I don’t believe I’ll ever understand them!” declared Tom, “but I’m going to try. Can’t you get one of your Indians to talk? I’d love to hear that ‘talky-talky’ lingo you spoke about.”
Mr. Thorne laughed. “All right,” he assented and, approaching the edge of the upper deck where the first-class passengers were quartered, he leaned over and beckoned to one of the Indian boys who was dozing in a cotton hammock he had swung in the shade.
“Hey, Joseph!” he called. “Makeum for come here, this side.”
The Akawoia grinned, stretched himself, and came padding on bare feet up the ladder.
“This fellow Buck name Joseph!” said Mr. Thorne, as the two boys looked at the pleasant-faced Indian whose head scarcely reached Tom’s shoulder. “He one plenty good boy. Makeum for tellum white boy how can speakum talky-talky, Joseph.”
Joseph half turned his head and, fixing his eyes on the deck, twiddled his toes in an embarrassed manner.
“No makeum for shame!” went on the explorer. “This fellows white boys makeum plenty long walk topside ’long we. Him wantum sabby plenty--wantum sabby Buck talk, wantum sabby bush, how can makeum for hunt, how catchum fish. Must for tellum, Joseph, must for makeum good fren’.”
The Indian grinned and looked up. “Me tellum, Chief,” he replied in a soft, low voice. “Me be plenty good fren’ lon’side him. How you call-urn?”
“This fellow makeum call Tom,” replied Mr. Thorne, introducing the boys, “Nex’ fren’ makeum call Frank.”
Joseph shook hands gravely with the boys and smiled in a friendly way.
“S’pose you want makeum one walk. S’pose no sabby bush me tellum like so,” he remarked, and then, evidently thinking there was nothing more to be said, he turned and walked silently away.
“Why, that’s easy!” cried Frank as the Indian left. “I’ll bet I can talk that now. You no sabby Tom, me tellum you all same Joseph. How you likeum talky-talky like so?”
“Splendid!” cried Mr. Thorne, and all three roared with laughter at Frank’s first attempt at talking the Indian jargon.
The banks of the stream had now changed from the low mangrove swamps to bluffs and hills of sand; the dense tangle of weeds, mucka-mucka and vines had given place to lofty trees. There were heavy forests stretching away into the distance; tiny clearings and cultivated land showed here and there and the boys caught glimpses of numerous, open-sided, thatched huts among the trees. From time to time flocks of parrots flew swiftly overhead, screeching loudly as they winged their way across the river; herons, blue, gray and white, flapped up at the steamer’s approach. In backwaters covered with gigantic lily leaves the boys saw tiny brown and yellow birds running about, apparently treading on the water, and these Mr. Thorne told them were jacanas, whose long toes enabled them to walk upon the leaves of water plants without sinking.
Then the current of the river became swifter, the steamer chugged and struggled and panted and Mr. Thorne explained that the tide had turned.
“You don’t mean to say that they have a tide clear up here!” exclaimed Tom in surprise.
“For nearly one hundred miles up the rivers,” the explorer assured him. “Of course, the salt water doesn’t come up here, but the tide backs up the rivers so there is a rise and fall of nearly six feet up to the first rapids or cataracts as they are called.”
“Jimminy, are there rapids?” asked Frank.
“Rapids!” ejaculated Mr. Thorne. “Why, my boy, there are nothing but rapids. It’s just one rapid and fall after another.”
“Hurrah, that will be great!” declared Frank. “I’ve always wanted to run rapids.”
“You’ll run enough to last you for life,” Mr. Thorne assured him. “And you’ll have enough of them and to spare. It’s all right running them when you’re coming downstream, but it’s slow, heartbreaking work going up. Why, it often takes days to haul up a rapid that we shoot in less than an hour coming down.”
“I see where I’d like to have that blamed old plane,” exclaimed Rawlins, who had arrived in time to hear the explorer’s remarks. “If they see us coming, there won’t be much chance of catching them. A plane’s the thing for this country.”
“Leave that to the Indians,” chuckled Mr. Thorne, “When we locate the plane the rest will be easy--that is, if we can overcome the Bucks’ superstitions enough to get them to touch the plane.”
“By glory, that’s a good idea!” declared the diver. “If they see Indians they won’t be suspicious and they’ll never know we’re near until we march in and say ‘hands up.’”
“They won’t see the Indians,” said Mr. Thorne decisively. “You don’t know the Guiana red man, Mr. Rawlins. A shadow is a noisy and tangible thing compared with him.”
“Oh, look, there’s a ship!” cried Tom, pointing ahead to where the masts of a large vessel showed above the trees.
“Yes, she’s off Wisniar--loading greenheart, I expect,” assented the explorer. “We’re almost at the end of our steamer trip.”
“But how did a big ship get up here?” inquired Frank.
“Ocean liners can come up here,” replied Mr. Thorne. “The river is deep and it’s not unusual to see several big tramps up here loading greenheart or even farther up at Akyma loading bauxite--aluminum ore, that is. An American company is developing a large mine there.”
“Oh, there’s the town!” cried Tom.
A few moments later, the steamer was being moored to a rickety wharf before the little settlement and the boys were surprised to see a diminutive locomotive and a train of toylike cars standing on a track near the landing.
“Why, they have a railway here!” exclaimed Prank. “Pshaw! this isn’t wild a bit.”
“It’s the jumping-off place of civilization,” said Mr. Thorne. “The railway merely runs across to Rockstone, a settlement on the Essequibo River.”
Rapidly the motley crowd of passengers disembarked, Mr. Thome’s two Indians, reënforced by five others who appeared to spring by magic from nowhere, shouldered the party’s baggage, and Mr. Thorne led the way to a large dug-out canoe which was moored near the dock.
“We’ll spend the night across the river,” he explained, as the Indians piled their loads in the “coorial” and the boys and their companions seated themselves. “There is a hotel here,” he continued, “but it’s a rotten hole and my Boviander captain has a nice place where we can be far more comfortable.”
Pushing off from shore, the Indians grasped their paddles and with swift, powerful strokes drove the craft diagonally across the river, swung it deftly into a small creek, and ran its bow on to a mud bank from which a notched log led up to the higher land.
Standing at the head of the improvised steps was a powerfully built, yellow man with grizzled curly hair, a heavy mustache and a pair of keen gray eyes.
“Howdy!” he greeted them with a pleasant smile, “I’se please to see you retarn, Chief.”
Mr. Thorne shook his hand warmly. “Glad you were here, Colcord,” he exclaimed. “These are the gentlemen and the boys that are going up river with me.” Then, turning to the others, “This is Captain Colcord, my boat captain,” he announced. “And there’s none better in the colony.”
The Boviander flushed under his dark skin and then, shaking hands with each member of the party in turn, led the way along a narrow path between the trees.
“You’ll have to tell Colcord something of our plans,” said Mr. Thorne, speaking to Mr. Pauling in subdued tones. “He’s perfectly dependable and can keep a secret, but we can’t accomplish much unless he knows what we want to do.”
