Chapter V: Part 5

For long moments he was tense and alert. He listened till he thought he had almost lost the sense of hearing. The jungle leaves were whispering; the insects were humming. He had expected to hear myriad birds and see processions of deer, and perhaps a drove of _javelin_. But if any living creatures ventured near him it was without his knowledge. The hour between sunset and twilight passed--a long wait; still he did not lose the feeling that something would happen. Ken’s faculties of alertness tired, however, and needed distraction. So he took stock of the big clump of bamboos under which lay the deer carcass.

It was a remarkable growth, that gracefully drooping cluster of slender bamboo poles. He remembered how, as a youngster, not many years back, he had wondered where the fishing-poles came from. Here Ken counted one hundred and sixty-nine in a clump no larger than a barrel. They were yellow in color with black bands, and they rose straight for a few yards, then began to lean out, to bend slightly, at last to droop with their abundance of spiked leaves. Ken was getting down to a real, interested study of this species of jungle growth when a noise startled him.

He straightened out of his lounging position and looked around. The sound puzzled him. He could not place its direction or name what it was. The jungle seemed strangely quiet. He listened. After a moment of waiting he again heard the sound. Instantly Ken was as tense and vibrating as a violin string. The thing he had heard was from the lungs of some jungle beast. He was almost ready to pronounce it a cough. Warily he glanced around, craning his neck. Then a deep, hoarse growl made him whirl.

There stood a jaguar with head up and paw on the deer carcass. Ken imagined he felt perfectly cool, but he knew he was astounded. And even as he cautiously edged the rifle over his knee he took in the beautiful points of the jaguar. He was yellow, almost white, with black spots. He was short and stocky, with powerful stumpy bow-legs. But his head most amazed Ken. It was enormous. And the expression of his face was so singularly savage and wild that Ken seemed to realize instantly the difference between a mountain-lion and this fierce tropical brute.

The jaguar opened his jaws threateningly. He had an enormous stretch of jaw. His long, yellow fangs gleamed. He growled again.

Not hurriedly, nor yet slowly, Ken fired.

He heard the bullet strike him as plainly as if he had hit him with a board. He saw dust fly from his hide. Ken expected to see the jaguar roll over. Instead of that he leaped straight up with a terrible roar. Something within Ken shook. He felt cold and sick.

When the jaguar came down, sprawled on all fours, Ken pulled the automatic again, and he saw the fur fly. Then the jaguar leaped forward with a strange, hoarse cry. Ken shot again, and knocked the beast flat. He tumbled and wrestled about, scattering the dust and brush. Three times more Ken fired, too hastily, and inflicted only slight wounds.

In reloading Ken tried to be deliberate in snapping in the second clip and pushing down the rod that threw the shell into the barrel. But his hands shook. His fingers were all thumbs, and he fumbled at the breech of the rifle.

In that interval, if the jaguar could have kept his sense of direction, he would have reached Ken. But the beast zigzagged; he had lost his equilibrium; he was hard hit.

Then he leaped magnificently. He landed within twenty-five feet of Ken, and when he plunged down he rolled clear over. Ken shot him through and through. Yet he got up, wheezing blood, uttering a hoarse bellow, and made again at Ken.

Ken had been cold, sick. Now panic almost overpowered him. The rifle wabbled. The bamboo glade blurred in his sight. A terrible dizziness and numbness almost paralyzed him. He was weakening, sinking, when thought of life at stake lent him a momentary grim and desperate spirit.

Once while the jaguar was in the air Ken pulled, twice while he was down. Then the jaguar stood up pawing the air with great spread claws, coughing, bleeding, roaring. He was horrible.

Ken shot him straight between the wide-spread paws.

With twisted body, staggering, and blowing bloody froth all over Ken, the big tiger blindly lunged forward and crashed to earth.

Then began a furious wrestling. Ken imagined it was the death-throes of the jaguar. Ken could not see him down among the leaves and vines; nevertheless, he shot into the commotion. The struggles ceased. Then a movement of the weeds showed Ken that the jaguar was creeping toward the jungle.

Ken fell rather than sat down. He found he was wringing wet with cold sweat. He was panting hard.

“Say, but--that--was--awful!” he gasped. “What--was--wrong--with me?”

He began to reload the clips. They were difficult to load for even a calm person, and now, in the reaction, Ken was the farthest removed from calm. The jaguar crept steadily away, as Ken could tell by the swaying weeds and shaking vines.

“What--a hard-lived beast!” muttered Ken. “I--must have shot--him all to pieces. Yet he’s getting away from me.”

At last Ken’s trembling fingers pushed some shells in the two clips, and once more he reloaded the rifle. Then he stood up, drew a deep, full breath, and made a strong effort at composure.

“I’ve shot at bear--and deer--and lions out West,” said Ken. “But this was different. I’ll never get over it.”

How close that jaguar came to reaching Ken was proved by the blood coughed into his face. He recalled that he had felt the wind of one great sweeping paw.

Ken regained his courage and determination. He meant to have that beautiful spotted skin for his den. So he hurried along the runway and entered the jungle. Beyond the edge, where the bushes made a dense thicket, it was dry forest, with little green low down. The hollow gave place to a dry wash. He could not see the jaguar, but he could hear him dragging himself through the brush, cracking sticks, shaking saplings.

