  To say that Pant was surprised at sight of the jaguar, the well-known “killer” above him in the bread-nut tree, would poorly express it. For once in his young life he was without a solution to the problem that lay just before him. He knew that he must act, and act instantly. But what to do? Thirty feet below him was the solid earth, far too solid. Through the gathering shadows he thought he saw directly beneath him the wide spreading leaves of a young cohune-nut tree. Of this he could not be sure. In any event these soft yielding leaves would offer slight cushion at the end of a thirty foot fall. Flight back over the limb, the way he had come, was not to be thought of. The instant he began creeping forward the great cat would be upon his back. To remain in his present position was equally perilous. There was his machete, to be sure, but what was this against the claws of a man-eater? It would doubtless be knocked from his hand at the first spring of the spotted beast. The great cat’s tail ceased to lash the twigs. The boy’s heart beat wildly. Was the end at hand? Time passed. Ten seconds seemed an hour, and yet no spring. And then, of a sudden, there flashed into his mind a desperate chance, yet it was a chance—at least something to do. He was now sitting with his back to the tiger, looking over his shoulder. Slowly, with his eyes fixed steadily on the killer, he began to turn about on the limb. It was a hazardous undertaking. Should he slip, lose his balance, fall, it might mean death. But this was a moment for hazards. Swinging a leg over the limb, he sat sidewise for an instant; then with a second swing the thing was accomplished. Still the killer lingered. The tail was lashing furiously now, sending dry twigs flying downward. Pant began sliding back upon the limb. With eyes still fixed upon the tiger, with heart beating like a throbbing motor, he moved back a foot, two feet, three, four. Still the tiger waited. His eyes, in the gathering darkness, had turned to red balls of fire. Suddenly the boy’s hand went up. The machete was raised above his head. The great cat gave forth a blood-curdling snarl. But the big knife was not meant for him. Once in his boyhood days on a farm Pant had climbed far out over the track that ran beneath the ridge of a tall hay-loft. He had gone out to adjust something that had gone wrong with the double harpoon fork. It would not trip. He had used every ounce of his strength climbing out there hand over hand. He had not dared attempt the trip back. The hay of the loft was twenty feet beneath him. There was a load on the fork. Choosing the least of three evils, he had taken the drop with the half-ton of hay when the fork was tripped. He would not soon forget that breath-taking drop, yet he had landed without a bump or bruise. “This,” he told himself as calmly as he could, “will be exactly like that—maybe.” He was now seated firmly on the great clump of “tree grass.” Some three feet across, this clump hung down a distance of two yards. “Now,” he breathed, “Now!” He said the last “now” out loud and at the same instant the machete came down upon the branch on which he sat. It was a master stroke. Bent as it was by its double load, the branch snapped clean off and instantly the boy shot downward through space. One breath-taking instant, then bump! He landed with a thud that made his teeth rattle, then pitched head foremost into the brush. Hardly had he had time to realize that he was still conscious and probably unharmed, when there came, not four feet from him, a terrible thud. Once more his mind was in a whirl. What had happened? Had the tiger, angered at loss of his prey, risked a thirty-foot leap to the ground? It seemed incredible, yet there he was. For the answer to his problem regarding the jaguar who had dropped in the bush beside him, Pant did not have long to wait. For ten seconds, as if stunned, the great cat remained where he was, then with a sudden rush he dashed wildly away. The boy laughed a low laugh. “Pity it didn’t kill him,” he murmured. He had guessed what had happened. Suddenly released, the limb on which he had been seated had shot upward and, striking the jaguar, had perhaps stunned him. At least it had unseated him and he had fallen. “Well,” Pant grinned, “here is plenty of hay to last poor old Rip for three days. I came down rather sooner than I expected and in a manner quite unusual. Wouldn’t care to try it again, but it did work that time.” Searching out his machete, he hacked the grass from the limb, tied it in three bundles, then began making his way back to his boat with one of them. “I must get after that beast,” he told himself. “If the Caribs hear too much of him they may take fright and desert us.” He was not long in putting this resolve into execution. * * * * * * * * Daego thought he had been quite shrewd in his choice of the spot to be occupied by his guest. There were no windows to the hut. Light entered between the palm walls. The rich half-caste and his six men sat before the door and that way lay the path to the river. Back of the place where Johnny had been seated was the jungle, an all but impenetrable mass of palms, great mahogany trees and creeping, twining vines. As Johnny sent the table crashing through the flimsy, rotting walls of the hut he followed after it so closely that both he and the table made their exit at almost the same instant. He had but one thought—to get into the jungle as quickly as possible. It was his only chance. Daego and his natives, surprised into temporary inaction by this sudden turn of affairs, were delayed just long enough to permit Johnny to get into the jungle. After that, Johnny knew, it would be a game of “hide and seek” with at least a fair chance for escape. A moment after Johnny had dived headlong into the dark, dank jungle, Daego’s men came tumbling through the newly made hole in the wall of the hut, eager to win their master’s praise by seizing this unarmed boy. But so tardy and clumsy was their pursuit that Johnny had gained enough distance to cover up the sound of his movements. For the moment, at least, the advantage was his. But what if he did make good his escape? Where would he go? How could he hope to make his way back to his own camp? Without thinking much of the outcome, more from instinct than reason, like a rabbit close pressed by the hounds, he leaped for the jungle. By some good or evil chance he came at once upon one of those low, narrow trails made by the small short horned deer that abound in that wilderness. By stooping quite low, almost bent double, he was able to make rapid progress. After covering a hundred yards he paused to listen. Yes, he could hear the men shouting and beating the bush. “There must be a hundred of them,” he murmured. “And dogs! Trapped here by dogs!” He turned and fairly flew down the trail. On and on and on, not knowing where, but ever on until at last with hands and face bleeding and clothes in rags, he fell flat in the trail and lay there motionless. |
|