“Very well,” assented the other. “I trust to your judgment, Thorne.”
Colcord’s house proved a revelation to the boys. It was merely a huge open shed, with a high, thatched roof, a floor of hewn boards raised several feet above the earth, and one small room partitioned off by wattled palm leaves. Its furnishings consisted of a rough table of native wood, a few cheap chairs, a number of big hammocks, a nickel-plated alarm clock, and an American lantern. On the rafters overhead were spread woven palm leaf mats on which were placed Indian baskets and trays; a huge red earthen jug of water stood on a tripod of hard wood sticks; a long, highly polished bow and several six-foot arrows were laid upon a timber; and a single-barreled gun stood in a corner. It seemed scarcely more than a camp and might well have been the home of an Indian, but they soon found that this rude and primitive dwelling was very comfortable and that, despite its simplicity and its meager furnishings, no necessity was lacking.
Colcord’s wife, who appeared to be of nearly pure Indian blood, was busy over a tiny fire in a small shed in the rear and no sooner had the Indian boatmen brought the baggage into the house than they joined her and seemed perfectly at home. Presently the Akawoia, Joseph, appeared, carrying a steaming earthenware pot, and Colcord rapidly produced dishes and cutlery and set the table. As he moved about and Joseph brought in more steaming dishes, the boys lolled in the hammocks in the deliciously cool breeze and idly watched the chickens, doves, and woefully thin dogs that swarmed about the house. They knew that less than a mile distant was a town, with railway trains, a sawmill, and shipping, and that only a few hours’ travel by steamer was the big busy port of Georgetown, and yet, they could not help feeling that they were in the heart of the jungle and far beyond the reach of civilization.
“Gosh, isn’t it great!” exclaimed Tom. “This is really camping out.”
“You bet!” replied Frank. “I wonder if there are any wild animals about.”
“Plenty deer,” declared Colcord, who overheard Frank. “I made fo’ to kill one this marnin’. I ’spect you folks plenty hungry, no?”
“Well, I have got a mighty good appetite,” admitted Tom.
“Me too,” added Frank. “Gee, that food smells good!”
“O. K., then,” declared the Boviander. “Jus’ draw up an’ he’p yourselves. I ’spect you’re not accustom’ to rough livin’ like this, an I have to ’pologize fo’ not havin’ more better.”
“Now don’t say a word!” Mr. Thorne admonished him, as the party drew chairs to the table. “I’ll bet they never tasted anything better than this venison and yams and pepper pot, and it’s like the Ritz compared to what we’ll be getting from now on.”
Every one declared that Mr. Thorne was right and that they had never tasted anything to equal the roast venison, the boiled yams, the fried plantains and the pepper pot.
The boys were particularly enthusiastic over the last and also over the crisp, toasted cassava bread and were greatly surprised to learn that both were made from the deadly poisonous bitter cassava root.
“The juice is the poisonous part,” explained Mr. Thorne. “After it’s squeezed out through a cylindrical sieve called a ‘metapee’--that’s one hanging over in the corner--any traces of the poison, which is prussic acid, are driven off by baking the meal into these cakes. The poisonous juice boiled down makes the pepper pot. It has the property of preserving meat and giving it this delicious flavor. It’s really the national dish of Guiana.”
“Well, it’s good enough to be the national dish of any country,” declared Rawlins. “Just fill my plate up again, Mr. Thorne.”
The meal over, the party made themselves comfortable in the hammocks and, as pipes were lighted, the explorer told Colcord that they were going in search of an aircraft which had last been sighted flying to the south over Wismar.
“It’s of the utmost importance that we find it,” he said. “The men in it are desperate criminals and Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson are officials sent out by the United States Government to get them. They want those men dead or alive--alive preferably--and we expect you to help us. We have no idea where the machine is, but we have an idea they are hiding somewhere not far away. Now do you suppose we can trail that plane and get the men, Colcord?”
“Yes, Sir--Chief,” replied the Boviander confidently. “But we’ll never fin’ it over this side, Chief. That airship’s went up the Essequibo topside. I was makin’ a walk up beyon’ Malali for locus’ gum an’ I never cotch a glimmer of it, but ol’ Charlie--the Macusi what lives over Mule Pen side, you know--he was huntin’ pacu on the Tukumi Creek an’ he mek to get mos’ frighted to death when she fly over. Yes, Chief, I sure we make our walk up the Essequibo top side we boun’ for to find she.”
“Hmm, very likely,” agreed the explorer. “Can we get a boat at Rockstone?”
“I can’ say rightly, Chief,” replied Colcord. “But I ’spect you can. Le’s see, they’s seven of you, an’ we’ll need a plenty good size boat an’ ’bout ten men an’ bowman asides me. You got Joseph, an’ Billy an’ Bagot an’ Carlos an’ Theophilus an’ Abr’ham. That’s six, an’ I reckon I can s’cure free more boys an’ Boters for bowman, but I can’ rightly say ’bout the nex’ man.”
“Ah can paddle,” put in Sam who had been very silent. “Ah don’ lay to do narthin’.”
The Bovinander glanced approvingly at the Bahaman’s powerful arms and shoulders. “Yes, son, I ’spect you can,” he agreed. “You surely is a strong-lookin’ boy.”
Everything was soon arranged, one of the Indians was sent off to notify the men Colcord had in view, and, in preparation for an early start the next morning, all turned in almost as soon as it was dark.
The boys had never before slept in hammocks and, although Mr. Thorne and Colcord showed them how to wrap themselves in their blankets and lie diagonally across the hammocks, it was some time before they could make themselves comfortable and go to sleep. It was a new sensation to be thus going to bed practically in the open air and for a long time the boys remained awake, listening to the multitude of strange and unusual sounds which issued from every side. There were chirps, whistles, squeaks, and strident songs of insects; thousands of frogs croaked and barked and grunted; night birds called plaintively; owls hooted and from the forest in the distance came a roaring, reverberating bellow which Tom was sure must be a jaguar. But Mr. Thorne laughed and assured him it was merely a troop of howling monkeys or baboons and, to put the boys more at ease, he patiently identified each of the unusual noises that disturbed them. Gradually, realizing that there was nothing more dangerous than frogs or monkeys to be feared, and assured by the explorer that even the vampire bats would keep away as long as the lantern was kept burning, the two boys quieted down and, watching the myriad giant fireflies, dropped off to sleep.
It seemed as if they had scarcely closed their eyes when Colcord’s cheery cry of “Fireside” aroused them and they sat up, yawning sleepily, to find the sky across the river pink and gold with the coming dawn.
It was cold and chilly and the steaming coffee which Colcord had ready was very welcome.
“Golly, I thought the tropics were hot!” exclaimed Frank, as he beat his arms about and tried to keep his teeth from chattering.
Mr. Thorne chuckled. “Not at night--in the bush,” he replied. “You’ll find colder nights than this after we get farther up river.”
