He saw that there were some species of fruits on the trees, and suddenly remembered that he was hungry. The fruit looked edible, and Phil picked a tree which was not so large but what he could climb it, leaned his spear against the bole, and started up.
He reached the top, pulled off some of the fruit that was soft enough to eat, sliced away a thick, green skin, and found that the interior was pink, slightly acid, rather sweetish. There were seeds in the interior as in a cantaloupe, and Phil scraped out the seeds, cut away slices of the thick fruit, and devoured them eagerly.
But his stomach craved meat, and he realized that it was the part of wisdom to conserve his reserve rations. Therefore, the situation called for a kill of some sort. So he started to slide down the tree.
He had reached a point in the lower branches some ten feet from the trail, and directly above it, when a very slight motion in the shadows attracted his attention.
He froze into instant immobility.
No one but a woodsman would have seen that flicker of moving shadow within shadow, but Phil had trained his senses until they were as alert as those of a wild animal, and he not only saw the motion, but he sensed the menace of it with some subtle sixth sense which placed him on his stomach along the overhanging limb.
A moment later the motion became substance. A dark-skinned man, naked save for a breech cloth which was wrapped about his hips and middle, emerged into the sunlight which patched the trail.
CHAPTER 6
Jungle Death
Phil saw the woolly head, the wide nostrils through which a piece of white bone had been thrust. He saw, also, that the man’s eyes were on the ground, that he was following trail, and realized, with a sudden thrill, that the trail he was following was Phil’s own shoeprints in the loamy soil.
The man carried a bow in his hand, an arrow ready on the string. There was a quiver over his shoulder, and in this quiver were some dozen arrows, their feathered tips showing as bits of gaudy color against the darkness of the foliage covered mountainside.
There could be no mistaking the menace of the man’s approach. It was the approach of a killer stalking his kill, of a hunter crawling up on his prey.
The bare feet of the savage made no sound upon the trail. His advance was like the advance of a dark cloud sliding across the blue sky, ominous, silent, deadly.
Phil realized the danger to the girl and the scientist. Unversed in woodcraft, they would fall easy prey to such prowling savages. It became imperative for Phil to ascertain whether the man was alone or whether he was but the outpost of a large force, scouting up the slope.
And the quick eyes of the savage would soon see the telltale tracks leading to the tree, the rough spear which was thrust against the bole. Phil had no doubt the arrows in the quiver were tipped with a deadly poison. The man had but to fling up his bow, send an arrow winging to its mark, and Phil Bregg would be killed as swiftly and mercilessly as one shoots a puma down from a tree.
There was but one thing to do—to steal a page from the hunting tactics of the puma himself, and Phil flattened himself on the limb, tensed his muscles.
The native came to the point where the tracks turned. He grunted his surprise, started to look up.
Phil dropped from the limb.
But the man-made shoes with which civilized peoples clothe themselves are far inferior to the sharp claws of a mountain lion, when it comes to jumping down from branches which overhang trails, and Phil’s feet, slipping from the smooth bark of the limb, threw him off balance, and made him bungle the noiseless efficiency of his spring.
He came through the air, arms and legs outspread, trying to imitate the lion, but resembling some huge bat. The native, moving with that swift coordination which characterizes those who have lived their lives in the wild, whether beast or man, jumped back and flung up his bow.
But Phil didn’t miss entirely. His clutching hand caught a tip of the bow as he went down, and jerked it from the hand of the naked savage. And Phil, remembering several occasions when he had been pitched from his saddle by the fall of a horse, managed to get his legs in under him by a convulsive motion of the stomach muscles.
He lit heavily, the bow flying to one side, the arrow flipping from the string.
The savage uttered a yell, and gave a leap forward.
Phil was still off balance.
He felt the impact of the brown flesh, the sudden tenseness of the iron-hard muscles as the man threw himself upon him, reaching for his throat.
Then Phil managed to get his shoulder under the savage’s stomach, got his heel dug into the loamy soil of the trail, and straightened, sending the savage up and off balance.
The man slipped to one side, recovered himself with catlike quickness, and leapt forward. His teeth had been filed to points, and now, as he leapt, his mouth was open, snarling like an animal. The lips were curled back, and the white of the filed teeth showed as a twin row of menace.
Phil Bregg knew something of the science of boxing, knew the deadly effect of a blow that is not delivered helter skelter, but is well timed.
Phil Bregg snapped his right for the jaw.
The gripping hands were almost at his throat when his blow, slipping under the naked, outstretched arm, crashed home on the button of the jaw.
As the blow struck, Phil lowered his shoulder, gave a follow-through which sent the savage’s head rocking back, lifted him from the heels of his feet, hurtled him through the air, smashed him down upon the dark soil of the tropical forest with a jar that shook the leaves of the trees, dislodged Phil’s spear, and sent it slithering down the side of the tree.
