Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “I’d rather have six tigers after me,” yelled Ken. “You little freckle-faced redhead!”

  It was seldom indeed that Ken called his brother that name. Hal was proof against any epithets except that one relating to his freckles and his hair. But just now Ken felt that he was being eaten alive. He was in an agony, and he lost his temper. And therefore he laid himself open to Hal’s scathing humor.

  “Never mind the kid,” said Ken to Pepe and George. “Hurry now, and get busy with these devils on me.”

  It was well for Ken that he had a native like Pepe with him. For Pepe knew just what to do. First he dashed a bucket of cold water over Ken. How welcome that was!

  “Pepe says for you to point out the ticks that’re biting the hardest,” said George.

  In spite of his pain Ken stared in mute surprise.

  “Pepe wants you to point out the ticks that are digging in the deepest,” explained George. “Get a move on, now.”

  “What!” roared Ken, glaring at Pepe and George. He thought even the native might be having fun with him. And for Ken this was not a funny time.

  But Pepe was in dead earnest.

  “Say, it’s impossible to tell where I’m being bitten most! It’s all over!” protested Ken.

  Still he discovered that by absolute concentration on the pain he was enduring he was able to locate the severest points. And that showed him the soundness of Pepe’s advice.

  “Here — this one — here — there. . . . Oh! here,” began Ken, indicating certain ticks.

  “Not so fast, now,” interrupted the imperturbable George, as he and Pepe set to work upon Ken.

  Then the red-hot cigarette-tips scorched Ken’s skin. Ken kept pointing and accompanying his directions with wild gestures and exclamations.

  “Here. . . . Oo-oo! Here. . . . Wow! Here. . . . Ouch! — that one stung! Here. . . . Augh! Say, can’t you hurry? Here! . . . Oh! that one was in a mile! Here. . . . Hold on! You’re burning a hole in me! . . . George, you’re having fun out of this. Pepe gets two to your one.”

  “He’s been popping ticks all his life,” was George’s reasonable protest.

  “Hurry!” cried Ken, in desperation. “George, if you monkey round — fool over this job — I’ll — I’ll punch you good.”

  All this trying time Hal Ward sat on a log and watched the proceedings with great interest and humor. Sometimes he smiled, at others he laughed, and yet again he burst out into uproarious mirth.

  “George, he wouldn’t punch anybody,” said Hal. “I tell you he’s all in. He hasn’t any nerve left. It’s a chance of your life. You’ll never get another. He’s been bossing you around. Pay him up. Make him holler. Why, what’s a few little ticks? Wouldn’t phase me! But Ken Ward’s such a delicate, fine-skinned, sensitive, girly kind of a boy! He’s too nice to be bitten by bugs. Oh dear, yes, yes! . . . Ken, why don’t you show courage?”

  Ken shook his fist at Hal.

  “All right,” said Ken, grimly. “Have all the fun you can. Because I’ll get even with you.”

  Hal relapsed into silence, and Ken began to believe he had intimidated his brother. But he soon realized how foolish it was to suppose such a thing. Hal had only been working his fertile brain.

  “George, here’s a little verse for the occasion,” said Hal.

  “There was a brave hunter named Ken,

  And he loved to get skins for his den,

  Not afraid was he of tigers or pigs,

  Or snakes or cats or any such things,

  But one day in the jungle he left his clothes,

  And came hollering back with garrapatoes.”

  “Gre-at-t-t!” sputtered Ken. “Oh, brother mine, we’re a long way from home. I’ll make you crawl.”

  Pepe smoked and wore out three cigarettes, and George two, before they had popped all the biting ticks. Then Ken was still covered with them. Pepe bathed him in canya, which was like a bath of fire, and soon removed them all. Ken felt flayed alive, peeled of his skin, and sprinkled with fiery sparks. When he lay down he was as weak as a sick cat. Pepe said the canya would very soon take the sting away, but it was some time before Ken was resting easily.

  It would not have been fair to ask Ken just then whether the prize for which he worked was worth his present gain. Garrapatoes may not seem important to one who simply reads about them, but such pests are a formidable feature of tropical life.

  However, Ken presently felt that he was himself again.