“Whew! I’ll want an overcoat then,” declared Tom, “or a furnace fire!”
But the boys’ chill was only temporary and a little exercise, combined with piping hot food, soon made them forget all about the cold morning air and by the time they were ready to embark in the canoe and cross the river the air was balmy and springlike.
The boys found little of interest on their ride across from Wismar to Rockstone by the railway, for the train passed through land which had been stripped of its forests by the lumbermen and the few remaining trees stood gaunt and dead above a tangle of weeds and shrubs. But at Rockstone they were delighted, for, close to the station, flowed the great Essequibo River, dark and mysterious, with its shores covered by the impenetrable tropic jungle. To them this mile-wide, silently flowing stream gave an impression of the unknown and savored of adventures to come, for Mr. Thorne had told them that its source was near the borders of Brazil and that much of its rapid and cataract-filled course led through country never seen or penetrated by white men.
The boat was ready and waiting, for the Indian sent by Colcord had made his way across to Rockstone and had arranged everything, and already the additional members of the crew and the bowman were stowing the outfit in the craft.
Within half an hour of their arrival the boys and their friends were seated under the arched canvas awning or “tent” near the stem, the nine Indian paddlers, with Sam, were in their places, and the bowman, grasping a huge paddle, was perched precariously on the boat’s prow. Colcord stepped on to the stern and slipped an enormous paddle through a bight of rope. Then, to his shout of “Way-ee-oo!” the ten paddles dug into the water as one, the heavy, spoon-bottomed boat sprang forward, and Colcord straining at his great steering paddle, headed the speeding craft upstream. Five minutes later Rockstone with its houses, its railway station and its docks, slipped from sight behind a wooded point and only the sullen, mighty river and the endless jungle stretched ahead.
CHAPTER VIII—ON THE TRAIL
Rockstone, the last outpost of civilization, had been left far behind and many miles of river had been covered when at last Colcord turned the boat’s bow towards shore and ran the craft alongside a fallen tree that sloped from the high bank into the water.
Although the boys had seen much to interest them as they paddled upstream, yet they were cramped and tired, for, with the exception of a short stop for lunch at noon, they had been seated in the boat for nearly ten hours. Moreover, after the first few miles, the river and its banks were merely a constant repetition of what they had seen: walls of tangled jungle like a vast green velvet curtain rising from the river; vivid flowering trees; great azure blue butterflies; noisy carrion hawks; chattering parrots and ungainly yelping toucans along the shore--all reflected as in a mirror by the oily brown water.
They had expected to see Indians and to have the thrill of navigating rapids, but Mr. Thorne explained that these would not be reached until the following day and the boys were glad indeed to step on dry land and stretch their cramped legs when the boat at last was run ashore and preparations were made to camp.
Rapidly and with perfect system, the Indians commenced work, cutting poles and stakes and in an incredibly short time a big tarpaulin had been spread between the trees, hammocks were stretched and ready and the savory odors of coffee, bacon, and broiling meat were wafted from the campfire where Sam was presiding as cook.
Presently Joseph approached, naked save for a scarlet loin cloth, and looking the thoroughly primitive Indian with a long bow and arrows in his hand.
“Mebbe you likeum sabby how Buckman shootum fish,” he remarked.
“You bet we would!” cried Frank, jumping up. And then, remembering that he must talk the Indian’s jargon, he added, “Me likeum too much. Me come see.”
The Indian grinned and, without a word, turned and slipped silently into the forest with the two boys at his heels. For a short distance he led the way among the trees and then, turning towards the river, came out upon a jutting rocky point. Raising his hand as a signal for caution, he stopped, fitted a six-foot arrow to his bow, and stepped silently towards the water’s edge. Intently the two boys watched, utterly at a loss as to what Joseph intended to do. Then they saw him suddenly straighten up and quickly draw the huge bow. Like a streak of light the long arrow darted into the river. The next instant he threw aside his bow, rushed forward, and, seizing the floating arrow, dragged a big silvery fish upon the rocks.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Tom, as the two boys rushed forward to where the Indian was extracting a barbed iron arrow point from the fish. “I never saw anything like that! Why, he shot the fish with his arrow.”
“Say, that is a new way of fishing!” cried Frank, as he examined the weapon. “This arrow’s just like a harpoon with a head fastened to a line and not to the shaft. Gee, I wish Mr. Rawlins could have seen that.”
Joseph grinned, picked up his bow and arrow, and a moment later had shot a second fish. Absolutely fascinated, the boys watched him as fish after fish was secured in this novel manner and then, as darkness was rapidly coming on, the three made their way back to camp.
Mr. Thorne chuckled as the boys enthusiatically related what they had seen. “I forgot to tell you about that,” he said. “You should see them shoot fish in the rapids. That’s really exciting. And they call them too.”
“Oh, now you’re fooling!” exclaimed Frank. “How can they call fish?”
“I don’t know how they can, but I know they do,” replied the explorer. “They stand near the water and wiggle their fingers and whistle and the fish come up. I’ve seen it scores of times and I’ll wager you’ll see it done too.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to believe it, if you say it’s true,” said Tom, “but it does sound like a fish story.”
Sam’s cooking proved highly successful, and as they were busily eating, Colcord suddenly jumped up and stood listening attentively. The next moment the boys heard a slight splash and a grating noise and one of the Indians uttered a low cry in his native tongue. Immediately from the river came an answering call and a moment later, a canoe appeared in the reflection of the firelight on the river. About it the Indians gathered.
“By glory, we’ve got visitors!” exclaimed Rawlins. “Wonder who they are.”
“Indians,” replied Mr. Thorne. “Know who they are, Colcord?”
“No, Chief,” replied the Boviander. “I ’spect they’s Wapisianas or Macusis from topside.”
As he spoke two bronze-skinned figures approached the fire, clad only in their scarlet “laps” or loin cloths. Without uttering a word they passed around the fire, shaking hands with each member of the party, and then, squatting down, remained motionless and silent for a full minute. Evidently this was bush etiquette for Colcord and Mr. Thorne seemed to regard it as a matter of course. Then the explorer passed the new arrivals a tin of tobacco, Colcord filled a tin dish full of food and set it before them, and, as the Indians began to eat, the explorer spoke.
“You fellow makeum walk Rockstone?” he asked. “Come all time topside?”
“Makeum walk Bartica,” responded one of the red men. “Come Pakarima like so.”
“How you callum, Macusi mebbe?” inquired the explorer.
“Arekuna,” replied the other Indian.
“Eh, eh! Arekuna!” exclaimed Mr. Thorne. “You sabby white man makeum fly all same bird like so?” The explorer made a sound like the exhaust of an airplane’s motor.
The Indians glanced sharply at the explorer and muttered some words in their own tongue.
“Me sabby,” vouchsafed one of the two at last. “Me hearum. No sabby him white man. Me sabby him peai. No likeum plenty.”
“Ah, we’re getting on the trail!” exclaimed Mr. Thorne, turning towards Mr. Pauling. “They’ve seen or heard the plane, that’s certain.”
