  As if loath to disturb the perfect silence of a night, dawn lingers in the tropical jungle. Off somewhere in the distance a wild parrot screams; nearer at hand a long tailed tropical black-bird begins for the thousandth time to practice the song he will never learn. Swinging from limb to limb, a monkey chatters at a snake. Faint and from far away, like a young puppy calling for his breakfast, an alligator barks. Trunks of trees, gray bulks of cabins, green clusters of ferns take shape and then, with a sudden burst of light, day arrives. The sound that awakened Johnny Thompson to dull reality of a hapless yesterday was the braying of a burro. He had remained seated on his bench all night. At first he had not dared to sleep. At last, overcome by fatigue, he had fallen asleep. At first, only half awake, he imagined himself in Belize. Burros were common enough there. “No,” he declared, shaking himself, “I am not in Belize. This is the jungle. There are no burros. I was dreaming.” Leaping to his feet, he shook himself free of the last vestige of sleep. As if to deny his last assertion, there struck his ears, clear and defiant, a loud, laughing “He-haw!” “Well, I’ll be a donkey myself!” he exclaimed, turning and racing down the path that led to the creek. The sound appeared to come from there. When he had covered two-thirds of the distance, he paused in astonishment. Before him in the path was the skinniest, boniest, most dilapidated and dejected specimen of animal kind it had ever been his privilege to meet. Yet, it was unmistakably a burro. At that moment, as if to proclaim his species, the creature stuck his nose in the air and brayed once again. In spite of his great dilemma, Johnny sat down on a fallen mahogany tree trunk and rocked with laughter. “Well now,” he exclaimed, his fit of laughter over, “where did you come from, and how? Did you walk or swim, or both?” Without an attempt at an answer, the creature paused in the path, hung his head and put on such a droll and mournful look as set the boy off into another fit of laughter. Johnny was once more regaining control of himself when he caught a yellow gleam through the branches. The next moment a huge bunch of bananas appeared, and beneath them was Pant. “Johnny, meet my new friend Rip Van Winkle,” smiled Pant. “Call him Rip for short. He’s just slept twenty years down there by a deserted cabin. I woke him up and brought him along.” “What a pity! Why didn’t you let him sleep?” grinned Johnny. “Why should I? He was bound to wake up sooner or later. He’d been lonesome if there’d been no one around. “But honest, Johnny,” Pant’s tone became serious, “what would you think of a native who would leave a poor old fellow like that to starve!” “I’d think he was a pig of a dog. But how much better can we do? What’ll we feed him on? Bananas?” “Easy. There’s a tree up here that raises grass on its branches instead of leaves—bread-nut tree, they call it. I saw one up the river two days ago. Burros and cattle get fat on it. We’ll get a native to climb a few trees and gather a ton of this hay.” “Natives?” said Johnny slowly. “That reminds me—there aren’t any.” “What!” exclaimed Pant, setting down his bananas so suddenly that many of them broke from the stem. “Skipped. Vamoosed. All gone.” Johnny threw out his arms in a wide gesture. “No!” “Yes, I tell you.” “Why?” Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “You tell me. All I know is they’re gone. They told us in New Orleans that this red lure was a hoodoo. They told us the same thing in Belize. Maybe it is. Who knows?” “It isn’t!” Pant sprang to his feet. “We’ll go to Belize and get another crew!” “And if they leave us?” “There are a thousand men in Belize.” “Pant,” said Johnny slowly, “I think one of them tried to kill me. I—I think it was Petillo.” Johnny seated himself on a log and told of his night’s experiences, from his narrow escape on the bank and in the river to his discovery of the mysterious Spanish girl in the trail. “What do you make of it?” he asked at the end. “Don’t make much.” “Of course, there’s that man-eating jaguar they’ve been talking about. They may have run away because they were afraid. They may have—” “But what of that fellow down by the river!” exclaimed Pant. “No! I tell you what, Johnny, someone is plotting against us, someone with money and power. We’ll not spend a night here alone. We’ll get right back to Belize. And we must not come back unless we find a real, fearless crew.” “I’m afraid that last is a big contract.” “Maybe so. But let’s hope it’s not impossible.” “What’ll we do with that?” said Johnny, pointing to the burro. “Take him along in the power boat. I tell you what, Johnny, I always feel lucky when I’m saving