  It was a down-hearted Johnny who bent over the fallen Carib champion and strove as best he could to bring him back to consciousness. He had hoped much. His interview with this man was to pave the way to certain success. With this fearless chief as the leader of his men, with a faithful Carib band behind him, he was to have gone triumphantly back up Rio Hondo and, in spite of perils that lurk in the jungle, in spite of unscrupulous Daego’s trickery and cunning, was to have brought back the richest treasure that had ever floated upon the ebony waters of the Black River. And now it had come to this. What would the man do, once he was brought back from the world of strange dreams where Johnny’s unintended and unfortunate blow had sent him. Johnny’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. He might be obliged to flee for his life. He had heard wild stories of these primitive people of Honduras; how, when slightly wounded in play with machetes, a man flew into a rage and at a single blow severed the offender’s head from his body. These were simple people, men of the tropics, quick in love and sudden in hate. Since there was no answer to this, Johnny could but fan his victim and await results. He did not wait long. The man’s eyes opened and he sat up unsteadily, staring wildly. “Who—who did that?” he demanded. “Who—hi—hit me?” “Unc-a,” the men grunted, pointing at Johnny. Johnny put on as brave and friendly a face as he could command. Though friendly enough, it was far from brave. His heart was in his toes. “You—” the chief looked incredulous, “you hit me like that?” Johnny nodded. He dared not trust his voice. “Why! You—you little hammer!” exclaimed the chief. At that there was a roaring burst of laughter. From that day on Johnny was known among the Caribs as “Little Hammer.” Tivoli joined heartily in the laugh and as it subsided, to Johnny’s great surprise and joy, he exclaimed: “You want men? I got men. All the men you want. How many men, you think? Sixty men? Half work, half watch and fight? What you think? All right?” At this sudden turn of fortune’s wheel, Johnny’s head was too much in a whirl to permit of much clear thinking. He merely nodded. Then, seized by a sudden inspiration, he invited Tivoli to join him in his feast of roast peccary—an invitation which was promptly accepted. “Hardgrave,” said Johnny, as the two sat in the hotel court after the feast and Tivoli’s departure, “do these creatures, these jaguars which the natives call ‘tigers,’ ever become man-eaters?” “Once in a blue moon they do. I knew of one that did. That was on the island of Riotan. And, by the way, it was only a month ago that an Englishman, a chicle buyer, told me of actually seeing one stalking a man—up the Rio Hondo, too. By all that’s good! Right up in your country! It must have been!” Johnny leaned forward in unconcealed interest. “This ‘man-eater’ as they call him,” Hardgrave continued, “has a bad reputation. You’ll see little settlements, two or three palm thatched cabins along the river, deserted because of him. That’s what the chicle buyer said.” “Dead? The people dead?” the words stuck in Johnny’s throat. “Probably not. The jaguar might have carried off a child, or even a man. Those cats can kill an ox. They’re bad when they get old. And this tiger is old, fairly gray bearded, the chicle buyer said. Said it made his blood run cold to see him stalking that native. Of course he was armed; all those Englishmen go armed. Only a pistol, but enough to scare that spotted fury away. “‘Just as I shot,’ that’s what he told me, ‘the creature turned its head and I saw its marking. I had heard of it before. There was a broad white stripe above the left eye. Someone had creased him with a bullet years before. Pity it hadn’t killed him. Didn’t, though.’” Hardgrave paused to look away at the moon that was just rising above the cocoanut palms in the churchyard across the way. Wind stirred the branches noisily. Johnny started. The story of that “tiger” had affected his imagination strangely. “So you’ll know if you see him,” Hardgrave concluded dryly. “A white strip above his left ear. Guess I’ll turn in. You’re leaving before dawn? Here’s luck!” He pressed the boy’s hand, and was gone. It was a brave company that Johnny assembled at the postoffice dock next day—sixty Caribs, all from Stann Creek. There had been no need that these men go home for luggage. All that they had was on their boats. It was little enough, too. The two most important items were the great long-bladed machetes that hung at their belts and the