As the boat approached the spot, the boys saw that trees and rocks were black with the loathsome birds which rose on flapping wings as the craft touched the shore and the boys and the others sprang on to the rocks.
Whatever had attracted the scavengers was evidently just within the verge of forest and climbing the bank, Rawlins, who was in advance, saw a huge white and black bird flap up from a clump of grass a few yards away.
“There goes the old king!” he exclaimed.
Anxious to catch a glimpse of the great bird, the boys stopped and craned their necks and the diver stepped forward towards the clump of coarse grass.
The next instant a cry of mingled horror and surprise rang through the forest and Rawlins, pale and with a strange expression on his face, came hurrying back.
“Don’t go in there!” he cried. “Come on back to the boat, boys!”
“But what--what is it?” cried Tom. “What did you see? You look as if you’d seen a ghost!”
“Worse!” exclaimed the diver. “It’s a man! A man staked out--”
“A man!” yelled Frank and then, seized with sudden terror, the two boys turned and fled headlong towards the boat.
“You mean there’s a human body in there?” demanded Mr. Pauling who, attracted by Rawlins’ excited tones, had hurried forward. “Come on, brace up, Rawlins! A dead man can’t hurt you! We can’t leave a human being to be eaten by vultures.”
With a great effort, Rawlins recovered himself. “Guess it was the shock of seeing him,” he declared, rather shamefacedly. “But by glory, it is a rotten sight!”
“Rotten or not we’ll have to bury him,” declared Mr. Pauling. “He’s an Indian I suppose.”
“Indian nothing!” cried Rawlins. “That’s the worst of it! It’s a white man!”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “Who could it be?”
The next instant they had reached the thicket and at the sight which greeted them, even Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and the explorer drew back filled with nauseating horror.
Stretched at full length upon the ground was the body of a man, with a long staff of wood driven between his shoulders and pinning him to the earth. And then, as they took a second glance, horror gave way to amazement, for fringing the dead man’s face pressed against the forest floor was a huge red beard!
“Jumping Jupiter, it’s he!” cried Rawlins. “Old Red Whiskers himself!”
“And killed by a Kenaima!” exclaimed Mr. Thorne.
“Jove, no wonder those Indians were nervous!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling.
“I’ll say they had reason to be!” declared Rawlins. “But what in blazes started a Kenaima after this guy do you suppose?”
Mr. Thorne had stepped to the edge of the trees. “Come here, Colcord,” he called, “and bring a couple of shovels along. Better bring Sam too. No use trying to get one of the Bucks.”
But when the Boviander arrived, he took one glance at the body and then, throwing down the shovels raced back to the boat. Too much Indian blood flowed in his veins for him to approach a victim of the Kenaima and as he reached the boat a low, terrified wail arose from the throats of the Indians: “Kenaima! Kenaima! Kenaima!”
Leaping into the craft they seized their paddles.
“Come on!” shouted Mr. Thorne. “Run for your lives! They’re crazed with fear! They’re going off!”
Shouting to Colcord and the Indians, the explorer tore down the bank and across the rocks with the others at his heels. Already the boat was several yards from land, but as he heard Mr. Thorne’s commands and realized what he was doing, Colcord checked the boat, uttered sharp orders to the Indians and with Sam’s help swung the boat ashore. The four men and the boys leaped in and instantly the terrified Indians dug their paddles into the stream and drove the boat madly from the accursed spot.
“Too bad, but it can’t be helped,” muttered Mr. Thorne. “I hate to leave him, but there’s nothing to be done.”
“Well, he’s tossed many a poor devil to the sharks!” exclaimed Rawlins. “So I guess it kind of evens up things. But by glory, I’d like to know where his mate is.”
Far up in the Guiana jungles and strangely incongruous and out of place in the heart of the bush, a seaplane rested half drawn upon the shore of a small lake. High above the mighty trees it had flown from Georgetown, following the course of the great river stretching like a silver ribbon through the endless jungle and like a giant bird it had circled and swooped to the surface of Maipurisi Lake. For a hundred miles and more its occupants had seen no break in the forest, no sign of civilization, no house or clearing save the scattered thatched benabs of Indians or the small, half-cleared patches of forest that marked the red mens’ gardens. Hounded from one secret rendezvous to another, their submarine wrecked and many of her crew killed in a collision; with their own steamship blown up in St. John’s harbor and with a destroyer hot on their trail, the master mind of the gang of international rogues and his trusted assistant had sought refuge in the heart of unknown Guiana. Confident that they had thrown their pursuers off their track; certain that their fellows had hoodwinked their enemies and had wrecked the destroyer in the Bocas, and congratulating themselves on their clever ruse of boldly entering Denierara and departing in an airship while posing as explorers, yet the two rascals were taking no chances.
They well knew that the men trailing them were no amateurs; that they were matching wits with the most resourceful members of the Secret Service and they also knew that their enemies, by almost uncanny intuition, had foreseen and had checkmated their every move for weeks past. There was a chance that in some way their well-laid plans had miscarried: that the destroyer had escaped destruction, and that finding--as they inevitably must--that the story of the Devonshire was a myth and that an aircraft had left the Devon, Mr. Pauling and the others would leave no stone unturned to capture the ship and her crew. The two arch fiends had no desire to be present when this took place.
Months before this they had kept British Guiana in view as a last resort in case of just such an emergency as had arisen, for Van Brunt had told of an ancient ruined city hidden in the heart of the unexplored district. A city of a prehistoric race upon the shores of a great lake and within the ruins of which were vast stores of golden ornaments and bullion. But he had never divulged the exact locality of this lost and supposedly fabulous golden city of Manoa--the El Dorado that sent Sir Walter Raleigh on his travels. Van Brunt was no fool and he knew his fellow rogues too well to trust them with his secret, but he had sworn that, should occasion arise, he would accompany them and guide them to the lost city.
But Van Brunt had met a sudden and violent death upon the tramp and his secret had died with him. Not until the two men in the plane had looked down from the clouds upon that vast, illimitable sea of green stretching away in billowing hills to the distant mountains, did they realize what a hopeless task it would be to locate the city by the lake. That mattered little, however. For the present, they planned merely to hide for a short time, to await word from confederates in Dutch Guiana that the coast was clear and then, by an easy flight, travel into the Dutch colony, gather their men together to resume their interrupted activities and wreak vengeance on those who had relentlessly hunted them down. So, having left every trace of civilization far behind, and feeling confident that even the Americans would never dream of attempting to trail them into the heart of the hush, they selected Maipurisi as a promising spot and swiftly dropped to the smooth surface of the lake.
But fate was against them. As their great plane dropped below the tree tops and, with the cessation of the motor’s exhaust, skittered across the black surface of the forest lake, an unseen, undreamed of snag lay hidden among the lily pads and with a rending, sickening sound, the thin skin of their boat was ripped open for a dozen feet. The propeller had not ceased to revolve and realizing their one chance lay in making the shore, the pilot switched on the motor and slowly the crippled plane dragged across the few hundred feet of water until its bow grated on the sand.
With the after half of its hull submerged, injured beyond repair, but safe from sinking, the now useless aircraft rested like some huge wounded bird in the shelter of the overhanging trees.
