  Night turned the Burmese jungle into a frightening enemy. Towering trees, teak, acle, ironwood, shot straight upward, so close packed and dense that they blotted out the starlit sky. Vines, some of them as thick as a man’s arm, were forever stretching low across the boys’ path, as if trying to hold them back from their bold venture. What bothered Biff most of all was the sickening smell of the jungle. Rotted vegetation gave off a rank, stifling odor. Biff had been in the jungles of Brazil, but they were nothing compared to the one he and Chuba were forcing their way through. During the two hours they had traveled in the waning daylight, their progress had been swift. Chuba knew the trails well. Sometimes, moving at a trot several steps ahead of Biff, the native boy would seem to be swallowed by hedges of low, thick brushwood. But he would reappear, parting the thick growth so that Biff could follow. Moving swiftly, silently, without talking, to conserve their breath, Biff was suddenly startled. From directly overhead came a chorus of angry screams. Biff stopped and looked up. “Only monkeys, Biff,” Chuba called back. “We wake them from their sleep, and they no like. Come.” Once again Chuba took up his steady pace. Thorny bushes grabbed at Biff’s already tattered clothes. Ugly scratches marked his legs. Most upsetting was the unexpected change from dry land into dank, oozing swampland. Chuba never stopped, or gave any warning of what lay ahead. Time and again the native boy plunged into a narrow stream. Once the water, muddy, almost hot, came up to Biff’s waist. As he neared the opposite bank, he halted a moment to look back. “Biff! Biff! Hurry! Out of the water!” Biff leaped for the bank just as a partly submerged log moved swiftly through the water to the spot where he had been standing. As it reached the bank, the “log’s” jaws opened, and Biff heard the chilling sound of teeth gnashing together. “Crocodile, Biff. Never stop in stream. Old croc might be hungry.” “If he likes mud-flavored boy, I’m his dish,” Biff thought. Biff heard the chilling sound of teeth gnashing together After traveling for six hours with only brief rest breaks, the boys were bone weary. Biff figured it must be midnight or a little after. They had reached a small clearing, a circle about thirty feet across. Toward one side a single ironwood tree rose high above the surrounding underbrush. “We stop here for the night,” Chuba said. “You ever sleep in a tree?” “Once. Didn’t find it very comfortable though. Do we have to?” “Is much better. This tree has nice big limbs. Find good crotch, settle in it, and sleep real good. Too many animals on the ground. Animals and insects. Big ants, geckos, even wild pigs. You know gecko? Is big, slimy lizard. Wild pigs don’t care who they eat. And ants sting real bad. Much better in tree.” Chuba stood at the base of the tree. “You give me push up to first limb. Then I can give you my hand to pull you up. Come on.” Biff didn’t reply, or move. His eyes were intent on a vine that hung down from one of the higher limbs. It seemed to sway slightly. But there was no breeze. “Back, Chuba! Back!” Biff shouted. Chuba leaped backward. Biff, fascinated, watched the “vine” stretch downward, then slither off the branch and plunge downward. “Python!” Chuba cried out. “Yes. Python. I’ve seen them before. Not pythons like that one, but boas. Boa constrictors of South America. They’re of the same family.” The boys now stood in the center of the circle. The python, nearly twenty feet long, seemed to stare at Biff and Chuba. Then it slowly slithered into the underbrush. Biff looked at Chuba. The native boy lowered his head. “Is Chuba’s mistake. Always, my father tell me to be sure and check sleeping tree for python. Chuba forget this time. If Biff not so alert, maybe python now be around Chuba’s neck instead of deep in forest.” “Any chance of its coming back? If it went up that tree once, why shouldn’t it come up again? And with us up there!” “Oh, no. Once snake scared away, it not come back. This Chuba knows. Python climb up tree to attack enemies by dropping down. Never climb up to find enemies.” “Well, I just hope you’re right. Come on, let’s hop into our upper berths.” “Upper berths?” Chuba asked. Biff explained, and the two boys climbed up the tree to their sleeping quarters. Biff watched Chuba as he nestled down on a stout limb forming a crotch with the trunk of the tree. Chuba stretched out backward, his legs on either side of the tree trunk. Biff did the same. At first, the position was most uncomfortable. Biff felt he had to keep his knees tightly pressed against the tree trunk to keep from falling. Gradually, though, he squirmed into a position where his legs dangled down, each touching the trunk with just enough pressure to keep him balanced. Some bed, Biff thought. Then, his body aching from battling his way through the jungle, Biff slept. Early in the morning, with the sun fighting to send its rays through the dense jungle, Biff was awakened by a call from just above him. Chuba was about five limbs higher up. “Good sleep, Biff?” Chuba called down. Before answering, Biff tested his cramped arms and legs. He was stiff all over. Sleeping in a tree might be safe, but it certainly was no featherbed. He knew though, that after half an hour in the hot, steamy jungle, he would sweat all the stiffness out of his body. “Guess so. I slept, anyway,” he called up to Chuba. “Then we go down, and be on our way. We should reach border in two more hours.” The sun had brightened the circular opening below, about the only spot where the sun’s rays could get through. Biff heard Chuba scrambling down from above him. Then he looked down and gasped. There in the center of the circle, stretched out asleep, was the most