  Then he put his mind to the serious problem of his note-book and the plotting of the island. As far as his trip was concerned, Cypress Island was an important point. When he had completed his map down to the island, he went on to his notes. He believed that what he had found out from his knowledge of forestry was really worth something. He had seen a gradual increase in the size and number of trees as he had proceeded down the river, a difference in the density and color of the jungle, a flattening-out of the mountain range, and a gradual change from rocky to clayey soil. And on the whole his note-book began to assume such a character that he was beginning to feel willing to submit it to his uncle.

  CHAPTER XVI

  FIELD WORK OF A NATURALIST

  THAT NIGHT KEN talked natural history to the boys and read extracts from a small copy of Sclater he had brought with him.

  They were all particularly interested in the cat tribe.

  The fore feet of all cats have five toes, the hind feet only four. Their claws are curved and sharp, and, except in case of one species of leopard, can be retracted in their sheaths. The claws of the great cat species are kept sharp by pulling them down through bark of trees. All cats walk on their toes. And the stealthy walk is due to hairy pads or cushions. The claws of a cat do not show in its track as do those of a dog. The tongues of all cats are furnished with large papillae. They are like files, and the use is to lick bones and clean their fur. Their long whiskers are delicate organs of perception to aid them in finding their way on their night quests. The eyes of all cats are large and full, and can be altered by contraction or expansion of iris, according to the amount of light they receive. The usual color is gray or tawny with dark spots or stripes. The uniform tawny color of the lion and the panther is perhaps an acquired color, probably from the habit of these animals of living in desert countries. It is likely that in primitive times cats were all spotted or striped.

  Naturally the boys were most interested in the jaguar, which is the largest of the cat tribe in the New World. The jaguar ranges from northern Mexico to northern Patagonia. Its spots are larger than those of the leopard. Their ground color is a rich tan or yellow, sometimes almost gold. Large specimens have been known nearly seven feet from nose to end of tail.

  The jaguar is an expert climber and swimmer. Humboldt says that where the South American forests are subject to floods the jaguar sometimes takes to tree life, living on monkeys. All naturalists agree on the ferocious nature of jaguars, and on the loudness and frequency of their cries. There is no record of their attacking human beings without provocation. Their favorite haunts are the banks of jungle rivers, and they often prey upon fish and turtles.

  The attack of a jaguar is terrible. It leaps on the back of its prey and breaks its neck. In some places there are well-known scratching trees where jaguars sharpen their claws. The bark is worn smooth in front from contact with the breasts of the animals as they stand up, and there is a deep groove on each side. When new scars appear on these trees it is known that jaguars are in the vicinity. The cry of the jaguar is loud, deep, hoarse, something like pu, pu, pu. There is much enmity between the panther, or mountain-lion, and the jaguar, and it is very strange that generally the jaguar fears the lion, although he is larger and more powerful.

  Pepe had interesting things to say about jaguars, or tigres, as he called them. But Ken, of course, could not tell how much Pepe said was truth and how much just native talk. At any rate, Pepe told of one Mexican who had a blind and deaf jaguar that he had tamed. Ken knew that naturalists c
laimed the jaguar could not be tamed, but in this instance Ken was inclined to believe Pepe. This blind jaguar was enormous in size, terrible of aspect, and had been trained to trail anything his master set him to. And Tigre, as he was called, never slept or stopped till he had killed the thing he was trailing. As he was blind and deaf, his power of scent had been abnormally developed.

  Pepe told of a fight between a huge crocodile and a jaguar in which both were killed. He said jaguars stalked natives and had absolutely no fear. He knew natives who said that jaguars had made off with children and eaten them. Lastly, Pepe told of an incident that had happened in Tampico the year before. There was a ship at dock below Tampico, just on the outskirts where the jungle began, and one day at noon two big jaguars leaped on the deck. They frightened the crew out of their wits. George verified this story, and added that the jaguars had been chased by dogs, had boarded the ship, where they climbed into the rigging, and stayed there till they were shot.

  “Well,” said Ken, thoughtfully, “from my experience I believe a jaguar would do anything.”