“But what do they mean by ‘peai’?” asked Tom.
“Magic, witchcraft,” replied Mr. Thorne. “Anything a Buck doesn’t understand, or fears, or thinks supernatural, is peai.”
Then, again addressing the Arekunas, he asked. “Where you seeum? You sabby what side him go?”
“No seeum,” replied the Indian. “Makeum noise like so. Him plenty peai. Him go Maipurisi side.”
“Good!” cried the explorer. “Trust the Bucks to know where they went even if they didn’t see the plane. I’ll bet they’re over in that lake on the Maipurisi. Just the place for them.”
“Didn’t I say they couldn’t sneak around here without being seen?” cried Rawlins.
“Hmm, it doesn’t look as if we’d have much trouble in tracing them at all events,” remarked Mr. Pauling. “How far is Maipurisi from here?”
The explorer turned to Colcord. “How far is it, Colcord?” he asked.
The Boviander considered a minute and then spoke rapidly to the Arekunas in their own native tongue. Then, when the Indians had answered, he replied, “Two days coming down, Chief.”
“That means about six days going up,” commented Mr. Thorne. “There are some pretty bad falls to haul over.”
Suddenly Tom was seized with an idea and, whispering to Frank, rose and began rummaging in a chest.
“What are you boys up to?” asked Mr. Pauling.
“Going to set up our radio receivers,” replied Tom. “Perhaps we may hear something. We ought to be listening whenever we can.”
“Good idea,” commented his father. “After this, we’d better keep one set ready in the boat all the time.”
As the two boys busied themselves connecting the instruments, the Indians and Colcord watched them closely, the red men seemingly fascinated by the mysterious-looking cabinets and their bright, nickel-plated binding posts and glowing bulbs. Little by little they edged nearer and nearer until a circle of naked bronze bodies and keen black eyes was formed about the boys and their instruments.
“I’ll say they think that’s ‘peai,’” chuckled Rawlins. “I wonder what they’d do if a signal did come in.”
“Be scared half to death,” declared Mr. Thorne. “Those are fine instruments you have, boys.”
“We made them all ourselves,” replied Tom. “That is, all except the resonance coil. We got that from the sub.”
As Tom spoke, he adjusted the receivers, while; Frank moved the coil slowly about. To the Indians this evidently savored of some mysterious religious ceremony or incantation, and the boys could not help grinning as they saw the eager eyes of their Buck friends following every motion of the coil.
For some time Frank tried it towards the south, but no sound came to Tom’s ears, and it was evident that if the plane were in that direction its occupants were not sending.
“Swing it around to the north,” directed Tom “We’ll see if we can pick up anything from Georgetown or any ship.”
Turning, Frank moved the resonance coil around, and the next instant the sharp “dee-dah” of a dot and dash signal buzzed clearly from the receiver. With one accord the Indians tumbled head over heels as they strove to get away from the spot and, with frightened exclamations and terrified faces, picked themselves up and cowered near the fire.
“Peai!” they exclaimed. “Plenty peai! Me tellum no likeum him fellow!” Every one burst out laughing and the Indian paddlers rather shamefacedly attempted to grin at their own fright. But the two Arekunas would have none of it and jabbered together earnestly in their own tongue.
“By glory!” exclaimed the diver. “If they’re that scared at the code signals, wouldn’t they get a jolt if they heard a voice coming in!”
“Thank Heaven they didn’t!” said Mr. Thorne. “If they had, I’m afraid they would all have deserted.”
Meanwhile the sharp “dees” and “dahs” were coming in on the instruments, and Tom, from force of habit, was mentally forming them into letters and words.
“It’s some cipher message,” he announced presently. “No sense to it at all.”
“Take it down,” exclaimed his father, suddenly interested. “It may be for those rascals with the plane.”
Once more the message was coming in and Tom rapidly jotted down the words and handed the paper to his father. “They’re sending the same thing over and over again,” he said. “That’s the third time it’s been repeated.”
Mr. Pauling eagerly scanned the message and slowly a smile and an expression of satifaction spread across his features.
“It’s for us!” he ejaculated. “Good news. The Devon’s taken! Jove! It seems little short of uncanny to be getting word from Maidley way up here in the jungle.”
“I’ll say ’tis!” cried Rawlins. “Bully for the Colonel! Where did they get her?”
“Hurrah!” cried the boys. “Now these fellows up the river are in a fix!”
“He doesn’t say where,” replied Mr. Pauling. “Didn’t want to use any name, I suppose--no cipher word for that--just says: ‘Ship taken. All on board held.’ He’s no fool, Maidley. He knew the plane would hear this and took no chances of saying anything to make them suspicious. I expect he thought we might be listening and broadcasted the message in hopes we’d get it.”
“Good old scout,” declared the explorer. “Just like him to do that.”
“Can you send a message back acknowledging this?” asked Mr. Pauling, turning to Tom.
“No,” replied Tom. “We didn’t bring our sending set. We thought if we received it would be all we needed.”
“Hmm, too bad,” commented his father. “Sorry Maidley won’t know we got it and will keep on sending. Those fellows may get suspicious if they hear the same message coming in night after night.”
“He’ll know we got it before to-morrow night,” declared Mr. Thorne. “I’ll send word to him.”
“How?” asked Mr. Pauling. “What magic do you use?”
“Easily enough,” replied the explorer. “These Arekunas are going to Bartica. They’ll be there before noon to-morrow and there’s a telegraph line from there to Georgetown. Write a message to Maidley and they’ll take it to Bartica and give it to the telegraph office there. It will be in Maidley’s hands by noon.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Mr. Pauling. “I didn’t realize we were so closely in touch with civilization.”
The message was soon written and Mr. Thorne handed it to one of the still frightened Arekunas. “Must for takeum Bartica like so,” he instructed the Indian. “No looseum. When makeum Bartica side giveum Mr. Fowler. You sabby him fellow?”
The Arekuna slipped the folded paper into a jaguar skin pouch hanging from his neck, “Me sabby,” he said. “Takeum Mr. Fowler same way.”
“Can you depend on those fellows?” asked Mr. Henderson.
“Absolutely,” Mr. Thorne assured him. “I’ve never known an Indian to lose or forget a message and they’re strictly honest and trustworthy. I’ve known an Indian to travel over three hundred miles through the bush to return ten shillings he’d borrowed.”
“Not much like our redskins in the States,” commented Mr. Henderson.
“I don’t know about that,” declared the explorer. “I’ve always found primitive men honest--it’s civilization that ruins them. These Bucks are little more than vagabonds and scalawags once they become civilized and live near the settlements.”