Cursing and raging, the two men clambered out. Their plight was indeed serious and none realized it better than they. The machine in which they had expected to fly so easily to the Dutch colony was absolutely useless; they had no boat, canoe or other craft and to tramp through the bush to civilization would, they knew, be practically impossible, even had they known the way. They were as effectually stranded as though marooned on a desert island in mid-ocean and, worst of all, they were not over supplied with provisions. They had counted on staying but a few days in hiding and had carried supplies accordingly and now, for all they knew, they might be weeks in the jungle. They had no firearms save their automatic pistols and as neither was familiar with the bush or an experienced hunter, they felt sure that they would starve before they could secure enough game to keep them provided with food if they had to do their killing with their pistols.
Their only hope was in their radio. With this they could communicate with their friends and make known their plight, but even if their fellows in Surinam started out to rescue them they knew it would be many days--weeks perhaps--before their friends could traverse the country and paddle up the rivers to the spot where they were stranded. Moreover, they did not know their exact position. They had followed the courses of the Demerara and Essequibo rivers in a general way, but they had cut across forests between the streams and their map showed no lake to correspond with Maipurisi. And worst of all there was no one at fault, no one to blame but fate and so, to relieve their feelings, they cursed their pursuers, cursed their luck, cursed everything and everybody until they could curse no more.
But swearing did no good. The parrots screamed and the monkeys chattered mockingly from the tangled tree tops. A bold carrion hawk cocked his head on one side and screeched derisively and a big alligator, lifting his head cautiously above the surface of the lake, cast a baleful eye upon them and promptly submerged.
Then, realizing that whatever the future held they must live for the present, the two men ceased their futile ravings and busied themselves salvaging everything possible from the crippled plane. The radio set was unhurt, their pistols and ammunition were safe; they found matches in watertight containers and there was a small ax. But much of their food was ruined. It had been stowed in the hull and while the canned goods were of course uninjured, the flour, sugar, salt and dry provisions were water soaked and ruined.
Between them and starvation were provisions for less than three days, aside from what game they might be lucky enough to obtain, and as they once more commenced to curse in half a dozen languages, the rain came down in torrents. Their only shelter was the plane and splashing through the water they clambered aboard and shivering and drenched cowered in the protection of the broad wings. Chilled to the bone, utterly miserable they sat there, until at last, unable to endure it any longer, the huge red-bearded giant jerked out an oath and leaping ashore, gathered wood and pouring gasoline over it succeeded in starting a fire.
Encouraged by the warmth, both fell to work and ruthlessly cutting struts and stays, dragged the wings of their machine ashore and by dint of hard work managed to brace and guy them into position to form a water-tight shed. A portion of another wing served to keep their bodies from the sodden ground and had they been well supplied with food their predicament would not have been so bad.
Misfortunes seldom come singly, however, and when, in somewhat more cheerful mood, they attempted to get into communication with their friends by radio, they discovered that the apparatus would not work. Fortunately for them, the red-bearded man was an expert mechanic and electrician and he diligently set to work. The motor was still in good condition and after he had overhauled the instruments and had set them up on shore the motor was started and the batteries recharged.
All this took time, however, and in the meantime the slender stock of provisions was dwindling at an alarming rate. They tried adding to their larder by hunting, but with no success. The birds kept high in the trees, the pheasants and wild turkeys they flushed gave them no chance of a standing shot and the only animals they saw were agoutis that flashed out of sight like streaks of brown light and a few monkeys romping among the branches far above their heads. They had no knowledge of trapping, they possessed no fishing tackle and when, in desperation, they succeeded in shooting an alligator, the creature promptly sank and was lost. Knowing nothing of the bush and fearing to poison themselves, they refrained from eating the berries, fruits, and nuts which they found. Had they but known it, they could have sustained life for weeks on the Souari nuts and palm berries that were abundant all about their improvised camp.
Even the narrow trails and paths through the forest were meaningless to them and their untrained eyes could not distinguish between the game trails and an Indian pathway which led to a large Akuria village less than five miles distant. And when at last their radio was in working order and they sent out their first message calling for help and the answer came back, their worst fears were realized. The Devon had been taken, those on board were prisoners and their friends in Surinam not only stated that they were suspected and dared not attempt an expedition, but added that the Americans had left for the bush, that they were even now in the interior and that to attempt to communicate by radio would be merely to divulge their whereabouts to Mr. Pauling and his party.
Resourceful, bold and self-confident as the two were, yet now they could see nothing but death or capture in store for them. Indeed, if some miracle did not intervene, death would most certainly be their portion, for they well knew that to be taken prisoners meant an end on the gallows or in the electric chair for them and both vowed to take their own lives before submitting to their pursuers.
But as long as they were alive there still remained a chance that they might escape. The Americans might fail to locate them--although knowing that the boys possessed the latest devices in the way of radio instruments they were confident the messages which had passed between themselves and their confederates had been heard--and in the past they had always managed to slip out of the tightest places by some means.
Their one hope was in a boat, in a craft of some sort in which to navigate the lake and the rivers. They swore and racked their brains striving to devise some means of constructing a raft or a makeshift which would float. With their single, short-handled ax it was an impossible task to cut trees large enough to support their weight--and even had it been possible this would require so much time that the last of the food would be gone ere they could embark. Then they attempted to make use of the plane’s wings and although these floated, the men’s weight sank them so low that the hollow surfaces were ankle deep with water. Moreover, they were too clumsy and unwieldy to navigate.
In every effort, every plan, they were balked and then, when their case seemed utterly hopeless, fate suddenly seemed to favor them. In a despairing attempt to secure something to eat, the two had pushed through the forest until, a mile or more from their stranded aircraft, they had come out at a small, dark creek and there, drawn upon the bank, was a canoe. Beside it a naked Indian was squatting, cleaning a string of fish and the next instant the two desperate men had leaped from cover and had seized the dug-out. The Indian, startled at this sudden and unexpected appearance of the unkempt, wild-looking men, had uttered a frightened cry, and dropping his fish, had sprung away. But as he saw the strangers taking possession of his craft and realized they were human beings and not spirits or “bush devils” he rushed to the canoe, jabbering excitedly in his native tongue and strove to prevent the rascals from shoving his boat into the stream.
But he might as well have essayed to stem the flow of the river or to argue or plead with the forest trees. The “reds” were desperate; a human life more or less meant nothing to them and the red-bearded giant whipped out his pistol and fired. With a gurgling moan the Akuria staggered back, swayed drunkenly and dropped limply upon the muddy shore. The murderer, seizing a paddle swung the canoe into the creek and headed it towards the lake.
But their crime had been witnessed. Unseen among the trees, a mere brown shadow in the jungle, the dead Indian’s companion had peered from his hiding place and had seen all. And although the two in the canoe never dreamed of it, they were nearer to death at that instant than ever before in their lives of crime.
Slipping a tiny arrow into his long blowpipe, the watching Indian rested the deadly weapon across a low-growing branch and with a puff of his breath the fatal dart flashed silently through the air straight at the red-bearded fellow’s chest. But at the same instant the man leaned backward to avoid an overhanging limb and the tiny messenger of death sped by and dropped harmlessly into the water unseen and unsuspected by the intended victim. Before another dart could be fired, the canoe had slipped behind a bend and the Indian, baffled, stepped from his hiding place and hurried to the side of his dead tribesman. A single glance sufficed to show that he was beyond human help and only stopping to cover the body with broad palm leaves, the Akuria sprang into the jungle and silently as a shadow raced along a dim and indistinct trail toward the distant Akuria village.