  The following day promised to be a busy one for Hal, without any time for tricks. George went hunting before breakfast — in fact, before the others were up — and just as the boys were sitting down to eat he appeared on the nearer bank and yelled for Pepe. It developed that for once George had bagged game.

  He had a black squirrel, a small striped wildcat, a peccary, a three-foot crocodile, and a duck of rare plumage.

  After breakfast Hal straightway got busy, and his skill and knowledge earned praise from George and Pepe. They volunteered to help, which offer Hal gratefully accepted. He had brought along a folding canvas tank, forceps, knives, scissors, several packages of preservatives, and tin boxes in which to pack small skins.

  His first task was to mix a salt solution in the canvas tank. This was for immersing skins. Then he made a paste of salt and alum, and after that a mixture of two-thirds glycerin and one-third water and carbolic acid, which was for preserving small skins and to keep them soft.

  And as he worked he gave George directions on how to proceed with the wildcat and squirrel skins.

  “Skin carefully and tack up the pelts fur side down. Scrape off all the fat and oil, but don’t scrape through. To-morrow when the skins are dry soak them in cold water till soft. Then take them out and squeeze dry. I’ll make a solution of three quarts water, one-half pint salt, and one ounce oil of vitriol. Put the skins in that for half an hour. Squeeze dry again, and hang in shade. That’ll tan the skin, and the moths will never hurt them.”

  When Hal came to take up the duck he was sorry that some of the beautiful plumage had been stained.

  “I want only a few water-fowl,” he said. “And particularly one of the big Muscovies. And you must keep the feathers from getting soiled.”

  It was interesting to watch Hal handle that specimen. First he took full measurements. Then, separating the feathers along the breast, he made an incision with a sharp knife, beginning high up on breast-bone and ending at tail. He exercised care so as not to cut through the abdomen. Raising the skin carefully along the cut as far as the muscles of the leg, he pushed out the knee joint and cut it off. Then he loosened the skin from the legs and the back, and bent the tail down to cut through the tail joint. Next he removed the skin from the body and cut off the wings at the shoulder joint. Then he proceeded down the neck, being careful not to pull or stretch the skin. Extreme care was necessary in cutting round the eyes. Then, when he had loosened the skin from the skull, he severed the head and cleaned out the skull. He coated all with the paste, filled the skull with cotton, and then immersed them in the glycerin bath.

  The skinning of the crocodile was an easy matter compared with that of the duck. Hal made an incision at the throat, cut along the middle of the abdomen all the way to the tip of the tail, and then cut the skin away all around the carcass. Then he set George and Pepe to scraping the skin, after which he immersed it in the tank.

  About that time Ken, who was lazily fishing in the shade of the cypresses, caught one of the blue-tailed fish. Hal was delighted. He had made a failure of the other specimen of this unknown fish. This one was larger and exquisitely marked, being dark gold on the back, white along the belly, and its tail had a faint bluish tinge. Hal promptly killed the fish, and then made a dive for his suitcase. He produced several sheets of stiff cardboard and a small box of water-colors and brushes. He laid the fish down on a piece of paper and outlined its exact size. Then, placing it carefully in an upright position on a box, he began to paint it in the actual colors of the moment. Ken laughed and teased him. George also was inclined to be amused. But Pepe was amazed and delighted. Hal worked on unmindful of his audience, and, though he did not paint a very artistic picture, he produced the vivid colors of the fish before they faded.

  His next move was to cover the fish with strips of thin cloth, which adhered to the scales and kept them from being damaged. Then he cut along the middle line of the belly, divided the pelvic arch where the ventral fins joined, cut through the spines, and severed the fins from the bones. Then he skinned down to the tail, up to the back, and cut through caudal processes. The vertebral column he severed at the base of the skull. He cleaned and scraped the entire inside of the skin, and then put it to soak.

  “Hal, you’re much more likely to make good with Uncle Jim than I am,” said Ken. “You’ve really got skill, and you know what to do. Now, my job is different. So far I’ve done fairly well with my map of the river. But as soon as we get on level ground I’ll be stumped.”

