  The evening following his trip down the river to Daego’s stationary engine, during the twilight hour Pant might have been found in the largest bunk house of the camp. A tropical wilderness seemed a queer place for one to be teaching bayonet practice, yet that was exactly what he was doing. He had learned these tactics in a summer military camp. Now, with five-foot mahogany clubs in lieu of guns and bayonets, his Caribs were being taught to stab and fend, to dodge and swing, and to perform all those tricks that saved many a Yankee boy at Chateau Thierry and Belleau Wood. Why was he doing this? Had you asked him why, he would perhaps have told you that Johnny had asked him to do it before he went away. Johnny would be coming back. He would expect to have it done. Besides, the big battle was coming some of these days, the fight to a finish with Daego’s men. It was well to be prepared in every way for that fight. Daego’s band still outnumbered them. He might get further reinforcements. “If only we could reduce their number somehow,” the boy sighed as, stepping from the bunk room into the gathering darkness, he left his men to finish their practice alone. “We may do it, too,” he chuckled, throwing a glance toward the little shack which had been Johnny’s office, and from which at this moment there came strange noises and a mysterious glow of light. Hardgrave’s laboratory, however, was not Pant’s destination. He was going much farther that night. Recent reports of fresh ravages committed by the man-eating jaguar had thrown his men into a panic. One man had left camp. Others were threatening to do so. Something must be done about it, and that at once. Lowering a mysterious burden into the bottom of the dugout, and leaning a heavy rifle across it, Pant paddled away down the creek. Having located the end of the rough trail which Johnny had cut to the foot of the bread-nut tree, he bent down and began creeping cat-like through the brush. Half way to the tree he stumbled and all but fell. Like a flash he was on his feet and three yards from the spot. Something moving beneath his feet had caused him to stumble. His breath came quick. Had he stepped on one of those great, poisonous snakes that infest the tropical jungle? He would hazard a flash of his pocket light. For a second an oblong circle of light appeared on the back trail, then the boy laughed a low laugh. An armadillo, one of those strange, harmless, turtle-like creatures, had lain asleep in the trail. It was this he had stepped on, and not a snake. Greatly relieved, he resumed his stealthy journey down the trail. Some forty feet from the bread-nut tree he paused to peer about him in the darkness. Having found one of those low palms whose leaves, three or four feet across, are quite solid save for their ragged edges, he began silently slashing off leaves until he had quite a pile. Some of these he spread three or four deep on the damp earth. Then, lying flat down, he drew others over him until he was almost covered. “Wouldn’t want an elephant to come down this trail,” he chuckled to himself. A few moments later there sounded from that mass of green palm leaves such a long-drawn-out whistle as the little deer of these forests uses to call his mate. Pant was not hunting deer, but jaguars. In fact, he was hunting one jaguar, the killer. Once in the jungles of India he had used an exceedingly powerful red light to frighten a tiger. Now, with the aid of dry batteries from the power boat, he had arranged a bright red light. He hoped with his deer call to entice the killer to enter the trail, then to hold him at bay with the red light until he had a fair shot at him. It was, he knew right well, a hazardous undertaking. Jaguars might not fear a red light. Who could tell about that? The killer might scent him and, turning hunter, leap upon him from the low boughs of the black tamarind trees that grew near. This he must risk. Pant had an interest in Johnny’s quest for the red lure. He had an interest in the Caribs. He had a still wider interest in all humanity. If all reports were true, if this great cat with the mark above his eye had done the killing he was credited with, he should be killed. Pant felt it his duty to attempt this hard and dangerous task. So his whistle sounded on through the night. Now there was a movement off to the left. At once Pant was all attention. At last he discovered that this noise was caused by a large lizard hunting among decaying vegetation for bugs. Again the whistle. Again a movement, this time among the branches of a tamarind tree. Pant’s heart beat loudly. Was the great cat above him? Was he at this moment preparing for a spring? Could the cat know that under those palm leaves was a tempting supper? But no, Pant caught the flap-flap of wings. “An owl or a parrot,” he breathed in disgust. But what was this? Before him in the path there had come a sudden thump. Ah, this was it, the very thing he had hoped for. The jaguar, in answer to his call, had leaped to the ground in the very center of the trail. Now was the time to act. With trembling fingers he adjusted his light, drew his rifle into position, then threw on the catch. At once a glare of red light, streaming down the trail, brought out every leaf and twig with startling clearness. Imagine the boy’s surprise at seeing not a crouching jaguar with fiery eyes gleaming, but a small, timid, short-horned deer, who blinked blindly at the light. “Huh!” Pant breathed. “Call worked too well.” But wait; what was this? There came a movement from farther down the trail. Pant looked. One look froze him cold. Behind the deer, tail lashing madly, ready for a spring, was the killer. As Pant saw, the deer saw, too. For ten seconds the frightened creature hesitated. Beside him, to right and left, was impenetrable bush; behind him a jaguar, his mortal enemy; before him the great unknown, the glare of red light. Ten seconds, and then with a bound he was away; dashing straight at the red light. And after him, in great swinging leaps, came the terrible cat. There are times when the drama of life moves so rapidly that we can do little more than get out of the way and let things pass. When Pant saw the jaguar and the deer there was not even time for that. The best he could do was to flatten himself against his couch of leaves. On they came. The deer decided to brave the terrifying light. On came the deer and on came the jaguar. Pant dared not breathe. Now they were upon him. Then came the cutting dig of hoofs in the boy’s back, followed by a whirl of air. What of the killer? Was that breath of air the sign of his passing? Had he cleared the green heap that was Pant, at a leap? Pant could not tell. For a long time he dared not move. Even after he had caught a distant splash which told that the deer had taken to the water, he did not move at once. At last, cautiously snapping off his light and gripping his rifle, he sprang to his feet. He listened intently. There was no sound. He tried to pierce the darkness but could see nothing. At last, after throwing his lighting apparatus over his shoulder and adjusting his rifle for a quick shot, he made his way back over the trail to the boat. Even here nothing moved. What had happened? Had the killer followed the deer into the river? Had he given up the trail to go prowling back into the forest? One thing was certain; the hunt was ended for that night. Pant’s nerves were too unsteady to give the red flash a second trial. Besides, he was not at all sure it would work; in fact, he felt reasonably certain it wouldn’t. “I’ll get you yet,” he said stoutly with the shake of a clenched fist in the general direction of the jungle. With that he took to his dugout and paddled home. |
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