Presently the Arekunas silently withdrew, the Indian boatmen sought their hammocks, and the white men and boys followed their example. Although the boys had become somewhat accustomed to the noises of a bush night while at Colcord’s house, yet here in their forest camp beside the mighty river, they felt strange and nervous. The boom and croak of frogs and the incessant sounds of myriads of insects were the same as they had already heard, but far louder and more numerous than at Colcord’s, and in addition there were a thousand and one other noises for which the boys could not account and which kept their sleepy tired eyes wide open. But the Indians were sleeping soundly; from Rawlins’ hammock, came lusty snores and the boys, despite their nervousness, finally lost consciousness and did not awaken until aroused by the sounds of the Indians starting the fire at dawn.
The Arekunas had already slipped away downstream, and, by the time breakfast was ready, camp had been broken, everything was neatly packed in the boat, and the Indian paddlers were waiting in their places.
For hour after hour they paddled upstream. Rocky islands appeared in the river--some bare and carved and worn by the water into odd grotesque forms,--others covered with trees. The current flowed more swiftly and just before noon a dull roaring sound reached the boys’ ears, and, peering ahead, they saw a line of flashing white stretching across the river from shore to shore.
“First rapids,” Mr. Thorne informed them. “We’ll have lunch before hauling through, Colcord.”
“Gosh, I call those falls and not rapids!” declared Tom as the boat was run ashore on the sandy beach of a tiny island. “I don’t see how you expect to get this big boat through that.”
“Wait and see,” chuckled the explorer.
As Colcord leaped ashore he stopped, bent down, and examined the sand.
“Water Haas!” he exclaimed, pointing to a number of small indentations in the beach.
“What are ‘water haas’?” asked Tom. “Some kind of animals?”
“Capybara--sort of giant Guinea pigs,” replied Mr. Thorne. “They’re likely to be in the brush here. Get your guns and you may be able to shoot one. They’re good meat.”
Eager for the chance to secure game, the boys and Rawlins got out the rifles they had brought and started up the beach, following the little trail left by the water haas. Presently they noticed that, instead of one, there were half a dozen tracks and at Rawlins’ suggestion they separated and cautiously approached a tangle of palms and small trees near the upper end of the island.
Gaining the edge of the thicket, Frank, who was nearest the river, peered through the screen of foliage. As he carefully parted the leaves and branches, there was a startled snort and three big, clumsy-looking brown creatures leaped from the damp ground and stood for an instant staring towards the boy and sniffing the air suspiciously. So surprised was Frank at the sudden appearance of the beasts that, for a moment, he forget to shoot, and the next second the three animals were scurrying out of sight. Hastily throwing up his rifle, Frank blazed away at the retreating forms.
“What was it? What did you shoot?” yelled Tom, as he and Rawlins came running at the report of Frank’s rifle.
“Don’t know if I shot anything or what they were,” replied Frank. “I was so surprised I didn’t fire till they were running away. They went over there.”
Hurrying to the other side of the thicket, Rawlins, who was in advance, gave a shout. “I’ll say you shot him!” he cried. “Guess it’s one of those water haas.”
The two boys hurried forward and found the diver bending over the dead animal, a curious-looking creature with short stiff hair, an enormous head and broad blunt snout.
“Why, he’s got webbed feet!” exclaimed Frank who was examining his prize.
“And he does look like a huge Guinea pig,” declared Tom.
Elated at their success, the boys picked up the animal and hurried back to the boat.
“Yes, it’s a water haas or capybara,” declared Mr. Thorne. “Now we’ll have a fine feast to-night.”
“But he’s got webbed feet,” said Frank. “Can they swim?”
“Can they!” exclaimed the explorer. “Like a fish. That’s why they’re called water haas--it’s Dutch for water horse. They’re as amphibious as seals almost.”
“Say, let’s take a swim!” suggested Tom. “I’m hot and the water looks fine.”
“Don’t you try it!” cried the explorer. “The place is full of perai and you’d surely be eaten alive.”
“Why, what do you mean?” demanded Tom, puzzled. “I thought perai was magic or witchcraft. How can that eat us?”
Mr. Thorne burst out laughing and Colcord, who stood near, shook with merriment.
“Peai is witchcraft,” explained the explorer. “Perai is a kind of fish--‘cannibal fish,’ they’re called sometimes. They’re the most deadly and savage creatures in the bush. They’ll tear anything that’s flesh to bits, in a moment. It’s lucky I stopped you in time.”
“Is that really true?” asked Mr. Pauling. “I’ve read travelers’ tales of them, but I always supposed they were real ‘fish stories.’”
“Not at all,” Mr. Thorne assured him. “Let me demonstrate it.”
Picking up a bit of meat, the explorer stepped close to the water and tossed it into the river. Instantly there was a splash, a flash of silver, and the meat was dragged under. The next moment the water fairly boiled with leaping, darting fish, and the onlookers gazed with amazement as the voracious, savage creatures tore and snapped and bit.
“Gee, I’m glad I’m not in there!” exclaimed Frank. “They’re like hungry wolves.”
“Worse,” declared Mr. Thorne. “They seem to go blind mad at the smell of flesh, and their jaws are so powerful and their teeth so sharp they can bite a piece out of a plank. A man would be torn to bits--eaten alive--if he went in there.”
“Jiminy, I’d hate to tumble overboard!” exclaimed Tom.
“That’s the odd thing about them,” remarked Mr. Thorne as they started back towards the boat. “They won’t touch a man if he has clothes on--apparently do not recognize flesh if covered by garments. In some parts of the rivers they are harmless--never touch people--and the natives bathe freely.”
“Well, I’m not taking any chances,” declared Tom. “I’ll go without a bath for a while.”
Embarking once more, the boat was paddled upstream and at the foot of the roaring, rushing falls, which the boys now saw were really a series of steep rapids, dashing and foaming over the jagged black rocks, the craft was run alongside a smooth ledge.
“All out!” cried Mr. Thorne, leaping ashore.
Filled with interest to discover how the Indians would get the heavy boat through that tumbling seething mass of water to the river level, twenty feet above, the boys scrambled up over the rocks and watched every move of Colcord and his men.
“This isn’t a bad spot,” commented the explorer. “They’ll get through without discharging. But, in many places, everything has to be taken from the boat and portaged for a mile or more around the rapids. Sometimes a score of such portages must be made in order to travel a dozen miles upstream, so you can understand how tedious and slow traveling in the interior is.”
“This looks bad enough to suit me,” declared Tom. “I should think the boats would get smashed all to bits.”
“They’re built for the purpose,” replied Mr. Thorne. “Tough native wood and with spoon-shaped bottoms, so they slide off a rock in any direction.” Some of the Indians had now uncoiled a long light rope and were moving upstream, jumping and scrambling from rock to rock, at times plunging into the swirling water up to their armpits or even swimming through the racing current, until at last they gained a precarious foothold upon a projecting ledge in midstream, well above the falls. In the meantime, others had attached a second line to the stern of the boat and stood waiting for orders close to the water’s edge, while the bowman and Colcord braced themselves in bow and stern, grasping their immense paddles.