As he came into the clearing and uttered the moaning wail that told of death, the Akurias swarmed about like a hive of angry bees. Instantly two men were despatched in a canoe to bring in the body of the murdered Indian and with scowling brows, flashing eyes and vehement gestures, the villagers gathered about their wrinkled old chief, demanding vengeance. Gravely the old man spoke, promising that tribal law and tribal customs would be followed to the letter and as the women and boys drifted back to their huts, the chief and the older men entered the great, conical-roofed house in the center of the village and seated themselves in a circle with the younger men standing about.
Presently, from his sacred hut, the “peaiman” or medicine man approached, his face concealed by a baltata mask, a gorgeous feather crown upon his head, strings of tinkling seeds about his neck, his body hideously painted and bearing a calabash rattle in one hand and a carved and decorated staff in the other.
Prancing and dancing, chanting a low, monotonous dirge, the peaiman moved through the silent throng of Indians to the side of the fire in the center of the immense house. Squatting beside the flames, the medicine man made mystic figures in the air with his wand, muttering in a low voice meanwhile, and punctuating his words with angry shaking of his calabash rattle. At last he straightened up, fumbled in the monkey-skin pouch at his side and drew forth a bundle of feathers tightly wrapped with bark fiber so that only the ends of the quills were visible. Holding the bundle forth, the medicine man spoke and gravely and silently the men approached, each in turn drawing a feather from the bundle.
As the plumes were drawn from their covering and showed green, red, yellow or blue, sighs or low moans came from the lips of those who drew them, until at last, the Indian who had witnessed the murder of his fellow approached and drawing a feather, uttered a cry of triumph as he held it up for all to see. The plume he had drawn was black as night!
The next second he had slipped away and the gathering Indians, preceded by the medicine man, filed from the house and squatted on the bare ground without; all eyes fixed upon a small hut near the edge of the forest. Presently from this, a weird figure emerged. Upon its head was a halo-like crown of macaw feathers, and about its shoulders and waist were mantles of ink black plumes of the Curassow or “powi.” From head to foot the copper brown skin was hidden under a coat of scarlet paint striped and spotted with black and white, with two staring eyes and a grinning, fang-filled mouth painted upon the chest. In one hand he held a long bow and arrows, in the other a short, carved, paddle-shaped club of dark, heavy wood.
Stepping to the edge of the jungle, the man turned and faced the silent waiting tribesmen. For a moment he stood there, motionless as a statue, and then, with a swift movement, he tore off his feather headdress, cast it on the ground, tossed his bow and arrows beside it, whirled his club about his head and with a ringing, blood-curdling scream, leaped into the forest and disappeared.
The tiger Kenaima was on the murderer’s trail!
With hopes revived the red-bearded man and his companion paddled their stolen canoe up the creek and after some trouble reached the lake where their dismantled plane was drawn upon the shore.
Now that they had a craft all their cocksureness had returned to them, for they knew that in the maze of waterways they could escape from their pursuers. Now that luck had again turned in their favor they had no fears but what they would ultimately reach some port where they would be safe. Moreover, the matter of food did not trouble them. They knew that there were Indians scattered through the forest. Van Brunt had told them that all the Guiana tribes were mild, peaceable people and they felt confident that they could wrest supplies from the red men even if they had to shoot them down to accomplish their ends.
But they were not such fools as to start out without some supplies and necessities. There were still a few provisions remaining in their shelter, as well as matches and other necessities, and beaching their canoe, they hastily gathered what belongings they desired and pushing off deserted their hapless airship with a curse and paddled towards the nearest river. Before they had started, however, they had studied their maps and had laid their plans. Although the Maipurisi Lake was not shown, they knew in a general way where they were and they judged that Mr. Pauling and his companions would follow the shortest and most direct route, for they did not delude themselves with the idea that the Americans were ignorant of their hiding place. In fact, they felt confident that their radio conversation had been overheard and while it had been in cipher and in Dutch at that, they had too much respect for their enemies’ intelligence and experience to assume that the Secret Service men had been unable to translate their messages.
The leader, like all successful crooks, always acted on the theory that those who sought him knew far more than he planned to have them and he invariably made his plans accordingly. So now he reasoned that they would have information that the plane had passed over Wismar headed southward, that they would follow up the Demerara River and that having heard his radio signals and thus having located him, they would cut across by one of the streams that led towards Maipurisi. Accordingly, he decided that the only safe route was to make their way to the Essequibo, descend that river and then, before they reached the outskirts of civilization, follow some tributary that led westward to the Venezuelan boundary. Once in that republic they would be far more secure than even in Dutch Guiana, and, moreover, in order to reach the Dutch colony they would be obliged to cross districts where Mr. Pauling’s party had already passed and where, no doubt, watch would be kept for them.
But for once the crafty master mind of the cutthroat gang had reasoned erroneously. He had not taken the Indians into consideration; he did not dream that these primitive savages were the most observant of people; that an airplane, even flying thousands of feet above their villages, would be heard and seen and would cause such wonder and fear that the news of its passage would be spread far and wide. It never entered his mind that the Americans were accompanied by Indians and were guided by a man who had spent years in the bush and was thoroughly familiar with Indian ways and Indian character. And so, as, mightily pleased at the good fortune which had fallen them, the two men headed their canoe westward towards the Essequibo, they were running straight into the clutches of their enemies.
Had they but known of the sharp eyes that watched their every movement and of the sinister being who, armed with the sacred Kenaima club, was threading the jungle in their direction, they gladly would have sought the Americans, for the punishment which awaited them in the Courts of Justice was nothing compared to the awful vengeance that lurked in that hideously painted savage on their trail.
In their aircraft, speeding through the sky at eighty miles an hour, the distance from the great river to the lake had seemed nothing. From far aloft, the country had been spread like a map beneath them and from the height of a few thousand feet the lake had appeared close to the big river with only a few miles of winding, forest-fringed creeks connecting the two. But they soon realized that what seemed a short run by aircraft was interminably long when paddling along the twisting waterways in a canoe. They had expected to come out upon the bosom of the Essequibo by nightfall at the latest, but sundown found them still upon the dark and dismal creek surrounded by jungle. As they knew that they could not go on in the darkness, they were compelled to stop and camp for the night.
Fortunately the red-bearded fellow had had the foresight to strip some of the waterproof linen covering from the plane’s wings and this they erected for a tent. They built a rousing fire and tired out with their unaccustomed labor of paddling, stretched themselves on another strip of linen and prepared to sleep. They were no longer worried, all their self-confidence had returned and they joked and laughed to think how the Americans would have all their long trip for nothing and would find only the useless, deserted aircraft at the end of their journey. Their one regret was that they could not be present to gloat over the discomfiture of their enemies and to see their puzzled looks and hear their comments when they found the fugitives flown and were utterly at a loss to fathom the means of their escape.
But despite their feeling of security, they were uneasy. They had nothing to fear for they knew there were no hostile Indians in the country; they had the utmost contempt for any wild animals and they were armed and could protect themselves even if they were attacked. Yet as the hours passed and the myriad strange noises and calls and cries of the wild things shrilled and grunted and croaked through the jungle, the slender highly strung leader tossed uneasily on his hard couch and found himself staring, wide-eyed and sleepless into the blackness of the night. His companion--brutal, phlegmatic and absolutely without nerves, was snoring lustily, and ashamed of his ridiculous fears, the other tried to follow his example.