cooking platforms on the decks of their sailing crafts. To the mouth of the Rio Hondo they would sail. After that Johnny would give them a tow up the river. Pant was in great spirits. He had lived much in the jungles of India. There he had met the great yellow tiger and the treacherous black leopard. He had heard of the “man-eater” up the river and was more than eager to hunt out his lair and do him battle. Of course his days belonged to Johnny, but nights were his own, and night is when the big cats prowl. As for Johnny, as they went gliding up the dark river he thought of many things—of the red lure and of his hopes to win with this new and more trustworthy crew. He thought again of the mysterious brown girl who had appeared in the trail on that memorable night spent alone in camp. “She may belong to the company of that rascal Daego,” he told himself. “I doubt it, though. Her face was too honest and frank for that. I wonder who she may be, and if she will return.” He wondered if their camp had been destroyed by their enemies, and thought of Daego’s black boats which Hardgrave had spoken of, and the trouble Daego was in which made him want to move back across the river. He wondered if the trouble was in any way connected with the black boats. He even gave a passing thought to Rip, the burro, who under Pant’s care had learned to prick up his ears with an air of importance and had actually taken on a little flesh. “Didn’t bring any feed for him,” he thought. “Pant will have to hunt out one of those bread-nut trees and gather some grass from it. Be an interesting experience, mowing grass from the top of the forest. Like cutting a giant’s hair,” he chuckled. So they moved on up the river. Past the last banana plantation and cocoanut grove, through thin settlements of bushmen, between groves of cohune-nut trees, and on and on, up and up until night fell and the stars came out. Coming to the mouth of a small stream, they decided to camp for the night. Boats were tied to overhanging mangrove branches, dry wood was gathered and soon fires gleamed out brightly. Mingled with the crackle of the blaze was the merry talk and laughter of these ever cheerful people. While supper was being prepared, Pant shoved a dug-out from the deck of his power boat and went paddling away up the small stream. He was going on a little trip of exploration all his own. Not that he expected to find anything of real interest. It was too dark for that. He wanted to be alone for a time, and besides, there is a real thrill to be had from poking the nose of your canoe straight away in the night up a stream you have never seen. As he moved slowly forward into the dark, the silent mystery of the night was now and then broken by the splash of an alligator as he took to the water. Nothing was to be feared from these so long as his canoe remained in upright position. On and on he glided. The light of cooking fires faded. Laughter died away. Still he glided on. Then, of a sudden, he became conscious of a new sound—a throbbing that, beating faintly against his eardrums, seemed to come from nowhere. At first he thought it was the beating of his own heart and wondered at his increased power to hear in that silence. Soon enough he knew it was not that. “But what is it?” he asked himself as he held his dripping paddle in mid-air to listen. Getting no satisfactory answer, he drove his paddle into the water and sent his boat forward at renewed speed. This lasted for ten minutes. Perspiration ran down his cheeks as he paused to listen. “Yes, yes, there it is, louder!” he murmured. “Much louder. It’s up the river. It’s a gasoline motor—a motor-boat. No, it can’t be.” Dropping his paddle straight down, he touched bottom at eighteen inches. In such a stream there were sunken logs. No motor-boat could ascend to the spot where the motor was throbbing. Swinging his boat about, he drove its prow against the shelving bank. Leaping ashore, he bent over, and putting his ear to the ground, listened. “It can’t be,” he muttered, “and yet it is! It’s a stationary gasoline engine going full swing up that creek. And what’s more”—his thoughts were working rapidly now—“this creek runs up into our property. That engine is on our land. What can they be doing there?” Creeping back into his canoe he allowed it to drift downstream. He wanted to go up and investigate, but it was too late. What that engine could be doing up there he could not so much as guess. “But I’ll find out,” he told himself stoutly. “Leave it to me!” |
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