Phil jumped on the savage, wrested the quiver of arrows from his back. As he had expected, he found that the steel tips of the arrows were discolored by some dark substance which was undoubtedly a poisonous preparation.
The savage was unconscious, and seemed likely to remain unconscious for some time. Phil picked up the bow, tested the twang of the string between his thumb and forefinger. The bow was a powerful one, and the taut string gave forth a resonant note like the string of a violin.
Phil dragged the native away from the trail, covered the inert form over with some heavy leaves he cut from a low shrub with his pocket knife, possessed himself once more of his spear, and slung the quiver of poisoned arrows over his shoulder. Then he strung an arrow on the bow, ambushed himself back to a tree, and waited.
If there were more natives coming, Phil wanted to be in a position to attack upon terms which would give him something of a chance, even if it was a slender one. This, he realized, was no sporting event in which he should make of the conflict something of the nature of a game. This was a life and death struggle in which he must meet cunning with cunning, ferocity with ferocity, and win, not only for the sake of his own safety, but for the safety of the girl as well.
However, there seemed to be no more savages treading the trail. Phil heaved a sigh of relief. That meant this single native, probably on a hunting expedition, had come across the tracks of Phil’s boots in the soil, and had followed them, intent upon gathering a head for his collection, and without bothering to back-track to find out where the man had come from.
Phil stepped out from cover, uncertain as to whether to proceed with his explorations or to return to the camp and make certain that the others were safe.
He finally decided that the savage, upon regaining consciousness, would seek to follow his trail, and knew that if he left a plain trail back to the camp he would simply be bringing danger upon those whom he wished to protect.
So he started along the trail, running lightly upon the balls of his feet, the quiver thumping his back, the arrows rattling against the sides of the container. He wanted to find a stream of running water. If he could do that, he felt reasonably certain of his ability to shake off the man who would undoubtedly try to follow.
He found the stream in a little canon between two of the headlands. He turned, as though he were going downstream, and was careful to leave a t
rack on the bank, showing the direction in which he had plunged into the water.
As soon as he was in the stream, however, he reversed his direction and waded up it until he found a rocky ledge upon which he could emerge without leaving any imprint.
He followed this ledge for several hundred yards, then found an overhanging tree from the branches of which there hung a green creeper. By taking hold of this creeper he managed to swing far out into the tangled mass of vegetation before he dropped.
He was satisfied that a single man, trying to follow his trail, would be baffled. A party of eight or ten, by dividing on either side of the stream, might be successful, but the lone savage, stalking him unaided, would be at a loss.
Phil fought his way through the dense tangle of vegetation, searching for a game trail by which he might make a more silent progress.
A slow sound, throbbing the air, keeping tempo with the pulse of his blood, suddenly impinged upon his consciousness. He became aware then that he had been hearing this sound for some time without taking conscious thought of it.
It was a sound which had started at so low a note that it had insinuated itself upon his senses with a gradual insidious approach that had made it seem a natural part of the physical environment, rather than something new and startling.
Once aware of it, he paused to listen. It was the throbbing of a drum. From the sound, it must be a distant drum, massive, resonant. The sound came from no particular place, seemed no louder in one quarter of the compass than in the others. Yet when he stopped to listen to it, when he took conscious note of its existence, the sound was sufficient in volume to dominate the whole island.
It was, he gathered, some master drum which was used to transmit signals. He had heard of such drums, had heard of messages which were transmitted by * savage tribes with the speed of telegraphed news.
He tried to take note of the pulsations.
To his ear they seemed to be entirely alike, a monotone of rhythm that came and went, ebbed and flowed, swelled and died.
The drum rose louder and louder in its tone, then began to die away. The notes seemed to possess less volume. Then the beating became so low that it was hard for the senses to tell whether the impulses they detected came from the pound of the heart or the throbbing of the drum.
When Phil had about convinced himself that the sound had ceased entirely, the wind swung a little, and, for a moment, he could hear it again distinctly. Then the breeze ceased to rustle the leaves, and there was no more sound.
He was about to start forward when he heard another drum. This sound could be located. It was away off to the left. While it was deep in its tone, nevertheless there was not the heavy resonance about it that characterized the beating of that master drum.
More, he sensed at once that this drum was sending some message. There was a rapidity about the strokes, a variation in the periods of pulsation, which was at once apparent.
He tried to line up the sound accurately, and fancied that he had it pretty well located, when it ceased abruptly. There was none of the gradual tapering off into silence which had characterized the other sounds from the big drum. It was simply that the drum was beating with steady resonant volume at one moment, and at the next it had ceased.
Phil listened.
The silence of the tropical jungle hemmed him in.
Then he heard something else, a rapid pound, pound, pound, that seemed to jar the earth. He crouched down in the shadows, and waited. The pounding grew louder, kept the same rhythm. A dark shape, moving through the trees, became visible.
Phil saw it was a savage, naked except for the loin cloth, and that the man was running down some established trail. The sound of his bare feet thudding on the ground was the noise that Phil had heard, some little time before he glimpsed the runner, and that thudding of the feet continued some little time after the naked savage had vanished in the jungle growth.
