  Biff placed a hand on his friend’s arm. Why, Chuba was trembling! The realization of Chuba’s fear of the border patrol was startling to Biff. Chuba showed no such fear in the jungle. He wasn’t afraid of crocodiles, snakes, or tigers. He respected them as man’s natural enemies. But now, confronted with the border guard, Chuba was near panic. Biff thought back to Chuba’s talk about how easy it was to cross the border, how he said he’d crossed several times. When they were discussing this dangerous trip, Chuba had practically brushed the guards aside as no problem. But the fear must have been there, just the same. Chuba was a good actor. Biff realized just how much courage it must have taken on Chuba’s part to agree to guide him into China. He gripped the native boy’s arm in friendship and to reassure him. “Take it easy, Chuba. We’re all right. But let’s cut back down the trail and figure out what we can do.” Biff flashed a smile at Chuba and signaled the direction he meant to take. Chuba followed close on his heels like a puppy. After retracing their steps for about one hundred yards down the path, the boys ducked off the trail and found a hiding place behind a thick clump of bushes. For a few moments Biff talked quietly. He talked about Indianapolis, his home, about the United States. He talked about anything that came into his head. He wanted to calm Chuba down. “American talk,” he thought, would do the trick since it was Chuba’s favorite subject. Soon a weak smile came over Chuba’s face. “I’m sorry, Biff,” he apologized. “I’m sorry I act like chicken.” “That’s okay, Chuba. I’d have been scared, too, if I knew as much about the border guard as you do.” “I hear many things. All bad.” “Tell me honestly, Chuba. You said you’ve crossed over several times. Have you, really?” “Yes, Biff. Chuba not lie. Only,” he paused, “never any border guard around when Chuba slip over before.” “I see. Well, what do we do about it? You think the guard will stay there all day?” “Can’t tell. Much likely they will stay long time.” “I suppose so,” Biff said. He thought a minute. “It might be that there’s been a lot of slipping across the border here lately, and these guards have been assigned to stop it.” “I think you right, Biff.” Neither spoke for several minutes. Both were trying to figure a way out of the spot they found themselves in. “How about this, Chuba? Couldn’t we either go up the river a couple hundred yards or more, or down the river and slip across?” Chuba shook his head. “No, Biff. River narrow, run very quick on both sides of the clearing. Too deep. Jungle grow real thick and fierce right to water’s edge. Can’t get through.” “Well, we’ve just got to get across somehow. We’re losing time.” As Biff spoke, another thought was building in his head. “Now let me ask you this, Chuba. See if you think this plan might work. Supposing I cut off the trail about a hundred feet from the clearing. I’ll make my way through the underbrush to a spot say seventy-five feet away from the trail. You go hide behind that tree where we first spotted the guard. You follow me?” “Okay so far.” “Right. Then I’ll yell like a Comanche. That ought to distract the guard. They’ll try to find who’s making the noise. If they leave the clearing, you can slip across the river.” “Good idea, Biff. But how about you? How you going to get across?” “Same way. Only this time you do the distracting. You yell like a Comanche.” Chuba grinned. “Could work. But how does Comanche bird yell?” Biff decided to postpone his lecture on TV westerns until another time. “Don’t worry about it. Just yell like I do. We’ve got to try it. It’s our only chance. Now, if you get across all right, wait. Wait a good long time. By then, the guards will probably give up the search and return to their post in the clearing. I don’t imagine they like prowling around the jungle too much.” “No, too many wild animals.” “Okay. So, you’d better make your way a good distance from the clearing. Say you go to a place about a hundred yards opposite the river—downriver—so I’ll know where to listen for you. You’re going to be on the same side as the guards, so be sure you’re in a safe place and can make a fast getaway if they should come anywhere near you.” “Don’t worry about that. Chuba can hide good in jungle.” “All right, let’s get moving.” But neither moved for a few minutes. Both boys were reluctant to part company. They knew the danger lying before them. They might never see one another again, if Biff’s plan failed. “Now, where will we meet?” Biff asked. “You just keep running down path after you cross river. Get as far as you can. Then find good hiding place. When I know guard has gone back to clearing, I’ll move along trail making sound like a crow. Like this.” Chuba let out a soft “caw, caw.” It was an exact imitation. Chuba wouldn’t have any trouble being a “Comanche bird,” either, Biff thought. “Good. I’m off.” Biff pushed his way into the underbrush. It was tough going. The low, dense vegetation tore at him. Vines dropped like heavy curtains from the tall trees hiding whatever lay ahead. It was steaming hot. Biff wrestled the jungle growth, sweat streaming down his face and body. It must have taken him nearly half an hour to penetrate a distance of about 75 or 100 feet. Chuba could hear Biff making his way through the brush. At first, he didn’t move. He knew he had to go back to the clearing, but the thought was frightening. It took all his courage to force himself back up the path. But he knew that if he didn’t, he would let his friend down. Biff’s plan depended on Chuba’s being at the clearing at the right moment. Yet, if the plan misfired—Chuba shuddered. Back at the edge of the clearing, Chuba crawled on his stomach to where the low growth stopped. Carefully he parted