  While searching among the ruins of the old Don’s castle early that morning, Pant found an ancient field glass that had by some chance escaped destruction. A clumsy model it was, and of such ancient design that it might well have been a present from Queen Isabella to Columbus. It was a powerful one, for all that, and would serve his purpose well. The old Don readily consented to loaning it. With this new treasure in his pack, Pant struck off toward the hills. He had gone a short distance when disturbing thoughts came to him. “Something may happen to my film,” he told himself. “I must not forget.” Not willing to depend entirely upon memory, he took sheets of paper from his pack and stuck four of them together with the sticky juice of a wild vine. Painstakingly he traced as well as he could the outlines of his grandfather’s concessions and of the rival companies, as shown by the film. Having done this, he rebound his pack and continued on his upward journey. “Soon,” he thought as he traveled on, “perhaps to-morrow, we may begin operations.” He had a glorious mental picture of the light on his grandfather’s face as he saw a hundred Caribs at work on their concession and saw in it a promise of a rebuilt fortune. “Chicle gathering,” he thought. “What a strange way to amass a fortune! Yet how sure.” As he closed his eyes he saw the work begun. The Carib Indians—great bronze men, one time cannibals, now partially Christianized and caught in the spell of white man’s influence, had always been friends of his grandfather, as they had been of Kennedy and of every true man. “The old Colonel will appeal to them,” he thought to himself. “They will respond. They will flock to his banner. A hundred, two hundred strong, shouldering axes and machetes, they’ll march into the jungle.” He had a mental vision of what would follow. In the heart of the jungle a camp site would be chosen. Palms would be felled, rude shelters would be formed. After this the real work would begin. Scattering out through the jungle, the Caribs would search out the largest, most promising sapodilla trees. These, by the aid of their bare toes and a single strap, they would scale to a distance of thirty or forty feet. Beginning at the top, working their way round and round the trunk, they would cut in the bark a spiral groove reaching to the ground. Down the groove sap from the bark would ooze. When a sufficient quantity had reached the canvas sack placed at the bottom of the groove, it would be collected and carried to camp where, in a huge copper kettle over a great fire that blazed merrily, the sap would be boiled down. When the chicle had cooled, it would be kneaded like bread dough until it was thick enough to form in cakes. Then it would be poured into moulds and allowed to harden. After that, packed two cakes in a gunny-sack, it would be carried on Caribs’ backs to the nearest stream. By pit-pan to the sea, then by sailing schooner to the nearest shipping point, Belize. “And then,” he sighed, “our work is done. The Central Chicle Company will take it off our hands. They are the real exporters.” His heart warmed as he saw the long rows of black and brown men and seemed to catch their weird chant as they marched on the first lap of the long journey with the freshly gathered chicle on their backs. “We will succeed,” he told himself. “We must!” One other thought came to him at that moment, a rather vexing thought. He would return to the Maya cave. Sooner or later he would go back and enter in search of the mysterious metal box he had seen there. “And if I should find the beaten silver box,” he said to himself, “if the pearls should still be within, after all these years, to whom would they belong?” “Finders keepers,” an old adage, kept running through his mind. Yet this did not quite satisfy him. This problem was soon dismissed from his mind. He had business before him. He had reached the rocky crest of the hill that lay at the back of the old Don’s pasture. From this promontory one might command a view of the valley below and might trace the course of its main stream, the Rio de Grande, for a distance of thirty miles. Hardly had he reached this observation post and spread his crude map out before him, than the smoke of a score of campfires rose lazily up from the jungle valley some ten miles away. “That’s well within our territory,” he said with a start and an exclamation of anger. “That’s Diaz. He has already begun operations on our trees. He is very bold. He takes too much for granted. But we—we’ll show him!” He clenched his fists hard. But what was this? Off to the right, scarcely three miles distant, a second smoke rose above the tree tops. “Who can that be?” he asked himself. At once his mind was in a whirl. That it was not a second group of Diaz’s men he knew well enough. Men in the jungle always huddle in one group. Perhaps it is fear of that unknown peril that lurks in the jungle that causes them to do this. Who can say? Enough that this is a custom of the land. “Can it be that the Central Chicle Company is also poaching on our ground?” he asked himself. “It does not seem possible. And yet, who else can it be? “I must know,” he resolved. “I will see.” At that, following the bed of a stream, he struck boldly down through the jungle toward the spot where the first camp site smoke still rose. For two hours he fought the jungle. Scrambling down a water drenched ledge, battling the clinging bramble, creeping low beneath a growth of palms, and racing down the trunk of a massive fallen mahogany tree, he forced his way forward until he found himself on a steep ledge looking upon the winding sweep of the river. Here he paused to stare in astonishment. Less than a year before a mahogany company had logged a wide strip next to the river. The jungle had not yet retaken the clearing. In the midst of this cleared space, some hundreds of yards apart, stood two bands of men. Axes flashed from their shoulders. Here and there the two foot blade of a machete gleamed. “It—why it’s as if they were lined up for battle! Who can they be?” The boy’s breath came short and quick. He took the old field glass from his pack and focused it upon the two groups of men. The band over to the right were of mixed lineage, some Spaniards, some half-castes, some blacks. He could guess this from their postures and the garments they