Phil waited, aware now that he must move with caution. He was on an island that was peopled with a savage and warlike tribe. He had no weapons worthy of the name, no means of escape. And he had the responsibility of caring for two people, both of whom were utterly helpless as far as any actual ability to care for themselves against any such obstacles.
Phil decided that he would work his way back to the camp, taking care not to leave a trail that could be followed, warning the two that they must take no chances of showing themselves, getting them, perhaps, in a better place of concealment.
He started through the brush, realizing that the trail which the native had followed was but a short distance below him. Evidently that trail had crossed downstream, then zigzagged up on the side of the stream he had crossed.
He had not taken more than a single step when he heard the smaller drum again, volleying forth a message, and almost at once the big master drum started its deep-throated booming.
Phil, standing there, perspiring, alarmed, every sense alert, could not be certain, but he felt that the big drum was relaying the same message that had been received by the smaller drum, sending it booming forth to every part of the island.
For there could be no question now but what the big drum was conveying a message. The change in tempo of the throbbing sounds could be readily perceived.
Suddenly the noise of a rifle shot cracked out, and it was followed almost at once by two more shots.
The noise of the reports drowned,out the sound of the drums as they echoed from crag to crag.
Then, after the noise of the shots had died away, there sounded the noise of the big drum again, booming forth a series of repeated signals. There were three rapid beats, a delayed moment, then two slow beats, a pause, and then one single booming beat of noise. Following that was silence, a silence which lasted for several seconds. Then the big drum repeated the signal.
Phil listened to the repetition of that signal for several minutes, and came to the conclusion, without having any evidence to base it on, other than the fact that the smaller drum was silenced, that the big drum was booming forth something in the nature of a call signal, waiting for a reply from the smaller drum.
Phil decided that the girl and Professor Parker could hear the signal of the master drum, which was booming in increased volume with every repetition. Indeed, it seemed that the signal must carry to every part of the island.
And Phil felt certain that the warning conveyed by that drummed signal would be sufficient to apprise the girl of the presence of hostile savages, and that she would use every precaution to insure against discovery.
The savage he had found had been armed only with bow and arrow. The sound of the rifle shot indicated the presence of a more civilized man, and it was very possible that some other white man, better armed, had been caught by the same tidal currents which followed the shifting of the poles of the earth, and that those currents had deposited him upon the same island.
Phil changed his plans, determined to make his way toward the place from which he had heard those rifle shots, particularly as they had seemed to be almost in the same locality as the source of the drum beats from the smaller drum.
Phil had an idea speed meant everything. He cast caution to the winds, broke from his concealment, found the trail the running savage had been following, and set out along it with swinging strides that devoured distance.
But Phil was taking care lest he should run into an ambush, and his trail-wise eyes took in every detail of his surroundings.
The trail was beaten hard by naked feet. It wound like a black ribbon through the dense growth of tree and shrub, vine and creeper, following the contours of the upper levels with a slope that showed some considerable engineering efficiency in its construction, an efficiency which is the result of laborious study in civilized schools, yet which comes instinctively to game animals and savages.
Phil dropped down a gully, following the trail, saw where a branch trail turned into the shrub on a shoulder of the next ridge, and decided to follow that branch trail. He was, he realized, gettin
g close to the place from which that shot had sounded. Had he been trailing a deer hunter, he would have started to look for a dead deer along in here.
He slowed his pace, moved with every sense alert, his eyes taking in every bit of the slope, penetrating the shadows of the jungle.
It was the sight of a brown foot protruding into a patch of sunlight which sent him jumping into the shrubbery beside the trail, the bow raised, arrow on the string.
But the foot remained motionless, the toes pointing upward.
Phil stepped forward, silently, cautiously.
The foot was motionless. As he walked, a leg came into view above the foot, then another foot and leg, the latter twisted into a grotesque position.
Then, rounding a tree trunk, he saw the man.
CHAPTER 7
The Murderer
He knew, then, the target that had received those rifle bullets. The man had been struck in the back, a little to one side of the right shoulder blade. The bullet had ranged through the chest, emerging from the left side. Death had been instantaneous, and the heavy drum stick, padded with a ball of animal hide which the fingers of the right hand still held, told the story.
There was a huge drum suspended from the branches of the tree by a twisted grass rope. The drum was made from a section of a hollowed tree trunk, and the hide which stretched across it was apparently exceedingly heavy. Phil found himself wondering if it could be a strip of elephant hide.
The drummer was dressed as the others had been dressed, simply in a loin cloth. But there was no ivory ornament thrust through his nose, although the skin of the chest showed a species of tattooing.
Phil stepped around the body, mindful of the presence of the man with the rifle, mindful, also, of the fact that the savage had been shot down without warning, and in the back.
The Human Zero- The Science Fiction Stories Of Erle Stanley Gardner Page 18