by Zane Grey
Ken began to have an idea that he had been wise in boiling the water which they drank. They all suffered from a parching thirst. Pepe scooped up water in his hand; George did likewise, and then Hal.
“You’ve all got to stop that,” ordered Ken, sharply. “No drinking this water unless it’s boiled.”
The boys obeyed, for the hour, but they soon forgot, or deliberately allayed their thirst despite Ken’s command. Ken himself found his thirst unbearable. He squeezed the juice of a wild lime into a cup of water and drank that. Then he insisted on giving the boys doses of quinine and anti-malaria pills, which treatment he meant to continue daily.
Toward the lower part of that rapid, where the water grew deeper, fish began to be so numerous that the boys kicked at many as they darted under the boat. There were thousands of small fish and some large ones. Occasionally, as a big fellow lunged for a crack in the rock, he would make the water roar. There was a fish that resembled a mullet, and another that Hal said was some kind of bass with a blue tail. Pepe chopped at them with his machete; George whacked with an oar; Hal stood up in the boat and shot at them with his .22 rifle.
“Say, I’ve got to see what that blue-tailed bass looks like,” said Ken. “You fellows will never get one.”
Whereupon Ken jointed up a small rod and, putting on a spinner, began to cast it about. He felt two light fish hit it. Then came a heavy shock that momentarily checked the boat. The water foamed as the line cut through, and Ken was just about to jump off the boat to wade and follow the fish, when it broke the leader.
“That was a fine exhibition,” remarked the critical Hal.
“What’s the matter with you?” retorted Ken, who was sensitive as to his fishing abilities. “It was a big fish. He broke things.”
“Haven’t you got a reel on that rod and fifty yards of line?” queried Hal.
Ken did not have another spinner, and he tried an artificial minnow, but could not get a strike on it. He took Hal’s gun and shot at several of the blue-tailed fish, but though he made them jump out of the water like a real northern black-bass, it was all of no avail.
Then Hal caught one with a swoop of the landing net. It was a beautiful fish, and it did have a blue tail. Pepe could not name it, nor could Ken classify it, so Hal was sure he had secured a rare specimen.
When the boat drifted round a bend to enter another long, wide, shallow rapid, the boys demurred a little at the sameness of things. The bare blue bluffs persisted, and the line of gray-veiled cypresses and the strange formation of stream-bed. Five more miles of drifting under the glaring sun made George and Hal lie back in the boat, under an improvised sun-shade. The ride was novel and strange to Ken Ward, and did not pall upon him, though he suffered from the heat and glare. He sat on the bow, occasionally kicking the boat off a rock.
All at once a tense whisper from Pepe brought Ken round with a jerk. Pepe was pointing down along the right-hand shore. George heard, and, raising himself, called excitedly: “Buck! buck!”
Ken saw a fine deer leap back from the water and start to climb the side of a gully that indented the bluff. Snatching up the .351 rifle, he shoved in the safety catch. The distance was far — perhaps two hundred yards — but without elevating the sights he let drive. A cloud of dust puffed up under the nose of the climbing deer.
“Wow!” yelled George, and Pepe began to jabber. Hal sprang up, nearly falling overboard, and he shouted: “Give it to him, Ken!”
The deer bounded up a steep, winding trail, his white flag standing, his reddish coat glistening. Ken fired again. The bullet sent up a white puff of dust, this time nearer still. That shot gave Ken the range, and he pulled the automatic again — and again. Each bullet hit closer. The boys were now holding their breath, watching, waiting. Ken aimed a little firmer and finer at the space ahead of the deer — for in that instant he remembered what the old hunter on Penetier had told him — and he pulled the trigger twice.
The buck plunged down, slipped off the trail, and, raising a cloud of dust, rolled over and over. Then it fell sheer into space, and whirled down to strike the rock with a sodden crash.
It was Ken’s first shooting on this trip, and he could not help adding a cry of exultation to the yells of his admiring comrades.
“Guess you didn’t plug him!” exclaimed Hal Ward, with flashing eyes.