Then, just as he was dozing off, a low unearthly cry reverberated through the forest, a blood-curdling moan, rising and falling in weird cadence like the wail of a Banshee. At the sound, the noises of frogs, insects and night birds ceased as with one accord and an awful deathly silence followed. With a sharp cry of terror the man sprang up, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin, shivers running up and down his spine and yet his companion slumbered on.
Never in his life had this unprincipled, heartless villain known the meaning of fear, but like all of his sort he was an arrant coward at heart and, though he would be the last to admit it, thoroughly superstitious, and that awful cry, ringing through the midnight forest, was enough to bring terror to the bravest man.
In a vague way he knew that jaguars dwelt in the forest, but Van Brunt had often talked of the bush and had laughed at the idea of a jaguar attacking a human being. It never entered his mind that the moaning scream, like that of a tortured soul, was merely the hunting cry of the big spotted cat. To him it was supernatural, something that could not come from a form of flesh and blood, and trembling and shaking he cowered there under his shelter with straining ears listening for a repetition of the awful sound. For a space he was tempted to arouse his sleeping comrade, but pride stopped him. The red-bearded fellow had not heard the cry, he would scoff at the story, would claim his comrade had been dreaming or had had a nightmare and would curse at being aroused, and so he kept his vigil alone, starting at each sound of crackling twig or rustling leaf, gasping when a frog plumped with a splash into the creek and shivering as he crouched beside the fire.
But the minutes passed, the cry was not repeated, the frogs and creeping things resumed their chorus and at last, utterly exhausted, the man threw himself upon the rough couch and slept.
With daylight the memories of the terrors of the night seemed scarcely more than a dream and, indeed, the man tried to convince himself that it had been a dream and forebore mentioning it to his companion. But all through the day, as they paddled down the creek, he was nervous. He had a strange unaccountable sensation of being followed and from time to time he glanced back, half expecting to see something--he did not, could not imagine what--behind them. So strong was this feeling that when noon came and they stopped for lunch, he insisted upon landing at a small island in the creek and as the red-bearded man had long been accustomed to obeying his chief without question, he made no comment and followed commands.
Throughout the afternoon they paddled on and again sunset found them upon the creek and they began to fear that they had lost their way, that through some error they were following the wrong watercourse and that they would not reach the river by continuing. And yet they could not see how this could be. They had passed no branches or other creeks of any size, the water still flowed in the direction they were going and reasoning that it must eventually empty into a larger stream, they dismissed their fears on this score, decided that they had miscalculated the distance and the speed of their canoe and prepared to camp.
The leader, however, had no desire to repeat his terrifying experiences of the preceding night and once more he headed the canoe for a tiny islet in the stream. Leaving his companion to start the fire and prepare for the night, he followed about the shore of the island, pushed through the tangle of brash, investigated it thoroughly, and convinced that there was nothing on the place which could possibly be feared, he returned with an easier mind to the camp.
Feeling perfectly secure, he soon fell asleep beside his comrade, but his slumber was uneasy; he awoke from a fearful nightmare shaking as if with fever and tossing an armful of dry wood on the dying fire, he squatted near it. Suddenly, from a tree above his head, an owl uttered its mournful cry and so frazzled were the man’s nerves that he jumped and yelled in alarm. Drowsily the red-bearded fellow opened his eyes, mumbled an oath when the other confusedly tried to explain and was soon snoring again. Ashamed of his fright at the owl, the leader threw himself down and closed his eyes, blaming his own foolishness. But though the monotonous chirping of insects and the soft gurgle of the water lulled and soothed, he found himself still straining his ears for any unusual sound and was as nervous as ever.
Once he thought he heard the sound of a cautious footstep and instantly he sprang up, cocked pistol in hand and peered anxiously into the shadows. For a brief instant he seemed to glimpse a moving, shapeless form and raising his weapon he was about to fire, but his hand shook and trembled so he could not aim. Before he could steady himself by an almost superhuman effort, there was nothing to be seen but the dark sluggishly flowing creek and the ghostly outlines of the trees.
But sleep was out of the question. For hour after hour he sat wide awake and with every sense alert until the gray dawn broke and the shadows of the night gave way to the faint morning light. Rising, he stepped towards the canoe and as he crossed the narrow strip of muddy shore between the water’s edge and the fire he halted in his tracks, staring with unbelieving eyes at the ground. Plainly visible in the oozy soil were the imprints of naked human feet!
Some one had been there in the darkness! Some one had crept about the camp, and with fears once more aroused, but with murder in his heart, the fellow cocked his pistol and hurriedly strode about the islet. But there was no sign of a human being. No boat, no mark of a canoe having been drawn ashore; only those footprints near the fire, footprints which came from nowhere and led nowhere. As far as appearances went the being who made them might have dropped from the sky and afterwards have taken flight on wings.
All of the man’s superstitions were now aroused and regardless of his companion’s possible sneers and scoffings, he shook the slumbering red-bearded fellow awake and showed him the footprints. But the burly rascal gave little heed to them, declaring they were merely footprints of some Indian and might have been there for days. Swearing vociferously that he didn’t see what there was about an Indian’s track to cause worry anyway, he vowed that he for one would be glad to run across an Indian or an Indian village in order to get food, for unless they gained the river and managed to secure provisions they would be facing starvation as there were barely two days’ rations remaining.
But even with this very real and pressing danger confronting them, the memory of the mysterious footprints were uppermost in the leader’s mind. He was brave enough in the face of real danger; as long as tangible enemies were to be met he had nerves of steel, and he had never quailed when peril threatened. But this nerve-wracking, haunting fear of an unknown, invisible something was beyond his control and somehow he could not avoid connecting the terrible wailing cry he had heard with the strange footprints on the island. And then, just before noon, the creek widened and, through the trees ahead, the broad river came into view and a great weight seemed lifted from his mind as the dismal creek was left behind.
Just below the mouth of the creek they stopped for their midday rest on a jutting, wooded point. The meal over, the red-bearded man yawned prodigiously, vowed he was going to have a nap before going farther and lighting his pipe, threw himself down in the shade of a tree. The other, all his fears flown, now they were on the big river and with the bright sunshine all about, remarked that he would wander off in the hope of finding game and filling the magazine of his pistol with cartridges, he fastened the canoe securely, and puffing contentedly at his pipe strolled up the bank into the forest.
There was little undergrowth, the huge trees, with their outjutting roots and their drapery of trailing vines and lianas, stood well apart and treading softly and glancing here and there, the man walked among the trees with pistol cocked and ready.
From the lofty branches bits of falling fruit and nuts told of birds or other creatures feeding among the leaves; the hoarse yelping of toucans sounded from the foliage; occasionally, a macaw uttered its raucous scream and unseen parrots screeched and squawked. Once too, a troop of great, red, howling monkeys crashed off through the tree tops, leaping from branch to branch and uttering hoarse barks of protest at the intruder. But no creature appeared within pistol shot and at last, thoroughly disgusted and realizing that he and his comrade were wasting valuable time and should be on their way, he turned about and started to retrace his steps towards the river.
The next moment he halted in his tracks, shaking with nameless terror. His thin-lipped cruel mouth gaped, the ever present monocle dropped unnoticed from his eye, the hand that grasped his weapon trembled, for once again that awful, blood curdling scream had echoed through the jungle.