some poor dumb creature from suffering. I shouldn’t wonder if Rip would do us a mighty good turn sometime.” In this Pant was more nearly right than he knew. Also, this sad-looking quadruped was destined to be the cause of bringing him into great peril. But that was all in the future. Pant had been down the river in a dory for bananas, cocoanuts and casabas. As soon as they had unloaded these stores and had eaten a hasty breakfast, they turned the prow of their motor-boat downstream and went pop-popping away. * * * * * * * * Belize, the city to which the boys returned, is one of matchless beauty. Built on a point of land reaching out into the sea, with its red-roofed, white-walled houses, gnarled old mahogany trees by its governor’s palace and stately royal palms at the back of the Bishop’s house, bathed in the tropical sun, it is a city to dream of. Johnny Thompson dreamed of it very little. His mind was occupied with but one thought—getting back to the red lure. He was making his way up from the dock to the hotel when someone called his name. Turning, he saw Hardgrave. Hardgrave was an old man. He hailed from the States and had been twenty-five years in the tropics. A natural student, he had learned much in that time and had already been of service to this boy from the land of his birth. “Back so soon!” he asked in surprise. “We did get back rather soon,” said Johnny. “At least our crew did. But we’re going back.” He said this last in such a tone as Sheridan must have used when he said: “Turn, boys, turn; we’re going back.” He had been given a task to do, and like any red-blooded American boy, he meant to go through with it. “Want to tell me about it?” said the old man. “I’d like to.” “Come over to the hotel yard. We’ll find shade there.” So, beneath a low-spreading cocoanut palm, Johnny told his story. “Johnny,” said the old man impressively, when the boy had finished his story, “get up from your chair and walk over to the cooler for a drink of water. As you come back, without appearing interested, look at the man over there in the far corner of the veranda.” Three minutes later Johnny resumed his seat. “See him?” the old man leaned forward eagerly. “Saw two men; a tall, thin, dark-skinned one, and a heavy-set one.” “The thin one, a half-caste Spaniard, is the one. That’s Daego.” “Daego? Who is he?” “Is it possible you have not heard of him?” Hardgrave asked. “He’s the richest, most unscrupulous man of our city. He bought you out.” “Bought us out?” “Hired your men to quit, and to attempt killing you, like as not. He’d do that.” “But—but why?” Johnny licked his dry lips. “He has his eye on that red lure of yours, has had for a long time. Strange you haven’t heard of him, haven’t seen his boats. But then, of course, they pass in the night. Black boats, they are. You don’t see much of them. You wouldn’t, I’d bet on that.” Johnny wanted to ask about those boats, but he wanted still more to learn of Daego’s desire for his treasure. “You see,” said Hardgrave, “Daego’s built up an immense fortune working the Rio Hondo territory. He’s worked all the land up to your tract. There he was obliged to stop. It was owned by a man who would not sell; at least not at his beggar’s price. “As you know, British Honduras is one side of the Rio Hondo, and Quintanaroo, a state of Mexico, on the other. Daego went across the river and obtained concessions in Quintanaroo. He’s working there now. His camp can’t be a dozen miles from your own. I’m surprised that you haven’t seen his boats but of course you wouldn’t. They’re black, and mostly pass by night.” The old man paused as if in thought. Then, of a sudden, he exclaimed: “It’s Caribs you want!” “What’s a Carib?” Johnny asked. “Some sort of native fruit?” “No,” smiled Hardgrave, “they’re men. Real men, too. Indians. Columbus called them the sturdiest, most warlike men of America. They’ve been that ever since. They’ve mixed with the whites and the blacks, but they’ve never lost their language nor their courage, either. They are supposed to have been head-hunters at one time or another, though that can’t be proven. They’re the bravest sailors, the most daring hunters of our coast; the best workers, too, and if they enter into a contract they’re mighty likely to go through with it. What’s more, they hate Daego. He’s cheated and underpaid them. There’s not one that will work for him. Yes, you want Caribs. “And son,” the man leaned forward eagerly, “you’re in luck for once! There’s two boat loads of them over from Stann Creek now. You’d better see them. They’ll be down at the storeroom of the Tidewater Company.” “I’ll go see them,” said Johnny. “What’s the best time?” “Along about sunset.” “I’ll be there.” “You should.” They