wore. “Diaz,” was his mental comment. “But the others?” A tall, thin man, wearing a khaki suit and a helmet, stood out before the others. Unquestionably he was a white man. “But the others are Caribs.” A thrill shot up the boy’s spine. The distance was great. At that distance it was difficult to tell, and yet— His field glass was now riveted upon the white man in the khaki suit. He was evidently speaking to a leader of the other group. “It can’t be!” The boy’s throat tightened. “And yet—and yet—” The white man threw up his arms in a gesture of impatience. There was no mistaking that gesture. “Grandfather, the old Colonel!” The cry stuck in the boy’s throat. What was he saying? The distance was too great to hear. As the boy stood there silent, watching, his knees trembled and his head whirled. The thing that had happened was evident. Having grown impatient waiting for Pant’s return, the old Colonel had gotten together a band of Carib chicleros and had gone into the jungle to gather from the narrow stretch of land which he knew to be his. He had happened to stop near the crafty Spaniard’s illegal camp. The two bands had met. “And now,” the boy told himself with a shudder, “there will be a fight.” A fight? What did that mean? Certainly terrible bloodshed. Between this half-caste band and the Caribs there had always been waged a sort of gorilla warfare. Now here they were face to face, a hundred men on either side. Armed with axes, machetes and revolvers, they would do terrible execution. It would be a battle to the death. “I must get down there. I have the picture of the map,” the boy told himself. “That may help. I must be beside the old colonel.” He paused for a moment’s thought as to how the affair was likely to end. A mile of tangled brush lay between him and them. Could he reach the spot in time? As if to answer his question, the white and brown line, Diaz’s men, suddenly began marching straight on toward the lone white man who stood out before the Caribs. “Too late!” The boy all but sank upon the ground. Yet, getting a better hold upon himself, he stood there wide-eyed and terrified. Never had he witnessed a thing so strikingly dramatic as the deadly regular march of those men. And never had he seen anything so heroic as the image of the aged colonel standing there erect, silent, motionless, facing them all. Sixty seconds passed, the men had covered half the distance. Ninety seconds; they were very near. A hundred; they were all but upon the silent figure. Still with arms hanging motionless, he stood there. It was a tense moment. The boy ceased breathing. Standing there, leaning far forward, he thought a prayer, that was all. But what was this? At some call from the side, all faces turned right. The marching column broke step, then came to a dead halt. As they did so, erect, with head held high, a stately figure rode in before them. “The old Don, the last of the Dons!” Pant breathed. “How strange!” To all appearance the aged Spaniard began to speak. The others paused to listen. “Now—now is my chance!” The boy’s mind worked like a spring lock. “I may make it yet.” At once he dropped over the ledge and made his way down the perilous cliff until at last he reached the tangled mass of vegetation that lay at the foot of the rocky ledge. Battling now with all his might, heedless of brambles that tore at his clothing, of stinging palm leaves that cut his face, and the ooze of the lowlands that threatened to engulf him, expecting every moment to hear the war cry of the Caribs, he fought his way through. He will never know what the aged Don said to the Spaniard, Diaz, and his mixed band of chicleros, yet he will never think of the Don and his speech without experiencing anew a deep feeling of gratitude. For it was that speech which, beyond a shadow of a doubt, saved his grandfather’s life. Had the fight ever begun he would have been the first to fall, for he was well in advance of his men, and was not the man to turn his back to the enemy. As it was, when puffing, perspiring, bleeding from wounds inflicted by the jungle, the boy burst into the clearing, he found the aged nobleman, the last of the Dons, speaking calmly to the men and the men of both camps as calmly listening. What was there about this aged Spaniard to inspire such calm? Was it his venerable appearance? Was it that he was of noble birth? Who can say? So intent were the men upon his words that Pant was able to slip unobserved to the old colonel’s side and to explain in a few well chosen words just what the film he held in his hand meant to them. His grandfather’s face lighted with a smile not soon to be forgotten. He spoke quietly to his foreman: “Tell the men to withdraw after the speech. There will be no fighting, no fight, do you understand? We have found a better way.” Word was quickly passed down the line. The loyal Caribs stood ready to obey. As the old Don ended his speech with a bow of his venerable head, Pant pressed forward to grip his hand. “We will never forget.” He repeated the words in Spanish. “Never forget.” The aged Spaniard bowed and smiled. A moment later Colonel Longstreet was speaking to the crafty Diaz. His words were few and well chosen. He would withdraw his men if need be. There would be no fight. He, Diaz, might gather all the chicle he chose to in that valley. One thing he must remember, however; the real owner of the concession was in possession of an exact reproduction of the stolen map. Not alone that, but he had positive proof that he, Diaz, stole the map. “Positive proof!” he repeated. “And remember, the profit on every pound of chicle you gather on our territory must be paid to us. The law of the land is just.” With these words he walked away. No smoke arose next morning over the spot where Diaz’s camp had stood. Diaz and his men had returned to their own narrow boundaries. Yet Diaz was not through contesting the rights of an American to gather chicle on the upper reaches of the Rio de Grande. He had lost one battle, but others were to follow. There had been rain during a previous night. Now, as if to prove that nature and the fates were on the side of Pant and his recently discovered grandfather, there came a perfect deluge of rain. Rain is indispensable to chicle gathering. Now the work could go forward at once. |
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