For a moment he stood, as though frozen to the spot, and then, thinking only to escape from the shadowy mysterious forest, to reach his companion and the canoe, he dashed forward and raced panting towards the river. Once again, and seeming close behind him, came that maniacal wail and madly he tore downstream, leaping from rock to rock, plunging to his knees through the shoal water, while from the depths of the jungle wavered and rose and fell the tiger’s call with a note of triumph and mockery in its unearthly cadence.
As the terrifying sound ceased and the fear-mad man came in sight of the point, he gasped and halting stared about with unbelieving eyes. The canoe was gone!
Instantly, his unreasoning terror of the screaming cry was forgotten, for here was something real and tangible, a calamity so great it drove all superstitious fears, all imaginary dangers from his overwrought mind. He had left the boat securely fastened and he could not imagine how it had gone adrift. But the fact had to be faced, the only chance was to hurry down stream in the hopes that they might find the canoe stranded on a bar or point, and cursing his companion for sleeping and thus permitting the craft to drift away unnoticed, he shouted to the other at the top of his lungs. But there was no response, no answering cry, and swearing at the soundness of the fellow’s sleep, he raced up the bank to arouse him by more forcible methods.
Then once again he stood staring in incredulous amazement. The red-bearded man was not there! Beside the tree his pipe was lying on the ground, the imprint of his bulky body still showed upon the soft ferns and tender leaves, but the man himself had vanished.
Then the master criminal burst out with such a torrent of abuse, oaths, curses and epithets as should have caused the very leaves to shrivel, for now he realized what had happened. It came over him in a flash, goading him into a frenzy of anger. His companion had deserted him. His nap had been but an excuse, a ruse, and taking advantage of his leader’s absence, he had made off with the boat and the slender stock of food, leaving his comrade to perish there in the heart of the wilderness.
Then, his stock of expletives and profanity exhausted, realizing the utter uselessness of raving at the empty air and with his ungovernable temper somewhat relieved, his reason returned and calmly, with determined mind, he looked the matter squarely in the face.
His case seemed utterly hopeless, but was it? Was it not possible for him to win out? Back there by the lake their predicament had seemed equally without hope. They had thought that only by a miracle could they escape and the miracle, in the form of an Indian and a canoe, had happened. And with the thought of Indians new hope surged through him. To attempt to make his way downstream over the rough and rocky shores and without food or shelter was, he knew, impossible; but there was a chance, a slender chance, that there might be an Indian camp in the vicinity. He could do without food for a day or two he felt sure, and perhaps, by summoning all his strength, all his indomitable will power to the effort, he could manage to reach an Indian village. To be sure he did not know if such existed, he had no idea in which direction to go, but even if he perished from hunger and exhaustion in the forest, it would be preferable to standing here beside the river and cursing the villain who had deserted him and who was now, no doubt, miles down the stream.
Possibly, he thought, he might find a trail or a path and feeling that action of any sort was better than inaction, he started into the forest, searching the ground for a trail. A moment later he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, for there, faintly visible among the weeds and broad-leaved plants, was a narrow pathway leading inland.
Encouraged and not stopping to think that it might be a game trail leading nowhere, he stepped forward along the almost indistinguishable path. A score of paces ahead was a tangled thicket of high grass into which the trail led and hurrying along, he pressed through the herbage. The next instant a piercing cry of horror rang through the jungle, startling the birds in the tree tops and silencing the chattering monkeys.
Lying face down upon the grass, his head resting in a pool of blood, was the body of the red-bearded man pinned to the forest floor by a spear driven between his shoulder blades!
The horrified man gave a single glance at the lifeless, bleeding form and then, utterly bereft of his senses, crazed with terror of the unseen, mysterious assassin, he turned and dashed blindly, madly, from the spot.
Unheeding, unreasoning, he raced among the trees, stumbling over rocks, tripping on upjutting roots, ripping his clothes as he tore through thorny vines and palms, barking his shins, crashing into trees in his headlong flight, until utterly exhausted, he sank limply to the earth.
How long he lay there he did not know. Possibly he lost consciousness, possibly his half-crazed mind was incapable of judging time; but when at last he raised himself and glanced about, the sun was low in the west and new terrors filled him as he realized that he must remain in the jungle throughout the night. But his first nameless, unreasoning, mad fright had passed and while he was still weak and trembling, his mind was clear and he knew that if he ever was to escape from this dread forest he must have shelter and a fire. Near him a huge mora tree spread twenty-feet, slablike, buttressed roots and between two of these he would be somewhat protected. Gathering a quantity of dead branches and twigs, he piled them near the tree and after a few futile attempts had a roaring fire going. He was desperately hungry, but food was out of the question, and seated between the mora roots in the grateful warmth of the blaze, he steeled himself to withstand the gnawing pangs of his famished stomach.
Presently there was a scratching sound above him, a bit of bark dropped upon his head and glancing quickly up he saw a squirrel clinging to the trunk of the tree and gazing wonderingly at the intruder. Quickly raising his pistol and taking careful aim, the man fired and at the echoing report, the little creature dropped lifeless at his feet. Quickly he skinned and cleaned the animal and ere the flesh was cold had spitted it on a pointed stick and was broiling it over the fire. It was a pitifully small morsel for a hungry, tired man, but it was far better than nothing and ravenously he devoured the half-cooked, blackened flesh. And as he did so the thin lips smiled and a look of satisfaction spread across his features. If he could kill one squirrel he could kill more--or perhaps larger game. He had learned a lesson of the bush; he had discovered that by sitting motionless the wild things could be found more readily than by moving about. He vowed that he would yet win out, that he would escape and would reach civilization despite fate and his enemies.
With his hunger somewhat appeased he leaned back against the mora roots and mentally determining that he would not again give way to craven fear, he strove to dismiss the thoughts of the spear-pierced body of his dead companion.
But he could not forget it, could not drive it from his mind, and despite every effort he found himself dwelling on the subject, wondering how and by whom the red-bearded giant had been killed. That it was the work of Indians he knew--the spear thrust through the body proved that--and he felt that the redskins who had done the deed had also taken the boat. Perhaps, he thought, that was it, possibly the Indians had followed them to recover their craft and surprising the white man asleep had murdered him. But if so, why was he not lying dead beneath the tree where he had been sleeping? How did his body happen to be some distance away in the thicket? It was a puzzle, a mystery. The fact that “red-beard” was dead did not trouble him, or at least it would not have troubled him had he possessed the canoe. Rather it would have been welcome, for it would have meant more food for himself. He had seen and dealt out swift and sudden death too often to feel the ordinary man’s horror of murder or a dead body, but for some unaccountable reason this was different. There was something strange, something mysterious about it and then there were the nervous, groundless fears he had endured while they had been upon the creek.
This brought to mind the awful screams he had heard and he shivered as he thought of them, but there were no unusual sounds in the forest now, all seemed peaceful and at last he dropped into a deep sleep.
With morning came hunger and bearing in mind the squirrel of the previous evening, he peered about, searching for some other creature to kill. At last, with a gleam of almost savage satisfaction, he saw a plump, long-legged black and gray bird stepping daintily among the trees and with another lucky shot secured it. He now felt sure that he would not starve and having cleaned, picked and broiled the trumpet bird, he rose, stretched himself, adjusted his monocle, which by some miracle had escaped destruction in his mad flight, and glanced about.