the bush he lay behind. The peephole allowed him a full view of the clearing. They were still there. The two guards squatted on their haunches. One was munching some food. The other braced himself by holding onto the barrel of his sub-machine gun, the gun’s butt resting on the ground. Chuba inched backward. He took up his position behind the tree. Biff’s yelling could come any moment now. What would the guards do? Would they come charging across the stream to do their searching? Chuba didn’t think so. If they did, then they would be crossing the border illegally, although Chuba knew that often the guards paid scant attention to this regulation. What if only one guard took up the search, the other remaining behind to guard the clearing? One good thing, Chuba knew, was that from the direction Biff had taken, it might appear that the yelling came from the same side of the river that the guards were on. There was a sharp turn in the stream about thirty feet to the west of the clearing. If Biff made his way toward the riverbank, he might actually be behind the guards, but still on the side opposite from them. “Eeeeee-owieeeee!” The sharp, piercing scream rose above the constant chattering of the monkeys, the shrill calls of jungle birds. For a moment, the jungle became silent. The monkeys and birds were as startled as the two guards. So that was American bird yell! “Much wow!” Chuba was impressed. Chuba, moving slightly forward, saw the guards leap to their feet. They looked about them quickly. Both released the safety catches on their weapons. They raised their guns to firing position. “Eeeee-owieeeee!” Again the wild cry blasted through the jungle. The guards turned in the direction the cry came from. “Yow! Yow! Yow! Yow!” The series of short cries came in rapid succession. The jungle had never heard a sound like it. It could only come from a human being. One of the guards motioned in the direction of the cries. Then he started toward the spot. The other guard held back, until his companion turned and spoke to him in an angry voice. The two plunged into the undergrowth. Now was his chance. With his heart pounding, fear tightening his throat muscles, Chuba made his dash. He was in mid-stream when once more Biff let out a series of short cries, followed by a long “Eeeee-owieeee!” A good thing he did, too. His shouting drowned out the splashes made by Chuba as he raced through the water which tugged at his legs. Now Chuba had reached the opposite shore. He tore down the trail, his lungs bursting from his effort. When he felt the guards were well behind him, Chuba cut off to the left of the trail, spotted a hiding place, and dived under the sprawling bush. He lay there gasping for breath. How long he lay there, Chuba had no way of telling. Finally, he forced himself to his feet. Biff might already be at the tree, waiting for Chuba to take over his part in the action. Chuba moved along the path back toward the river. He moved cautiously, silently, making no more noise than a big cat stalking its prey. When he neared the clearing, Chuba went down to his hands and knees. Taking advantage of the cover offered by the low bushes, he crept forward. Again carefully parting a heavy bush, he looked into the clearing. The guards had returned. They were talking rapidly to one another. Chuba couldn’t make out their words, but he felt sure they were talking about the strange cry they had heard. They were probably frightened by it, and at this thought, Chuba smiled. He felt a lot better now. He had made it over the border. But even as he had this thought, he remembered Biff. Biff had to get across. Only half the job was done. Biff would surely be back at the tree by now. Time for more action. A frown of doubt crossed Chuba’s face. Would the guard be fooled a second time? Chuba went ahead with the plan. He walked back up the trail for one hundred paces. Then he slithered into the underbrush, crawling, forcing his way through the wall of thick, spiny growth. If he, Chuba, made the same kind of noise Biff had made, wouldn’t the guards’ suspicions be aroused? Already they would be tense, nervous. They hadn’t found anything the first time. Wouldn’t they just ignore a second set of strange “Yows” and “Eeeee-owieeees?” Chuba felt sure they would. So what could he do? He just had to help Biff cross. Okay, he knew what he would do. He could outsmart the guard in the denseness of the jungle. They would never be able to catch him. Chuba reached a position he thought would do. It was near the spot he and Biff had discussed, as far as he could figure. He took a deep breath, then, shouting in Chinese, he called out, “Help! Help! Strange man here! Strange man! Help! Help!” He waited. Moments passed. He repeated his call for help. Seconds later, he heard the crashing of the guards as they fought through the underbrush. Chuba waited no longer. He got himself away from the spot where he had called out as fast as he could wriggle his body along. He knew he had made a safe getaway when he could no longer hear the guards struggling against the brush. Chuba smiled to himself. He knew he was only about fifty feet from the trail. He sat down. He would wait, a long wait this time, to make sure the guard had gotten back to the clearing, and that Biff had had plenty of time to put a good distance between himself and the river. Chuba leaned back against the base of a tree. He felt good about the way things had gone. Suddenly, the noises of the jungle were drowned out by the most horrible noise of all—the angry, “bup, bup, bup” of a sub-machine gun’s fire. First there was a short burst. Another short burst. This was followed by a longer burst as several rounds were fired. Then, silence. |
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