parted at the gate. Johnny went to the market and bought the ham of a young peccary (wild pig) and took it to the hotel to be baked for a late supper. After that he sat for a full hour under the shade of a cohune-nut tree, thinking—thinking hard about many things, of the little brown girl who had appeared in the path by his camp in the night, and of Daego’s dark boats that passed in the night. Just at dusk Johnny met Hardgrave at the bridge, and together they walked in silence toward the Tidewater storeroom. As they approached the door they caught the sound of laughter. To Johnny’s well-trained ears there came old familiar sounds, a quick shuffle of feet, the slap-slap of leather. “Boxing,” he told himself. His pulse quickened at the thought. Johnny Thompson, young and vigorous, belonged to that ever-increasing army of American boys who realize that no person can fight his best in the battle of life unless he is physically fit. A strong swimmer, fast on his feet and limber as a hickory limb, Johnny was not the least skillful of boxers. So his heart was made glad by the sound that greeted his ears. Silently he and Hardgrave entered the long low room to join the little company of watchers. The instant Johnny’s eyes fell upon the dark, gleaming, strong and well-moulded forms of the Caribs, he felt himself admiring them. “Black faces,” he told himself, “but real men.” “See that big fellow over in the corner,” whispered Hardgrave, “the one with the sprinkle of gray in his hair?” Johnny nodded. “That’s Tivoli, the chief Carib of them all.” A half hour later Johnny Thompson found himself facing this chief and champion of the Caribs. How had it come about? Why ask? When two devotees of an art meet, how long a time passes before they begin displaying their skill? That he was facing no mean boxer, Johnny realized quite well. He had seen Tivoli in a sparring match with one of his own men. Tivoli thought of this bout with a white boy, who could easily have walked under his arm, as something of a joke. This was shown quite plainly by the smile that overspread his face as he seized Johnny’s hand in a friendly grasp. As for Johnny, he had two purposes in entering the match. He wished to promote friendly relations with the Caribs and he wished to prove to Tivoli that, though still a boy, he was possessed of such physical prowess as even a grown man might respect. So the match began. That the Caribs took more than a passing interest in the affair was shown by the hush that fell upon the place as the first swinging blows fanned the air. Even the river that swept by the wide open port-side door seemed strangely silent. The shadows, cast by the single small lamp, were deceiving. Twice, in stepping back from the whirling arms of his giant opponent, Johnny barely missed a blow that, however well meant, would have sent him to a land of wild dreams. Though much smaller than his opponent, Johnny was quick on his feet. This, combined with the clock-like working of his trained mind, made him quite a match for the Carib. Across the shining mahogany floor, back again, criss-cross, to right, to left, they battled. The Carib drove the white boy into a corner. Johnny feinted with his left, dodged to the right, and was free. Crouching low, Tivoli sprang square at him, but he was gone. Not so soon, however, but that he left a sting on the giant’s ear. Grinning still, Tivoli squared away for a second rush. This time he approached more cautiously and won applause by a neatly placed blow on Johnny’s left cheek. The contestants warmed to the sport. Caribs know nothing of rounds and breathing spells. The contest goes to the man of greatest skill and longest endurance. They had battled royally for ten minutes. Johnny felt the warm ring of approval in the cheers of the Caribs as he scored a point. Then, swift as the wind, came the end. Since his opponent was so much taller than he, Johnny was often obliged to leap off the floor to so much as score a light tap on Tivoli’s chin. In the wild excitement of the contest he had perhaps grown a trifle reckless. Intent upon winning one more point, Johnny leaped a full foot from the floor and aimed a swift blow at his opponent’s chin. The Carib, with a sudden quick movement, bent low for a blow at his chest. The impact of Johnny’s gloved fist with the giant’s chin was startlingly quick and sure. The report was like a muffled explosion. Tivoli’s hands shot out and up, then he crumpled down like an empty sack. Johnny’s head was in a whirl. An instant of time, one unfortunate move had undone all. At least, so he thought as, throwing his gloves from his hands, he bent over the prostrate Carib. |
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