For a moment the Boviander glanced about, studying the lashing white foam and the jagged, black rocks, casting his eyes over the waiting Indians to see that all were ready. Then, with a sharp “Hi-yi!”, he dug his great paddle into the water. Instantly the bowman shoved the craft from shore into the current; the men on the bow rope hauled and tugged with all their strength; the captain shouted orders and threw his weight on his six foot paddle; the bowman paddled furiously; the men at the stern line bent to their task; and slowly the boat forged ahead. With consummate skill the Boviander and the bowman swung the craft to right and left, clearing the rocks by inches; the stern line kept it headed into the torrent; and foot by foot the boat crept up the falls. How the captain and bowman ever kept their balance as the boat rocked and pitched and seemed about to stand on end was a mystery to the boys, but with bodies swaying to the jerking, tossing craft they strained at their paddles--sweating, grunting, shouting, while about the bow the angry waters foamed and seethed and the hungry waves leaped above the gunwhales. For a moment the craft stood motionless, shaking and trembling to the terrific strain, and then human muscles and human brains won. The craft shot forward, the Indians yelled and rapidly gathered in slack, and the next instant the boat was safe from the torrent in a calm backwater above the falls.
“Gosh, that was great!” cried Tom, as, leaping from rock to rock, the boys made their way towards the boat.
“I’ll say ’twas!” exclaimed Rawlins. “But, by golly, if a rope had parted we’d have been in a nice fix.”
By the time the passengers were seated the lines had been coiled away, the Indians were once more in their places, and a moment later the boat was speeding upstream over a stretch of tranquil water.
But now the character of the river had changed. Sand bars and wooded islands broke its surface; the trees along the banks towered upward for over one hundred feet; the stream twisted and turned and flowed swiftly in dark, wine-colored currents between the islands; and even the birds and foliage seemed different. Little fresh water flying fish skittered away from the boat, great flocks of twittering swallows flitted about, clouds of brilliant yellow butterflies floated back and forth across the stream, and once or twice the boys caught glimpses of otters swimming in the river ahead.
In places, too, gaudy flowers that had fallen from the great trees covered the surface of the river with a solid mass of color, and the boat seemed to be passing over some gorgeous carpet, while the reflections of foliage and trees were so perfect that the boys had the strange sensation of being suspended in mid-air between two forests.
Very soon, however, the tranquil water came to an end and another series of rapids barred the way. Once more the men labored and tugged and dragged the boat up the falls, and time after time, as the falls were reached, the process was repeated. Then Mr. Thorne announced that they were approaching a really dangerous spot and as the boat rounded a bend the occupants saw a plunging, rock-strewn cataract, half hidden in the mist rising from the roaring water at its base. Here all the baggage was taken out and carried over the rocks and with only the empty boat the Indians and the Bovianders prepared for a tug of war with the falls. Over and over again they strove to gain a foothold on the slippery rocks, and a dozen times they were swept struggling downstream. But they laughed and yelled and shouted and seemed to enjoy the excitement and at last won a stand, waist deep in the flood, and by almost superhuman efforts dragged their craft to the water above the cataract. But the most dangerous part was yet to come. A short distance above the falls was a huge whirlpool--a dark, sinister mass of water in a basin of steep walled rock; deep, threatening, with its current rotating silently, swiftly around and around while, at its center, at the very vortex, masses of foam, bubbles and driftwood had been drawn and were constantly being sucked suddenly out of sight or thrust bobbing above the surface.
“Ugh! Isn’t that a nasty looking spot!” cried Tom. “Say, have we got to cross that?”
Mr. Thorne nodded. “Yes, just sit tight and don’t jump and you’ll be all right,” he declared. “If a paddle doesn’t break we’ll get through safely. It’s the only way and the worst spot on the river.”
As he spoke the captain was testing each paddle, examining the blades and handles for possible cracks and at last, with the baggage stowed snugly, the Indians and Sam in their places, Colcord told them that all was ready.
With fast beating hearts the boys seated themselves, Mr. Thorne, Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and Rawlins took their accustomed places and with a “Yip-yi!” from the Boviander the paddles dug into the water and the coorial shot out upon the swirling black surface of the pool.
With every ounce of their strength, with their muscles straining under their bronze skins, the men plied their paddles and Colcord and the bowman swung their weight upon their huge paddles at bow and stern. For an instant the boat hung motionless, the bow quivered and vibrated to the drag of the current and then the craft darted ahead. High above the gunwales boiled the maelstrom as the centre of the whirlpool was reached, the boat seemed actually to stand on end, it slid up a hill of water and ere the boys realized it was accomplished the coorial had dashed beyond the danger point and was safe in a narrow, swiftly flowing channel above the pool. And at this instant, just as the boat had gained safety, there was a sharp report and one of the Indians tumbled head over heels as his paddle broke short at the blade!
“Gee!” cried Frank. “It was lucky that didn’t happen a minute sooner!”
“I’ll say ’twas!” agreed Rawlins. “We’d have been goners if it had, sure.”
“A miss is as good as a mile,” laughed Mr. Thorne. “You have to trust a lot to luck in this work.”
“Same as in diving,” remarked Rawlins.
“Well, Colcord, I guess we can call this a day’s work,” said the explorer as the boat swung into the broader river and tranquil water. “Find a good spot and we’ll make camp for the night.”
The boat was soon run ashore, the tarpaulin was quickly stretched and the crew lolled about, glad of a chance to rest their weary muscles.
“I suppose we might as well listen and see if we hear anything,” suggested Tom, as Sam busied himself with the cooking.
“Yes, take every chance you get,” said his father. “We’re getting nearer and nearer to the spot all the time.”
But no sound came into the receivers and with Sam’s call to dinner the instruments were laid aside.
But when dinner was over, the boys once more adjusted their receivers and prepared to listen to anything that might be passing through the air. Tom clamped the phones to his ears, Frank turned the resonance coil about and as it pointed towards the south, Tom fairly leaped from his seat.
“Jumping Jiminy!” he exclaimed. “They’re talking!”
“What?” cried Mr. Pauling. “Are you sure? Get what they say!”
Tense with excitement, leaning forward with breaths coming fast, all were silent, listening with straining ears to the faint buzzing sounds from the instrument while Tom rapidly jotted down the message. “They’ve stopped!” he announced at last. “I guess--Gosh! What’s that?”
As he had been speaking, Frank, thinking the signals over, had turned around and as he did so, sharp “dees and dahs” once more issued from the receiver. Instantly all were again silent, glancing at one another with wonder and amazement on their features, for the signals were coming in with the coil pointed to the east! A moment later the sounds ceased and Tom handed the slip of paper to his father.
“By glory!” ejaculated Rawlins. “Some one must have answered them!”
“Sounded like it,” agreed Mr. Henderson. “But it couldn’t be any one on the Devon. We know she’s captured.”
“And it did not come from the direction of Georgetown,” said Mr. Thorne. “Whoever was sending that message is to the east--in Dutch Guiana I think.”
“It’s meaningless gibberish,” declared Mr. Pauling who had been studying the sheet of paper. “Just numbers and nothing more.”