Then, for the first time, he realized that he did not know in which direction the river lay. With the discovery he cursed vociferously in his native German and then burst into a mirthless laugh. After all, it made little difference. He was gambling on chance, on the faint hope of finding an Indian village, and, as far as he could tell, one direction was as promising as another and so, scanning the earth in the hope that he might find a trail, he walked from his temporary resting place through the forest.
A few hours later he came upon a small brook or creek and, knowing that if he followed this he must eventually come out somewhere, and finding the bed of the stream an easier road than the jungle floor with the cool water comforting to his blistered, aching feet, he splashed along ankle deep in the stream.
He had wisely refrained from devouring all of the trumpet bird and now, feeling hungry and seeing nothing to shoot, he seated himself on a fallen tree and munched the bird’s drumsticks. Throughout the afternoon he tramped on, forcing himself forward by sheer will power, for he was exhausted by the tramp, his feet were swollen and sore, he was half starved and his skin was scratched, bruised, barked and bitten by insects. Then, when he felt that he could go no farther, that perhaps after all the best thing to do would be to put a bullet through his own head, he smelled smoke. There was no question of it, he sniffed the air and knew that near at hand was a fire, that he was close to a camp or hut, that there were fellow men not far away and, leaving the stream and following the scent of pungent wood smoke, he hurried onwards.
Stronger and stronger became the odor. Now he could see the faint bluish haze among the trees and feeling that he was saved, that food and help were near, he hurried forward. A moment later he saw the fire, a smouldering pile of branches, and with a despairing cry he flung himself down. The fire was his own! Close to it were the great mora roots where he had spent the night; all about were scattered the feathers of the trumpet bird. He had traveled in a circle, had come back to his starting point and all that heartbreaking, terrible tramp had been for nothing!
Utterly done up, thoroughly discouraged, feeling that he could do no more, he lay there striving to summon sufficient courage to place his pistol at his ear and pull the trigger. Then to his dulling senses, came the sound of a stealthy footfall and roused to sudden interest, he raised his head, glanced about and cocked his pistol as he did so. And at the sight which met his eyes, he was galvanized into life and action. Within ten feet of where he lay, crouched a hideous, terrifying apparition, a figure red as blood from whose chest glared two huge, painted eyes and a fang-filled mouth, a figure whose matted tangled hair framed a face demoniacal in his expression of mingled hate and fury and whose upraised hand grasped a heavy, hardwood club.
With a yell that rang through the forest, the white man whirled and throwing up his pistol pulled the trigger. But at the same instant the avenger leaped like his tiger namesake, the bullet whistled harmlessly past his head, the club descended and his victim sank with a moan. With the savage, terrible cry of the jaguar gloating over its kill, the Indian stood above the huddled motionless form, fierce eyes watching for the slightest movement, club upraised.
Then suddenly, he turned, listening intently, as to his keen ears came unexpected sounds, the noise of a boat’s keel grating on rock and the shouts of men.
For a brief instant the avenger hesitated, then with a bound he vanished in the shadows and from the depths of the forest came his mocking, triumphant cry--the bloodcurdling, awesome wail of the jaguar, He had accomplished his purpose. His murdered tribesman was avenged.
For some time after their precipitate departure from the spot where the red-bearded man’s body had been found, those in the boat remained silent.
The Indians, frightened and with all their primitive superstitions aroused, plied their paddles and glanced fearfully first at one shore and then at the other, but uttered no words. Colcord, half Indian as he was, shared his copper-skinned companions’ terror to some extent and kept the boat in midstream, swinging her wide of each point and islet. The boys, still shuddering at the horrible sight they had seen, were subdued and too much impressed to talk; Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and the explorer were deep in thought and even the irrepressible Rawlins had no comment to make in the face of this awful tragedy.
But as the point where lay the gruesome remains of what had once been the red-bearded giant was left behind and the trees hid the circling birds of ill omen from sight, the spirits of those in the boat revived and their thoughts turned to the future and what might lie ahead of them. There was now but one man to search for, the chase had narrowed down, but this very fact added to their problems and reduced their chances of success.
“As you remarked, Rawlins, I would like to know where the other man is,” said Mr. Pauling, breaking the silence. “There’s a deep mystery here.”
“I’ll say there is!” assented the diver, “but the whole thing’s been one darned mystery after another, ever since the boys first heard those signals back in New York.”
“Yes and they’ve usually solved themselves as they arose,” Mr. Henderson reminded him. “But it looks as if this one would never be solved. I’m afraid the answer died with that chap back there in the bush.”
“And I’m afraid we’ll never set eyes on the chief of the rascally gang,” declared Mr. Pauling. “I expect he’s come to a violent end also.”
“What puzzles me,” said Mr. Thorne, “is why they left their plane and how they became separated. Of course, there’s a chance that they wrecked their machine in landing or that some accident happened to it later or perhaps they tried to fly away and came a cropper, but even then it seems natural that the men should have remained together.”
“Perhaps they were,” suggested Mr. Pauling. “Isn’t it possible that they were attacked and one was killed while the other escaped?”
“No, I hardly think so,” replied Mr. Thorne. “The avenger never attacks a victim openly--the very nature of his vengeance precludes that. His only weapon is a short club or his bare hands and he’d have no chance against a well-armed man and still less against two. No, he invariably sneaks upon his victim while the latter sleeps or is off his guard.”
“But are you sure that fellow was killed by a Kenaima?” asked Mr. Henderson. “Isn’t it possible they had a quarrel with the Indians and that he was struck down and his comrade taken prisoner or carried off wounded?”
The explorer shook his head. “There are no hostile Indians in Guiana,” he averred. “They are all peaceable and would never dream of quarreling with white men, no matter how great the provocation. Besides, there’s not the least doubt that he was the victim of Kenaima--the wooden spear through his body proves that--and there was no sign of a struggle. No, that man killed an Indian and thereby sealed his own doom. It’s quite possible that his companion was innocent and was not included in the Kenaima and hence was unharmed, but if so, where can he be?”
“I’ll bet old Red-whiskers deserted his bunkie and skipped off,” declared Rawlins. “Then he did up a Buck and got what was coming to him. Let’s beat it for the plane--maybe the Grand Panjandrum’s still over there waiting for his mate to come back.”
“By Jove! that’s a possible solution to the puzzle,” exclaimed Mr. Pauling, “and even if he did not desert he may have gone off on a hunt and while away killed an Indian. Yes, I think we’ll find the answer at the plane--if we can find it.”
“It’s a plausible theory,” admitted Mr. Henderson. “But there’s a flaw in it. How did the victim of the Kenaima cross this river? Mr. Thorne says Maipurisi is to the east and as far as we know the fellows had no boat.”
“Hmm, that’s true,” mused Mr. Pauling. “Looks as if we’re up against another mystery.”
“Perhaps they carried a folding boat or found an Indian canoe,” suggested Tom.
“Yes, that’s possible,” agreed his father, “but whatever the explanation our best plan is to go to the plane at once. How far are we from Maipurisi, Thorne?”
“A good long day’s paddle,” replied the explorer. “Taguma Creek flows from the lake and empties into this river about three miles above here. We might make the lake by to-morrow noon.”
“Well, whatever’s happened has happened within the past four days,” declared Rawlins. “They were there and talking by radio then. How long should you think that man had been dead?”
