  The black shadow which Pant had seen making its way up the river under cover of night, was a pit-pan, electrically driven. In his conclusions regarding this he had not been mistaken. The thing which Pant had launched against the black shadow was a log boom. It was in this very boom that he hoped later to carry his 50,000 feet of mahogany down the river to the sea. Now he had set it to an unusual task. A log boom consists of a hundred or more logs, ten inches in diameter and twelve to twenty feet long, joined at the ends by steel chains until the whole affair is several hundred feet in length. So dark was the night that the crew of the pit-pan did not see the approaching string of logs until it was right upon them. Of the five men on board, two, by the sudden compact, were thrown into the river. It was with the utmost difficulty that the remaining three were able to prevent their unwieldy craft from capsizing. In the end it swung about until it lay full length against the log boom which, tugged at by the current, was rapidly swinging toward the Mexican shore, where waited ten officers of the law. After giving way to wild burst of anger, the men began tumbling chests of goods into the river. Before this task was half completed, they were interrupted by the occupants of a dugout, who, swinging alongside, commanded them in the name of the law to desist. Pant was now sure that he had not been mistaken in the mission of the black shadow. “If they were on some lawful business why should they pitch their goods into the river?” he asked himself. “Yes, we have them now. We are giving Daego some of the trouble he so richly deserves. This night’s work will do much for Quintanaroo. But what won’t Daego do to us!” he said, wrinkling his brow as he pushed his dory from its place of hiding. “He knows well enough whose log boom that is. There is not another on the river save his own.” For some time as he drove his dory across the stream toward the spot where his boom was fastened, the boy reflected upon the cost of doing the right thing, the thing that in the end would result in the most good to the greatest number. Surely one does not engage in the battle for right without placing himself in a place of great peril. “Ah, well!” he exclaimed, strong-hearted at last, “as someone has said, one may trust God for the outcome. The only question we need to ask, moment by moment, is: ‘This thing I do, is it right?’” Arrived at the end of the boom, he cut it away and allowed it to drift toward the mouth of the creek where his Caribs awaited it. At the camp he found great excitement. The same words were on every lip: “The killer has been taken! Pant is a great hunter. He has killed the man-eater with a machete! Surely there was never such a boy before!” As for Pant, he divided his time between good-naturedly disclaiming any bravery or skill on his part, and mourning for his burro. An hour passed. The Caribs settled down for the night. Then Pant and his Carib captain sat beneath their mosquito bar netting, with a candle between them, talking low and earnestly. “The killer is dead,” said Pant. “He is.” “Open warfare has been declared.” “It has.” “Will there be a fight?” “There will.” “When?” The Carib shrugged his shoulders. “Who can tell?” “From now on,” said Pant slowly, “our men will be divided into two companies; those who work and those who watch, ready to fight.” “That will be wise,” said the Carib. At that they blew out the candle and went to sleep. Next evening the Spanish girl’s dugout was again bumping the shore at the mouth of the creek trail. Her father was with her this time. Pant showed them down the trail to a palm-thatched cabin. There, seated around a table of roughly hewn mahogany slabs, they talked of the previous night’s doings. The deputy, a short, solid looking man, with small, twinkling eyes, assured Pant that he was profoundly grateful for the part he had played in the affair. “They were Daego’s men,” he went on. “When we had fished the two who went overboard out of the water, we identified them, every one. “That is not all,” he smiled. “Someone was careless. On a case of ammunition we found the shipping tag assigning it to Daego. So, the case is quite complete.” “Has Daego been arrested?” asked Pant. “No. Truth is, no one seems to know where he is gone.” “But he will be arrested?” “Probably not,” the deputy spoke slowly. “What! Not arrested!” “He is a British subject. The relations between Mexico and Honduras have not always been the best. It would be a hazard. To arrest and try him would be a danger.” For a moment Pant felt like repenting the action he had thought of as being done for the good of all. To risk one’s happiness, perhaps one’s very life, and then to have nothing come of it, that was