Wading, the boys pulled the boat ashore. Pepe pronounced the buck to be very large, but to Ken, remembering the deer in Coconino Forest, it appeared small. If there was an unbroken bone left in that deer, Ken greatly missed his guess. He and Pepe cut out the haunch least crushed by the fall.
“There’s no need to carry along more meat than we can use,” said George. “It spoils overnight. That’s the worst of this jungle, I’ve heard hunters say.”
Hal screwed up his face in the manner he affected when he tried to imitate old Hiram Bent. “Wal, youngster, I reckon I’m right an’ down proud of thet shootin’. You air comin’ along.”
Ken was as pleased as Hal, but he replied, soberly: “Well, kid, I hope I can hold as straight as that when we run up against a jaguar.”
“Do you think we’ll see one?” asked Hal.
“Just you wait!” exclaimed George, replying for Ken. “Pepe says we’ll have to sleep in the boat, and anchor the boat in the middle of the river.”
“What for?”
“To keep those big yellow tigers from eating us up.”
“How nice!” replied Hal, with a rather forced laugh.
So, talking and laughing, the boys resumed their down-stream journey. Ken, who was always watching with sharp eyes, saw buzzards appear, as if by magic. Before the boat was half a mile down the river buzzards were circling over the remains of the deer. These birds of prey did not fly from the jungle on either side of the stream. They sailed, dropped down from the clear blue sky where they had been invisible. How wonderful that was to Ken! Nature had endowed these vulture-like birds with wonderful scent or instinct or sight, or all combined. But Ken believed that it was power of sight which brought the buzzards so quickly to the scene of the killing. He watched them circling, sweeping down till a curve in the river hid them from view.
And with this bend came a welcome change. The bluff played out in a rocky slope below which the green jungle was relief to aching eyes. As the boys made this point, the evening breeze began to blow. They beached the boat and unloaded to make camp.
“We haven’t had any work to-day, but we’re all tired just the same,” observed Ken.
“The heat makes a fellow tired,” said George.
They were fortunate in finding a grassy plot where there appeared to be but few ticks and other creeping things. That evening it was a little surprise to Ken to realize how sensitive he had begun to feel about these jungle vermin.
Pepe went up the bank for fire-wood. Ken heard him slashing away with his machete. Then this sound ceased, and Pepe yelled in fright. Ken and George caught up guns as they bounded into the thicket; Hal started to follow, likewise armed. Ken led the way through a thorny brake to come suddenly upon Pepe. At the same instant Ken caught a glimpse of gray, black-striped forms slipping away in the jungle. Pepe shouted out something.
“Tiger-cats!” exclaimed George.
Ken held up his finger to enjoin silence. With that he stole cautiously forward, the others noiselessly at his heels. The thicket was lined with well-beaten trails, and by following these and stooping low it was possible to go ahead without rustling the brush. Owing to the gathering twilight Ken could not see very far. When he stopped to listen he heard the faint crackling of dead brush and soft, quick steps. He had not proceeded far when pattering footsteps halted him. Ken dropped to his knee. The boys knelt behind him, and Pepe whispered. Peering along the trail Ken saw what he took for a wildcat. Its boldness amazed him. Surely it had heard him, but instead of bounding into the thicket it crouched not more than twenty-five feet away. Ken took a quick shot at the gray huddled form. It jerked, stretched out, and lay still. T
hen a crashing in the brush, and gray streaks down the trail told Ken of more game.
“There they go. Peg away at them,” called Ken.
George and Hal burned a good deal of powder and sent much lead whistling through the dry branches, but the gray forms vanished in the jungle.
“We got one, anyway,” said Ken.
He advanced to find his quarry quite dead. It was bigger than any wildcat Ken had ever seen. The color was a grayish yellow, almost white, lined and spotted with black. Ken lifted it and found it heavy enough to make a good load.
“He’s a beauty,” said Hal.
“Pepe says it’s a tiger-cat,” remarked George. “There are two or three kinds besides the big tiger. We may run into a lot of them and get some skins.”