“Cipher, of course,” commented Mr. Henderson. “Well, that proves they were talking to some one who replied. Otherwise the two messages would not be in the same cipher.”
“I can decode it--if I take time,” declared Mr. Pauling. “But I suppose if I do, it will be of little use--probably in Russian.”
“Well it’s blamed good news anyway,” cried the diver. “It proves the old rascal and the plane are still ‘topside’ as the Indians say.”
“And also that we haven’t rounded up all the gang yet,” added Mr. Pauling.
“No doubt they landed some one from the Devon,” suggested Mr. Thorne, “or already had confederates in Surinam.”
“In a way I’m glad they have,” declared Mr. Pauling. “Otherwise they’d not have any one to talk with. Better listen a while longer, boys.”
But no other signals came in and at last, yawning and tired, the two boys put away their instruments and with the others crawled into their hammocks and fell instantly to sleep.
CHAPTER IX—KENAIMA!
For the next three days the boat was worked steadily up the river; paddled swiftly through long stretches of tranquil water; hauled up falls; dragged through rapids and ever penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of the vast wilderness.
From time to time they had met Indians, sometimes individuals paddling silently close to shore in tiny canoes of bark which Mr. Thorne said were known as “wood skins”; sometimes families in big dugouts accompanied by flea-bitten, woefully thin dogs, naked brown children and all their household belongings, and once they had paddled up a creek and had visited a large Indian village where the boys had found a thousand things to interest them.
But while every Indian was questioned, few could give any information in regard to the plane, although many had seen or heard it as it had flown southward more than a week before.
Each day and every night too, the boys had listened at their radio sets, but no more messages from the plane had been heard and all had begun to think that the aircraft had departed and that the long journey would prove fruitless. The boys, however, had had the time of their lives. They had taken numerous trips into the bush with Joseph and the other Indians. They had shot deer, wild turkeys, peccaries and a tapir, while a splendid jaguar skin and two beautiful ocelot hides were safely stowed among their belongings as trophies of their prowess as hunters, and Rawlins treasured a huge snake skin from a twenty foot anaconda that he had secured.
Much of Mr. Pauling’s time had been spent trying to decipher the messages the boys had received from the plane and the “reds’” confederate, for it was his boast that there never had been a secret code which he could not interpret.
“I guess I’ve had my trouble for nothing,” he announced one afternoon. “I’ve got it, but as I expected, it’s in some foreign tongue--Russian most likely. Yet it doesn’t look exactly like Russian either. It’s not German, but whatever it is, it’s no value to us now. Of course, we can get it translated eventually, but I’d give a lot to know what it says.”
“May I see it?” asked the explorer. “Possibly I may be able to identify it, even if I can’t read it.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Pauling, handing him the sheet he had covered with writing.
Mr. Thorne glanced at the paper. “Why, it’s Dutch!” he exclaimed. “Here, Colcord, can you read this?”
The Boviander fished a pair of battered spectacles from his pocket, adjusted them low on his nose and looking, as Tom said, as grave as if he were about to preach a sermon, he peered at the writing.
“Yes, sir, Chief,” he declared after a minute’s study. “I ’spec’ I can. I don’ comprehen’ Dutch too much, Chief; but I can tell yo’ what it mean.”
“All right, what is it?” replied Mr. Pauling.
“This firs’ one say as how they need help,” declared the Boviander, as he ran his blunt brown forefinger along the lines. “It say how they bus’ up the apperatix an’ can’t fly an’ don’ have food.”
“By Jove!” cried Mr. Pauling. “That’s good! Machine disabled, eh? Good for you, Colcord, we’ll get them yet. Go on, what’s next?”
The Boviander grinned and peered about over his spectacles vastly pleased to find himself the center of interest and able to exhibit his superior knowledge. Then, again studying the writing, he continued:
“I can’t ’lucidate all the words, Chief. But here ’bout it say something ’bout the ship bein’ los’ and some fellow makin’ afraid for to talk.”
“Jove! then they know the Devon’s taken,” ejaculated Mr. Henderson, “and whoever was talking has got cold feet and has quit. That’s the reason we heard nothing more. Is there anything else, Colcord?”
“Plenty else,” replied the captain, “but this specie of Dutch I don’ rightly know, Chief.”
“Well, by the great horn spoon, we’ve found out all we want to know!” exclaimed Rawlins. “They’re here; they’re helpless--at least as far as getting away is concerned--and they’re short of grub. By glory! my hunch is working out O. K., I’ll say.”
Only two days’ travel now lay between them and the Maipurisi district where the plane was supposed to be and as they gathered about the camp fire that night, plans were discussed and formed as to their actions and procedure when they neared the hiding place of the two fugitive criminals.
“I think the best plan is to run up Unuko Creek,” said Mr. Thorne. “It’s scarcely ten miles across from there to Maipurisi and we can send a couple of the Bucks over to scout and report. Then, when we locate the plane, we can go overland, surround them and call upon them to surrender while we are hidden in the bush. As they can’t get off in the plane and have no boat or canoe, they’ll be helpless.”
“Yes, that sounds like a good scheme,” agreed Mr. Pauling, “but can you be sure your Indians will manage to keep out of sight? Moreover, if by chance they were seen or captured, are you sure they would not give away our presence?”
The explorer smiled. “If you’d ever seen one of these Indians stalk game you would not ask the first question,” he replied. “Do you notice that they always use small bore, muzzle-loading guns and double ‘B’ shot and yet they kill tapir and jaguar? They could only do that by getting so close to their quarry that the light charge of shot acts like a solid ball. In other words, they creep within a dozen feet of the most wary creatures in the South American jungle and an Indian who can do that could sneak into those fellows’ camp and be within arm’s reach without being seen or heard. As for being captured, why there’s no more chance than of capturing a ghost! And if by a miracle they were seen why should those rascals ever suspect the Bucks knew anything about them or us, or had any connection with officers whom they probably imagine are hundreds of miles distant? No, don’t worry on that score.”
At this moment a low, plaintive, long-drawn whistle was borne faintly from the forest across the stream and instantly the Indians leaped up and stood motionless, listening intently and peering apprehensively across the river.
Once more, from the black depths of the jungle, came the mysterious sound and hastily gathering up their half-finished meal, the Indians came crowding close to the group of white men.
“Eh, eh, Joseph! Why makeum for ’fraid like so?” queried Mr. Thorne. “What you sabby?”
Joseph turned fear-wide eyes and terrified features towards the explorer. “Kenaima!” he exclaimed in a whisper.
Mr. Thorne whistled. “So that’s it!” he ejaculated. Then, turning to the Indians, “No makeum ’fraid, Joseph! Kenaima no makeum walk this side. No huntum you fellow Buckman same way!”
“Please tell us, what does he mean?” begged Tom, utterly at a loss to understand what had frightened the Indians or what the explorer was talking about. “What is a Kenaima?”