bitterness indeed. The deputy, having read the look on Pant’s face, was speaking again: “Do not worry; your work was not in vain. He shall be punished. And for one so greedy as he, his punishment will be severe indeed. His concessions shall be taken from him. Within thirty days he must remove his wagons, his tractors, his chicle kettles, everything that belongs to him. His mahogany, which is at the river’s bank, will be held in bond by the Government.” Pant’s chair, which had been tilted back, came down with a thump. Concessions revoked! He had not thought of that. Those concessions were so vast in extent that his mind could scarcely take them in. Someone had told him that Daego had made a quarter of a million dollars the previous year on chicle. “And that is the price he pays for his paltry gains from illicit traffic. Surely one pays heavily for the steps that make him a law-breaker.” “My friend,” said the deputy, “you are alone here with this boy, Johnny Thompson, and your Caribs?” “Yes, sir. Johnny’s been away for some time. But, trust me, he’ll be back! He always comes back.” “Have you much money?” “Very little.” Pant wondered what the deputy was driving at now. “But we represent a man who is rich,” he added as an afterthought. “Ah!” the man breathed. “And he is interested, perhaps, in industrial development?” “He wishes to develop his mahogany interests here. We came here to prove it can be done.” “You are right. It can be done,” the other said decidedly. “Much more can be done than that. His tract, though very fine,—the very best,—is small. Across the river, far up as you can go, we are rich in forests, mahogany that has scarcely been touched; sapodillas that will yield a million, two million pounds of chicle a year. With chicle at fifty cents a pound at the dock, that should yield a profit. “Our province needs developing. Our people need the work and the pay that it brings. We have not the capital. We have the forests. “In a word,”—the man leaned forward, his eyes sparkling eagerly, “in a word, if you two boys can find us a man with money who is as honest as you, and who has at heart the good of all people, as you have, it will be possible for him to secure in Quintanaroo concessions which in time will bring him as much gold as Cortez hoped to win when he invaded Mexico. The question is: have you the man?” For a moment Pant sat there silent, like one in a trance. So sudden was this proposal, so vast the possibilities, that his mind refused to grasp it. “I—I think we can find the man,” he stammered at last. “You—you will give us time?” “If only Johnny were here!” he said to himself. “How much time?” “Sixty days.” “Ninety, if you need it. Quintanaroo can wait long; any land can afford to wait a long time for an honest man. “And now,” he said, rising, “I think we must go.” He shook hands solemnly with the boy. His daughter gave Pant a friendly smile. Then they were away over the trail to their boat. Two hours later Pant might have been found still sitting before his rough slab table, and still he appeared to be in a trance. He was fighting, fighting an impulse to run away, to dash down the river in his motor boat and away to the Belize radio to flash the tremendous news to a man who had financed their little enterprise up Rio Hondo. Then, into his mind there came a picture in an old book of fables; a picture of a dog standing on a bridge over a river. In his mouth was a piece of meat. In the river was a reflection of the meat much larger than the meat itself. “The dog dropped the meat to snap at its reflection, and lost all,” Pant mused. “I hope these concessions are not mere reflections of possible wealth; but I know that our fifty thousand feet of red mahogany logs are not. To-morrow we must get out another five thousand feet.” Even at that, while he made his way to his bunk, his heart all but failed him. He dreaded the fight he was sure would come, the fight to a finish with Daego’s men. “If only Johnny were here!” he again repeated. “Where can he be? That black man over in Daego’s camp said Daego had driven him into the jungle. Surely no jungle can hold Johnny Thompson!” Of this last he could not be sure. A Central American jungle is an awesome and terrible place. “If he were here,” he went on, “I could tell him the good news of Daego’s undoing and of those wonderful concessions that are all but within our grasp. “And if only he could lead in the fight that’s sure to come! Daego will fight. It will be a battle to the bitter end. Some have gone down the river, but there are plenty still. “Oh, well!” he sighed at last. “Johnny may not be here, but his ghost is. He’ll throw terror into the hearts of those blacks yet.” That night the ghost of the air did strange things; very strange indeed. |
|