  “We’ll cover a hundred miles before we get to low land,” replied Hal, cheerily. “That’s enough, even if we do get lost for the rest of the way. You’ll win that trip abroad, Ken, never fear, and little Willie is going to be with you.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  A MIXED-UP TIGER-HUNT

  NEXT MORNING HAL arose bright as a lark, but silent, mysterious, and with far-seeing eyes. It made Ken groan in spirit to look at the boy. Yes, indeed, they were far from home, and the person did not live on the earth who could play a trick on Hal Ward and escape vengeance.

  After breakfast Hal went off with a long-handled landing-net, obviously to capture birds or fish or mice or something.

  George said he did not feel very well, and he looked grouchy. He growled around camp in a way that might have nettled Ken, but Ken, having had ten hours of undisturbed sleep, could not have found fault with anybody.

  “Garrapato George, come out of it. Cheer up,” said Ken. “Why don’t you take Pinilius Pepe as gun-bearer and go out to shoot something? You haven’t used up much ammunition yet.”

  Ken’s sarcasm was not lost upon George.

  “Well, if I do go, I’ll not come running back to camp without some game.”

  “My son,” replied Ken, genially, “if you should happen to meet a jaguar you’d — you’d just let out one squawk and then never touch even the high places of the jungle. You’d take that crazy .32 rifle for a golf-stick.”

  “Would I?” returned George. “All right.”

  Ken watched George awhile that morning. The lad performed a lot of weird things around camp. Then he bounced bullets off the water in vain effort to locate the basking crocodile. Then he tried his hand at fishing once more. He could get more bites than any fisherman Ken ever saw, but he could not catch anything.

  By and by the heat made Ken drowsy, and, stretching himself in the shade, he thought of a scheme to rid the camp of the noisy George.

  “Say, George, take my hammerless and get Pepe to row you up along the shady bank of the river,” suggested Ken. “Go sneaking along and you’ll have some sport.”

  George was delighted with that idea. He had often cast longing eyes at the hammerless gun. Pepe, too, looked exceedingly pleased. They got in the boat and were in the act of starting when George jumped ashore. He reached for his .32 and threw the lever down to see if there was a shell in the chamber. Then he proceeded to fill his pockets with ammunitio
n.

  “Might need a rifle,” he said. “You can’t tell what you’re going to see in this unholy jungle.”

  Whereupon he went aboard again and Pepe rowed leisurely up-stream.

  “Be careful, boys,” Ken called, and composed himself for a nap. He promptly fell asleep. How long he slept he had no idea, and when he awoke he lay with languor, not knowing at the moment what had awakened him. Presently he heard a shout, then a rifle-shot. Sitting up, he saw the boat some two hundred yards above, drifting along about the edge of the shade. Pepe was in it alone. He appeared to be excited, for Ken observed him lay down an oar and pick up a gun, and then reverse the performance. Also he was jabbering to George, who evidently was out on the bank, but invisible to Ken.

  “Hey, Pepe!” Ken yelled. “What’re you doing?”

  Strange to note, Pepe did not reply or even turn.

  “Now where in the deuce is George?” Ken said, impatiently.

  The hollow crack of George’s .32 was a reply to the question. Ken heard the singing of a bullet. Suddenly, spou! it twanged on a branch not twenty feet over his head, and then went whining away. He heard it tick a few leaves or twigs. There was not any languor in the alacrity with which Ken put the big cypress-tree between him and up-stream. Then he ventured to peep forth.

  “Look out where you’re slinging lead!” he yelled. He doubted not that George had treed a black squirrel or was pegging away at parrots. Yet Pepe’s motions appeared to carry a good deal of feeling, too much, he thought presently, for small game. So Ken began to wake up thoroughly. He lost sight of Pepe behind a low branch of a tree that leaned some fifty yards above the island. Then he caught sight of him again. He was poling with an oar, evidently trying to go up or down — Ken could not tell which.

  Spang! Spang! George’s .32 spoke twice more, and the bullets both struck in the middle of the stream and ricochetted into the far bank with little thuds.

  Something prompted Ken to reach for his automatic, snap the clip in tight, and push in the safety. At the same time he muttered George’s words: “You can never tell what’s coming off in this unholy jungle.”