“The blood avenger,” replied Mr. Thorne in a low voice. “If an Indian is killed, tribal law demands that his slayer must be destroyed, and not only the assassin must pay the penalty but all his relatives as well. The man chosen to wreak vengeance is the ‘Kenaima’ or, as the Indians believe, a man in whom the spirit of vengeance takes up its abode until its mission is accomplished. Until the Kenaima kills his victim he cannot see or speak to any living being, but must live alone, ever trailing the one he seeks until he has wreaked vengeance. He may chose either one of two forms--the ‘tiger Kenaima’ or the snake or ‘camudi Kenaima.’ If the former, he must strike down his man with a short club, if the latter he must strangle him, but in either case he must not kill his victim outright at once. Instead he must disable him and then return three days later when the wounded man is put out of his misery by the Kenaima driving a wooden spear through his body. Then the avenger must lick the blood from the spear or--so they believe--the spirit of vengeance will not leave and the Kenaima will go mad, ranging the forests and killing all he meets.”
“Uugh! it makes me shiver,” cried Tom, edging closer to his father and the fire.
“And I thought these Indians were peaceable!” exclaimed Frank as he glanced nervously about.
“So they are--usually,” declared Mr. Thorne. “But they have their own laws and customs and the Kenaima is one of them. Nothing can stamp it out.”
“By glory, I’d hate to kill one of them!” exclaimed Rawlins. “But what happens if the fellow gets away--reaches civilization for instance?”
“He never gets away,” the explorer informed him gravely. “The Kenaima is tireless, relentless. If one is killed, another takes his place and there are two deaths to avenge. Why, I’ve known a Kenaima to trail his victim into Georgetown and strike him down on the street!”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “And these Indians think there’s one about, eh?”
“They think that whistle was one,” replied Mr. Thorne. “I can’t say, but I know the Bucks claim the Kenaima warns friends to keep away by uttering a whistling sound. He must not be seen and the Indians are deathly afraid when they hear it. No power on earth could induce one of these men to cross that river to-night or to enter the jungle over there to-morrow.”
“Great Scott, I don’t blame ’em!” declared the diver. “Say, I wonder who the poor devil is that he’s after!”
“Gosh I won’t be able to sleep to-night,” said Tom. “It makes my blood run cold, just to think of it.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed his father. “Probably that whistle was merely a night bird of some sort. These Indians are superstitious and imagine all sorts of things. Besides, we have nothing to fear. None of us has injured an Indian.”
But despite Mr. Pauling’s assurances and the fact that after a time the Indians gradually drifted back to their own fire and crawled into their hammocks, the boys tossed and remained wakeful for hours, starting up at each unusual sound and listening with straining ears for the uncanny, mysterious whistle. But it was not repeated and at last, worn out and sleepy, the boys’ drowsiness overcame their nervous fears and the gruesome blood avenger was forgotten in a dreamless slumber.
With the bright sunshine of the following day it seemed very silly to have been afraid of the supposed Kenaima and the boys discussed it without the least shivery sensations running up and down their spines as had been the case the night before. But they noticed that as the boat left camp, the Indian paddlers kept close to shore and glanced furtively across the river and that even Colcord seemed to feel relieved when they reached a bend and the locality of the strange whistling sound was left astern.
But even then the Indians acted strangely. Heretofore, they had laughed and joked or had sung rollicking chanteys in unison to the strokes of their paddles, but to-day they were quiet, talking together in low tones, constantly edging the boat towards the center of the river, despite Colcord’s efforts and commands, and plying their paddles more vigorously than ever before.
“I believe there’s something afoot,” declared Mr. Thorne. “I’ve lived a long time among these people and I’m convinced they have a sixth sense--mental telepathy or something--by which they know intuitively when there is danger near and I’m beginning to think that there may be a Kenaima about.”
“Why don’t you ask them?” inquired Mr. Henderson.
“Torture wouldn’t force them to tell,” responded the explorer. “Even to mention the avenger by name is considered dangerous--I’m surprised that Joseph dared utter the word last night.”
“But if he’s only after one person, why should they he afraid?” asked Frank. “They know he’s not after them.”
“Very true,” replied Mr. Thorne. “But they fear that he may not have driven the spirit of vengeance from his body--if he’s killed his man--and that being the case he is liable to kill and attack any one.”
“Hmm, uncomfortable sort of chap to have at large in the bush,” commented Mr. Pauling. “Does that ever occur?”
“Yes, frequently,” said Mr. Thorne. “It may seem preposterous to us, but the Indians believe so thoroughly in their superstitions that if a Kenaima does not succeed in carrying out his entire purpose he goes crazy and does run amuck.”
“Ah, I understand, sort of auto suggestion,” remarked Mr. Pauling.
It was now time to think of stopping for the noonday rest and lunch and at Mr. Thome’s orders, Colcord headed the boat towards shore.
Instantly, the Indians stopped paddling, jabbered excitedly together and then one of their number spoke vehemently to the Boviander in the Akawoia tongue.
“He say they not goin’ make camp ashore, Chief,” announced Colcord. “They boun’ for to make stop at a islan’.”
Mr. Thorne raised his eyebrows, “Oh, very well,” he replied. “It’s just the same as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not taking any chances, I see,” laughed Mr. Henderson as the mollified Indians again took up their paddles and headed for a small barren island in midstream.
While Sam was cooking lunch, the two boys and Rawlins strolled about the island, hunting for turtle eggs in the sand and amusing themselves by chasing the big lizards that ran scuttling across the pebbles.
As they reached the upper end of the island, the river beyond a sharp turn came in view and the boys called the diver’s attention to hundreds of great black birds, wheeling and circling above the trees half a mile distant.
Rawlins looked at them a moment. “They’re buzzards,” he announced. “Vultures--wonder what they’ve found up there.”
“Gee, but there’s a bunch of them!” exclaimed Tom.
Then, at Sam’s shout, they hurried back to the boat and busied themselves with their meal.
As the boat once more moved upstream and passed the island, the great flock of buzzards still soared in the clear blue sky above the forest.
“What do you suppose they’ve found?” Frank inquired of the explorer. “They were there when we walked about the island. Isn’t it funny they don’t go down and eat if they’ve found a dead animal?”
“Possibly it’s a wounded creature,” replied Mr. Thorne. “They often follow a sick or injured animal until it dies. Or again there may be a king vulture there. The black rascals won’t dare touch carrion until the king’s gorged himself.”
“King vulture!” exclaimed Tom. “What’s he?”
“It’s a large species of vulture--light colored--sort of creamy white with red and blue head, and nearly as big as a condor. They always go singly and if one of them alights near a carcass, the black vultures keep off until he’s finished. That’s why they’re called king vultures.”
“I’d like to see one,” declared Frank. “Let’s go over and see if he’s there and what they’ve found.”
“Very well,” laughed Mr. Thorne, glad to humor the boys’ curiosity. “Whatever it is, is near the river. Colcord, run over to that point and we’ll have a look at what the buzzards are after.”