“Impossible to say,” replied Mr. Thorne. “Probably not over two days. If he’d been there longer than that, there would have been nothing but bones left.”
“Gosh! the last time they talked they were asking for help,” cried Frank. “Perhaps the Kenaima was after them then.”
“You’re right!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “That must have been it. They knew their danger and probably tried to escape. But why didn’t they get off in their plane?”
“Search me!” said Rawlins. “Let’s get hold of old Monocle Eye and ask him!”
Suddenly Colcord bent forward, shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed ahead. “They’s a coorial yander!” he announced.
Instantly all turned and peered forward to where, barely visible among some rocks, they could now see a dug-out canoe apparently deserted.
“Run over and let’s have a look at it,” Mr. Thorne commanded the captain.
Swinging his big steering paddle and with a word to the Indians, the Boviander turned the boat from its course and headed for the little derelict.
As they drew near, they saw that it was drawn upon a ledge and was secured to the rocks and so placed that it was completely hidden from view except when approached from downstream.
“Odd!” ejaculated Mr. Thorne. “Some one left it here, but where can they be? This little pile of rocks wouldn’t conceal a rabbit and it’s fifty yards from shore. Funny place to leave a boat.”
The next moment they were alongside and as Rawlins leaned over and peered into the craft, he uttered a surprised exclamation. “By glory, it’s theirs!”
“Jove, you’re right!” affirmed Mr. Pauling.
There was no doubt of it. In the canoe was a Luger pistol, a cartridge belt, a few cans of food, a short-handled ax and a roll of kahki-colored cloth.
Rawlins leaped into the coorial and examined the various articles.
“Now what the dickens do you suppose they left their pistol for?” he cried as he picked up the weapon. “And they were off for a trip too--took grub along and a tent. Hello! Their plane’s done for! Look here! This cloth’s the covering of one of her wings!”
“I’ll he hanged!” exploded Mr. Henderson. “Then they had deserted the machine and were getting off in this canoe. They can’t be far away!”
Rawlins laughed. “I’ll say one of ’em’s a blamed long ways off!” he cried. “But the other chap may be hanging about. Great Scott, he may be watching us from shore now!”
At the diver’s words every one started and glanced at the forest-covered banks as if half expecting to see the leader of the “reds” peering at them from the foliage. Then Sam, who had been holding to the rail of the canoe, leaned over and reaching into the bottom of the craft picked up some object and examined it.
“Tha’s a cur’ous lookin’ feather, Chief,” he remarked, handing his find to Mr. Pauling.
“Hmm, ’tis odd,” agreed the latter. “Guess they must have killed some bird.”
Joseph, who was seated next to Sam, had turned and as he saw the soft, curled black plume his eyes seemed about to pop from his head, his mouth gaped and in a gasping whisper, he exclaimed, “Kenaima!”
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Thorne, as with one accord every Indian wheeled about and sat staring with frightened eyes at the innocent black feather in Mr. Pauling’s hand. “How you sabby him Kenaima, Joseph?”
“Me sabby too much!” stammered the terrified Indian. “No likeum, must for makeum walk plenty quick this place!”
“What does he mean?” asked Tom who could see nothing in the little feather to cause such excitement and terror in the Indians.
“He means that feather came from the Kenaima,” replied the explorer, “and I’ll swear he’s right. The avenger always wears a girdle or mantle of black Powi feathers--the Indians believe they are magic and render the wearer invisible--and this feather is from a Powi and has been used in a cape or girdle. You can see where the quill has been split and stripped--the way the Indians always prepare them when making feather ornaments.”
“Then the Kenaima’s been here!” exclaimed Frank, “Uugh, let’s get out of here.”
“Not till we get at the bottom of all this,” declared Mr. Pauling decisively. “If these fool Indians are frightened by their superstitions, I’m not and they’ll have to get over it, Kenaima or no Kenaima.”
The Indians were now jabbering excitedly in low tones and Mr. Thorne was doing his utmost to quiet them and allay their terror.
“No makeum ’fraid!” he admonished them. “This fellow Kenaima long time gone. You sabby him no makeum Kenaima for Buckman. Him killum white fellow like so! Him makeum gone topside same way. This fellow Mr. Pauling good frien’ Kenaima, him want killum bad white fellow all same Kenaima. Him gotum plenty peai--plenty peai. Must for no makeup ’fraid. Must for do all same him tellum.”
Somewhat reassured and quite willing to believe--after having witnessed and heard the radio messages--that Mr. Pauling and his friends had “plenty peai,” and seeing no reason why a white man should not be traveling into the bush on a little “Kenaima” of his own, the Indians quieted down, although they looked askance at the innocent feather and breathed a sigh of relief as Mr. Pauling tucked it into his pocket.
“What do you make of it, Thorne?” he asked. “You’re the only one who knows the bush and the Indians. How do you account for this boat with the rascals’ property in it, being moored here in midstream and with a feather--which these Indians claim is from the Kenaima--in it also?”
“I can’t account for it,” replied the explorer, “but I can offer a theory. It is quite possible that the Kenaima trailed the men, that he saw them land here and that he examined their boat after they had left and dropped one of his feathers. Or again he may purposely have placed the feather here as a token that he was on their trail--not stopping to realize that it would mean nothing to them.”
“Hmm, but why should they land here and how did that red-bearded rascal get miles below here to be killed?” queried the other.
“That baffles me,” admitted Mr. Thorne. “And the fact that the pistol is here adds to the mystery. If they started out to hunt, or went ashore for any purpose, it seems unreasonable to think they would not carry their weapons.”
“Well, we know it’s no use going on to Maipurisi and trying to find their plane,” declared Mr. Henderson. “It seems to me we’ve come to the end of the trail and might as well go back. Wherever the other villain is, it’s hopeless to try to locate him.”
“I’ll say it’s not!” contradicted Rawlins. “He’ll come back to his boat and we can lie low and nab him when he does.”
“Provided he lives and hasn’t seen us, perhaps,” said Mr. Pauling.
“Well, I’ve a hunch he’s not dead and he can’t go on, without a boat or grub,” argued the diver. “I vote we sneak in somewhere and hide and wait. If he don’t come back by dark we won’t be any worse off than we are now.”
“We might as well try that scheme,” agreed Mr. Thorne. “He may be off in the bush hunting for his comrade and if he hasn’t seen us, he’ll return in time as Mr. Rawlins says.”
“Very well,” assented Mr. Pauling. “I’ll try anything once and it’s one last chance.”
Accordingly, the explorer explained to Colcord what was wanted and the Boviander, after a few words with the Indians and peering about the shores of the river, swung the boat clear and, rounding the tiny rocky islet, headed for a dark and shadowy creek that emptied into the river several hundred yards upstream.
They had proceeded but a short distance when one of the Indians turned and said something to Colcord in the Akawoia tongue. Instantly, the Boviander sniffed the air and muttered a reply.
“What’s up, Colcord?” demanded Mr. Thorne.
“They’s a fire here ’bout,” replied the captain. “Don’ you smell him?”
“Yes, I believe I do!” exclaimed the explorer also sniffing. “Cautiously, Colcord--if there’s a fire there must be men. We may be close to our quarry. Go silently and we may surprise him.”