magnificent animal he had ever seen. “Hold it up there, Chuba,” Biff said softly. The scrambling stopped. “Can you see down through the leaves?” Chuba’s answering gasp told him that he could. The animal below, enjoying a morning snooze, was a tiger. Both boys held their breath, afraid that even the slightest sound might awaken the sleeping beast. Moments passed. Then, in a whisper, Biff asked, “What do we do now?” Chuba’s answering whisper came down through the leaves. “We wait, Biff. All we can do. If we try to scare him away, he get mad, wait for us to fall out of tree and eat us.” Chuba’s knowledge, Biff realized, was mixed up with superstition and tales handed down from one generation to another. Tigers, Biff knew, were man-eaters only in certain circumstances. A wounded tiger would attack a man. So would one so old that it could no longer get its food easily. Then, man, less quick, less nimble than the animals tigers usually fed on, could well become the evening meal of a tiger. Biff looked down at the sleeping animal. Its sleek, glistening fur told him that this was a young tiger. Its white furry underbelly was puffed out. That tiger had had a good meal, Biff knew. Probably caught his breakfast just before daylight, and now he was having a nice nap in the sun. “Is he still sleeping?” Chuba whispered. “Like a baby after its morning bottle,” Biff whispered back. Biff didn’t think the tiger would sleep too long. Not as the morning sun rose higher, and its fiery rays burned down on the opening. Once they hit Mr. Tiger, the animal would move off to a shady spot and complete his rest. As Biff watched the animal, the jungle suddenly came alive with the screeching, cawing, and screaming of hundreds of birds and animals. The tiger sat up quickly. It rose to its feet, its long tail switching back and forth. Then it opened its mouth in a gaping yawn, showing glistening white teeth and fangs. It turned its head from side to side, looking to spot any danger. “That noise from the monkeys,” Chuba called down. “Or maybe wildcats. They chasing the parrots. All very much mad at each other.” “Good for them,” Biff called back. “They woke up our friend down there. I think old tiger’s going to move along.” Biff watched the tiger. He saw it stretch, arching its back very much like any tomcat. It slowly trotted out of the clearing into the dense undergrowth. “Tiger’s gone, Chuba. We’ll wait awhile, then let’s take off from here fast.” Biff had no way of counting the passing minutes. He had left his watch back at Unhao. It would be a fatal error, he knew, if a Chinese beggar boy were spotted wearing a wrist watch. He forced himself to wait. He wanted to be sure that the tiger was long gone to another sleeping spot. The minutes went by as the sounds of the jungle grew louder and louder. Crows added their angry caws to the symphony of sounds coming from herons, silver pheasants, and other birds. “I think it’s safe now, Chuba. What do you think?” Biff’s answer was the sound of Chuba scrambling down from his perch. “Okay, Biff, we go.” The boys climbed down, dropping the final ten feet to the ground. Chuba opened his bundle and took from it two handfuls of cooked rice. They ate as they took up their trek once again, scooping up a handful of water from the first clear stream they came to. After traveling an hour, by which time the sweat was pouring off Biff’s body, soaking his ragged clothes, Chuba stopped. “We’re not far from border now, Biff. Maybe another hour, maybe less, until we get there.” “And where we cross there won’t be any border guards?” Biff asked. “Chuba doesn’t think so. Main road where guard always patrols is south of here, almost a day’s walk. Thus path we on leads to small, narrow river. River is boundary between Burma and China. Where we cross is a small clearing. River not deep there. Only up to knees. Easy to get to other side.” The other side was China. The thought sent a thrilling chill through Biff’s body. “We move with much quiet now,” Chuba said. “Stay close together. Might be others at clearing. Not guards, but maybe Chinese bandits. They use this path too, when they fleeing Chinese soldiers.” Biff and Chuba moved quickly but cautiously along the trail. Every few yards, Chuba would stop, straining to catch any unusual sound that might warn of danger ahead. At every hidden turn in the path, Chuba would crawl forward, then signal to Biff that all was clear, to come ahead. “We’re almost there now,” Chuba whispered. “Around next bend in path, we come to clearing and the river. Go slow now. Most careful.” The boys seemed to move ahead by inches. They neared the final bend. On reaching it, Chuba slipped off the path, pressing his body behind a large palm tree. Biff came up behind, looking over Chuba’s shoulder. They craned their necks around the tree trunk until the edge of the clearing came in sight. “Looks like it’s all clear,” Biff said. Chuba nodded his head. They left the protection of the tree. Darting from one low bush to another, they came to the edge of the opening. All was clear in the opening on their side of the river. Then, raising their heads, they looked across the thirty feet of water separating them from China. Both drew back quickly. Two men, wearing peaked, long-billed caps sat in the middle of the clearing on the opposite bank. Red stars on the front of their caps told the boys who they were. Not bandits, not others seeking a safe passage from one country to the other. These two men were members of the border patrol. The two ugly, snub-nosed sub-machine guns were further proof, if further proof was necessary. Biff shot a quick look at Chuba. For the first time Biff saw fear—stark terror—written on the native boy’s face. |
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