It was almost dark when they reached camp. While Pepe and Hal skinned the tiger-cat and stretched the pelt over a framework of sticks the other boys got supper. They were all very hungry and tired, and pleased with the events of the day. As they sat round the camp-fire there was a constant whirring of water-fowl over their heads and an incessant hum of insects from the jungle.
“Ken, does it feel as wild to you here as on Buckskin Mountain?” asked Hal.
“Oh yes, much wilder, Hal,” replied his brother. “And it’s different, somehow. Out in Arizona there was always the glorious expectancy of to-morrow’s fun or sport. Here I have a kind of worry — a feeling—”
But he concluded it wiser to keep to himself that strange feeling of dread which came over him at odd moments.
“It suits me,” said Hal. “I want to get a lot of things and keep them alive. Of course, I want specimens. I’d like some skins for my den, too. But I don’t care so much about killing things.”
“Just wait!” retorted George, who evidently took Hal’s remark as a reflection upon his weakness. “Just wait! You’ll be shooting pretty soon for your life.”
“Now, George, what do you mean by that?” questioned Ken, determined to pin George down to facts. “You said you didn’t really know anything about this jungle. Why are you always predicting disaster for us?”
“Why? Because I’ve heard things about the jungle,” retorted, George. “And Pepe says wait till we get down off the mountain. He doesn’t know anything, either. But it’s his instinct — Pepe’s half Indian. So I say, too, wait till we get down in the jungle!”
“Confound you! Where are we now?” queried Ken.
“The real jungle is the lowland. There we’ll find the tigers and the crocodiles and the wild cattle and wild pigs.”
“Bring on your old pigs and things,” replied Hal.
But Ken looked into the glowing embers of the camp-fire and was silent. When he got out his note-book and began his drawing, he forgot the worry and dread in the interest of his task. He was astonished at his memory, to see how he could remember every turn in the river and yet not lose his sense of direction. He could tell almost perfectly the distance traveled, because he knew so well just how much a boat would cover in swift or slow waters in a given time. He thought he could give a fairly correct estimate of the drop of the river. And, as for descriptions of the jungle life along the shores, that was a delight, all except trying to understand and remember and spell the names given to him by Pepe. Ken imagined Pepe spoke a mixture of Toltec, Aztec, Indian, Spanish, and English.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE WHITE WATER
UPON AWAKENING NEXT morning Ken found the sun an hour high. He was stiff and sore and thirsty. Pepe and the boys slept so soundly it seemed selfish to wake them.
All around camp there was a melodious concourse of birds. But the parrots did not make a visit that morning. While Ken was washing in the river a troop of deer came down to the bar on the opposite side. Ken ran for his rifle, and by mistake took up George’s .32. He had a splendid shot at less than one hundred yards. But the bullet dropped fifteen feet in front of the leading buck. The deer ran into the deep, bushy willows.
“That gun’s leaded,” muttered Ken. “It didn’t shoot where I aimed.”
Pepe jumped up; George rolled out of his blanket with one eye still glued shut; and Hal stretched and yawned and groaned.
“Do I have to get up?” he asked.
“Shore, lad,” said Ken, mimicking Jim Williams, “or I’ll hev to be reconsiderin’ that idee of mine about you bein’ pards with me.”
Such mention of Hal’s ranger friend brought the boy out of his lazy bed with amusing alacrity.
“Rustle breakfast, now, you fellows,” said Ken, and, taking his rifle, he started off to climb the high river bluff.
It was his idea to establish firmly in mind the trend of the mountain-range, and the relation of the river to it. The difficulty in mapping the river would come after it left the mountains to wind away into the wide lowlands. The matter of climbing the bluff would have been easy but for the fact that he wished to avoid contact with grass, brush, trees, even dead branches, as all were covered with ticks. The upper half of the bluff was bare, and when he reached that part he soon surmounted it. Ken faced south with something of eagerness. Fortunately the mist had dissolved under the warm rays of the sun, affording an unobstructed view. That scene was wild and haunting, yet different from what his fancy had pictured. The great expanse of jungle was gray, the green line of cypress, palm, and bamboo following the southward course of the river. The mountain-range some ten miles distant sloped to the south and faded away in the haze. The river disappeared in rich dark verdure, and but for it, which afforded a water-road back to civilization, Ken would have been lost in a dense gray-green overgrowth of tropical wilderness. Once or twice he thought he caught the faint roar of a waterfall on the morning breeze, yet could not be sure, and he returned toward camp with a sober appreciation of the difficulty of his enterprise and a more thrilling sense of its hazard and charm.