At the surprising news that there was a camp fire near, every one grew tense with excitement and expectancy, for while there was a chance that it might prove to be an Indian encampment, yet there was also a chance--and a very promising one--that it might be the fire of the fugitive they sought. Moreover, even were it an Indian’s fire the man they were hunting might be there and silently they waited as with noiseless strokes of their saddles the Indians urged the boat towards the bank, following the scent of pungent smoke as unerringly as hounds on the trail.
They had almost reached the rocky shores and, with weapons ready, the men were preparing to leap ashore and dash into the forest towards the thin wisp of blue haze that was now visible among the trees, when from the jungle ahead, the sharp report of a pistol rang out. So totally unexpected and startling was the sound that even the stolid Indians uttered cries of alarm and surprise.
“By glory, he’s seen us!” exclaimed Rawlins. “Missed us though--come on! Over the top, boys! We’ll--”
His words died on his lips as from the dark forest came a quavering, blood-curdling scream; an unearthly awful sound.
“What in blazes is that?” cried Rawlins, as the boat grated on the rocks and he sprang ashore.
“Jaguar!” snapped out Mr. Thorne. “He must have fired at the beast! Come on!”
But before he could leap onto the rocks the Indians had seized their paddles and with terrified cries of “Kenaima! Kenaima!” were struggling madly to push the boat from shore.
“Stop that!” commanded Mr. Thorne. “No makeum fool!”
But his orders were unheeded, the Indians were panic stricken. The next second Sam had leaped forward and with his huge black hands was cuffing the cowering Indians right and left. Wrenching the paddles from their grasps he heaved them onto the beach. Almost before the others realized what had happened, the Bahaman sprang onto the rocks, the boat’s painter in one hand and his paddle in the other.
“Ah guess he won’ humbug yo’ no more,” he announced grinning. “Yo’ go ’long, Chief. Ah’ll ten’ to these boys!”
“I’ll say you will!” cried Rawlins and realizing that Sam was perfectly capable of “tending” to the Indians and the boat, he dashed up the bank followed by the others.
As the diver reached the first trees, the jaguar’s cry again came from the jungle, but faint and far away, and the next moment Rawlins uttered a shout.
“Here he is!” he yelled as with drawn revolver he leaped towards a smouldering fire. “But by glory, I guess the jaguar’s beat us to it!”
Huddled near the fire was a ragged, human form. As the diver and the others bent over the body, they knew that their search was over, for instantly all recognized it as that of the master criminal they sought. Dangling from its string was a cracked monocle; a German automatic pistol was lying by the outstretched hand, and blood was oozing from a great gash across the back of the man’s head.
“It’s he!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “But Rawlins is right--that jaguar finished him.”
Mr. Pauling had torn open the fellow’s tattered garments and was listening at his chest. “He’s not dead!” he announced. “Just knocked out. Hurry up, get the first aid kit and fix up his wound. He may live to answer for his crimes yet.”
Mr. Thorne had been examining the ground about the unconscious man and as Tom and Frank rushed back to the boat for the first aid kit, he stooped and examined the bloody wound on the man’s head.
“You’re dead wrong about one thing,” he announced in grave tones. “No jaguar made that gash--and there’s not a sign of a jaguar about.”
“I’ll say there was!” declared Rawlins. “By glory! Didn’t we hear him yell?”
The explorer smiled. “That was no jaguar,” he replied positively. “I’m not surprised the Indians were terrified. This man was struck down by the Kenaima!”
“What!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling, looking up in amazement. “You mean to say--”
“That we arrived in the nick of time to save this rascal from the fate of his red-bearded friend,” declared the explorer. “The avenger crept upon him and struck him down, but was undoubtedly frightened off by hearing us approach--remember he cannot be seen by human beings until his mission is accomplished--and he had no time to finish his job.”
“By glory, you’re right!” exclaimed the diver who had been examining the earth while Mr. Thorne spoke. “There’s a trail of bare feet leading away from here, but nary a track of a big cat.”
“Well my thanks to the Kenaima,” remarked Mr. Pauling. “I guess you hit nearer the mark than you thought when you said he was ‘plenty good fren’ of ours. But I’m mighty glad he didn’t finish this chap off. Dead men tell no tales and I’ve hopes this rascal will live to tell a lot.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that poor devil of a Kenaima lad,” declared Rawlins. “According to Hoyle, as you might say, he’ll have to go on bumping people off indefinitely as long as he didn’t run a stick through the old High Muck a Muck here.”
Mr. Thorne chuckled. “I don’t think you need worry over him,” he responded. “I expect he’ll consider that as long as he did a good job with the other victim, he’s fulfilled the spirit if not the letter of the law. But I’d like to know what these two rascals did to bring the Kenaima after them.”
“I’ll say they did a plenty!” said Rawlins. “Leave it to them to do dirty work--even if they’re in an uninhabited jungle.”
“Well they won’t do any more,” averred Mr. Pauling who, with the others’ assistance, was dressing and bandaging the man’s wound. “If we get him out of the bush alive, he’ll rue the day he ever went into the jungle.”
At last all that could be done was accomplished and the still unconscious man was lifted to an improvised stretcher and carried to the boat. The Indians were still sullen and Colcord wore a scowl, his spirits evidently ruffled, as he carried on a wordy argument with Sam who stood guard, holding the rope with one big fist and a threatening paddle with the other.
Placing the wounded man on his stretcher beneath the arched awning in the stern of the boat, Mr. Pauling called the Bahaman aboard, the explorer ordered the Boviander to push off, and the Indians, vastly relieved at being able to get clear of the spot, seized their paddles and swung the big coorial into the stream.
“I suppose it’s ‘home James,’ now,” remarked Rawlins. “We’ve got the goods--even if they are damaged, and by glory, I’m dead sorry it’s all over but the shouting.”
“So am I,” declared Tom. “Gosh, it’s hard to believe the excitement’s over and the man we’ve been after so long is really captured.”
“Gee, yes, and isn’t it too bad we can’t radio to Colonel Maidley that we’ve got him?” put in Frank. “I wish we had our sending set here.”
“Jehoshaphat!” ejaculated Tom, a sudden idea coming to him. “Perhaps we’ll have some excitement yet--I’d forgotten about the loot. Perhaps this fellow’ll tell us where ’tis.”
“Little chance of that,” declared his father. “He’d die with the secret, just to baffle us. Hello, he’s coming to! I’m sorry to do it, but we’ll have to put irons on him, Henderson. No knowing what he may do when he finds himself here.”
“Yes, it seems inhuman to manacle an injured man,” agreed Mr. Henderson as he rummaged in his kit bag and got out handcuffs. “But we can’t afford to take chances. He’d drown himself in a moment rather than go to trial. But we’ll be as merciful as we can. Just lock one wrist and ankle.”
An instant later the steel rings snapped about one of the man’s wrists and an ankle and Mr. Henderson snapped the others to the boat’s timbers. A few minutes after he had been thus secured, the fellow opened his eyes and looked about; but there was no sign of recognition in his glance, and mumbling a few incoherent words he again closed his eyes. Mr. Pauling poured a glass of water and put it to the fellow’s lips and he gulped it down eagerly, but said nothing.
“Off his bean a bit yet,” commented Rawlins, “and I’m not surprised. That was an almighty wallop he got.”
“Possibly he may never regain his senses,” said Mr. Pauling. “It will be a mercy for him if he doesn’t.” Then, glancing about, he exclaimed, “Here, where are we going? Have them swing this boat around, Thorne.”
“Aren’t you starting back?” inquired the explorer in surprise.