“Didn’t see anything to peg at, eh?” greeted Hal. “Well, get your teeth in some of this venison before it’s all gone.”
Soon they were under way again, Pepe strong and willing at the oars. This time Ken had his rifle and shotgun close at hand, ready for use. Half a mile below, the river, running still and deep, entered a shaded waterway so narrow that in places the branches of wide-spreading and leaning cypresses met and intertwined their moss-fringed foliage. This lane was a paradise for birds, that ranged from huge speckled cranes, six feet high, to little yellow birds almost too small to see.
Black squirrels were numerous and very tame. In fact, all the creatures along this shaded stream were so fearless that it was easy to see they had never heard a shot. Ken awoke sleepy cranes with his fishing-rod and once pushed a blue heron off a log. He heard animals of some species running back from the bank, but could not see them.
All at once a soft breeze coming up-stream bore a deep roar of tumbling rapids. The sensation of dread which had bothered Ken occasionally now returned and fixed itself in his mind. He was in the jungle of Mexico, and knew not what lay ahead of him. But if he had been in the wilds of unexplored Brazil and had heard that roar, it would have been familiar to him. In his canoe experience on the swift streams of Pennsylvania Ken Ward had learned, long before he came to rapids, to judge what they were from the sound. His attention wandered from the beautiful birds, the moss-shaded bowers, and the overhanging jungle. He listened to the heavy, sullen roar of the rapids.
“That water sounds different,” remarked George.
“Grande,” said Pepe, with a smile.
“Pretty heavy, Ken, eh?” asked Hal, looking quickly at his brother.
But Ken Ward made his face a mask, and betrayed nothing of the grim nature of his thought. Pepe and the boys had little idea of danger, and they had now a blind faith in Ken.
“I dare say we’ll get used to that roar,” replied Ken, easily, and he began to pack his guns away in their cases.
Hal forgot his momentary anxiety; Pepe rowed on, leisurely; and George lounged in his seat. There was no menace for them in that dull, continuous roar.
/> But Ken knew they would soon be in fast water and before long would drop down into the real wilderness. It was not now too late to go back up the river, but soon that would be impossible. Keeping a sharp lookout ahead, Ken revolved in mind the necessity for caution and skilful handling of the boat. But he realized, too, that overzealousness on the side of caution was a worse thing for such a trip than sheer recklessness. Good judgment in looking over rapids, a quick eye to pick the best channel, then a daring spirit — that was the ideal to be striven for in going down swift rivers.
Presently Ken saw a break in the level surface of the water. He took Pepe’s place at the oars, and, as usual, turned the boat stern first down-stream. The banks were low and shelved out in rocky points. This relieved Ken, for he saw that he could land just above the falls. What he feared was a narrow gorge impossible to portage round or go through. As the boat approached the break the roar seemed to divide itself, hollow and shallow near at hand, rushing and heavy farther on.
Ken rowed close to the bank and landed on the first strip of rock. He got out and, walking along this ledge, soon reached the fall. It was a straight drop of some twelve or fifteen feet. The water was shallow all the way across.
“Boys, this is easy,” said Ken. “We’ll pack the outfit round the fall, and slide the boat over.”
But Ken did not say anything about the white water extending below the fall as far as he could see. From here came the sullen roar that had worried him.
Portaging the supplies around that place turned out to be far from easy. The portage was not long nor rugged, but the cracked, water-worn rock made going very difficult. The boys often stumbled. Pepe fell and broke open a box, and almost broke his leg. Ken had a hard knock. Then, when it came to carrying the trunk, one at each corner, progress was laborious and annoying. Full two hours were lost in transporting the outfit around the fall.