Presently Ken ran across a bloody trail and followed it. Every little while he would stop to listen. When the wounded jaguar was still, he waited until he started to move again. It was hard going. The brush was thick, and had to be broken and crawled under or through. As Ken had left his coat behind, his shirt was soon torn to rags. He peered ahead with sharp eyes, expecting every minute to come in sight of the poor, crippled beast. He wanted to put him out of agony. So he kept on doggedly for what must have been a long time.

The first premonition he had of carelessness was to note that the shadows were gathering in the jungle. It would soon be night. He must turn back while there was light enough to follow his back track out to the open. The second came in shape of a hot pain in his arm, as keen as if he had jagged it with a thorn. Holding it out, he discovered to his dismay that it was spotted with _garrapatoes_.

*XV*

*THE VICIOUS GARRAPATOES*

At once Ken turned back, and if he thought again of the jaguar it was that he could come after him the next day or send Pepe. Another vicious bite, this time on his leg, confirmed his suspicions that many of the ticks had been on him long enough to get their heads in. Then he was bitten in several places.

Those bites were as hot as the touch of a live coal, yet they made Ken break out in dripping cold sweat. It was imperative that he get back to camp without losing a moment which could be saved. From a rapid walk he fell into a trot. He got off his back trail and had to hunt for it. Every time a tick bit he jumped as if stung. The worst of it was that he knew he was collecting more _garrapatoes_ with almost every step. When he grasped a dead branch to push it out of the way he could feel the ticks cling to his hand. Then he would whip his arm in the air, flinging some of them off to patter on the dry ground. Impossible as it was to run through that matted jungle, Ken almost accomplished it. When he got out into the open he did run, not even stopping for his coat, and he crossed the flat at top speed.

It was almost dark when Ken reached the river-bank and dashed down to frighten a herd of drinking deer. He waded the narrowest part of the shoal. Running up the island he burst into the bright circle of camp-fire. Pepe dropped a stew-pan and began to jabber. George dove for a gun.

“What’s after you?” shouted Hal, in alarm.

Ken was so choked up and breathless that at first he could not speak. His fierce aspect and actions, as he tore off his sleeveless and ragged shirt and threw it into the fire, added to the boys’ fright.

“Good Lord! are you bug-house, Ken?” shrieked Hal.

“_Bug-house! Yes!_” roared Ken, swiftly undressing. “Look at me!”

In the bright glare he showed his arms black with _garrapatoes_ and a sprinkling of black dots over the rest of his body.

“Is that all?” demanded Hal, in real or simulated scorn. “Gee! but you’re a brave hunter. I thought not less than six tigers were after you.”

“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.

*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 papillæ. 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 claimed 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.”

*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 ammunition.

“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.”

Then, peeping out from behind the cypress, Ken watched the boat drift down-stream. Pepe had stopped poling and was looking closely into the thick grass and vines of the bank. Ken heard his voice, but could not tell what he said. He watched keenly for some sight of George. The moments passed, the boat drifted, and Ken began to think there was nothing unusual afoot. In this interval Pepe drifted within seventy-five yards of camp. Again Ken called to ask him what George was stalking, and this time Pepe yelled; but Ken did not know what he said. Hard upon this came George’s sharp voice:

“Look out, there, on the island. Get behind something. I’ve got him between the river and the flat. He’s in this strip of shore brush. There!”

_Spang_! _Spang_! _Spang_! Bullets hummed and whistled all about the island. Ken was afraid to peep out with even one eye. He began to fancy that George was playing Indian.

“Fine, Georgie! You’re doing great!” he shouted. “You couldn’t come any closer to me if you were aiming at me. What is it?”

Then a crashing of brush and a flash of yellow low down along the bank changed the aspect of the situation.

“Panther! or jaguar!” Ken ejaculated, in amaze. In a second he was tight-muscled, cold, and clear-witted. At that instant he saw George’s white shirt about the top of the brush.

“Go back! Get out in the open!” Ken ordered. “Do you hear me?”

“Where is he?” shouted George, paying not the slightest attention to Ken. Ken jumped from behind the tree, and, running to the head of the island, he knelt low near the water with rifle ready.

“Tigre! Tigre! Tigre!” screamed Pepe, waving his arms, then pointing.

George crashed into the brush. Ken saw the leaves move, then a long yellow shape. With the quickness of thought and the aim of the wing-shot, Ken fired. From the brush rose a strange wild scream. George aimed at a shaking mass of grass and vines, but, before he could fire, a long, lean, ugly beast leaped straight out from the bank to drop into the water with a heavy splash.

Like a man half scared to death Pepe waved Ken’s double-barreled gun. Then a yellow head emerged from the water. It was in line with the boat. Ken dared not shoot.

“Kill him, George,” yelled Ken. “Tell Pepe to kill him.”

George seemed unaccountably silent. But Ken had no time to look for him, for his eyes were riveted on Pepe. The native did not know how to hold a gun properly, let alone aim it. He had, however, sense enough to try. He got the stock under his chin, and, pointing the gun, he evidently tried to fire. But the hammerless did not go off. Then Pepe fumbled at the safety-catch, which he evidently remembered seeing Ken use.

The jaguar, swimming with difficulty, perhaps badly wounded, made right for the boat. Pepe was standing on the seat. Awkwardly he aimed.

_Boom_! He had pulled both triggers. The recoil knocked him backward. The hammerless fell in the boat, and Pepe’s broad back hit the water; his bare, muscular legs clung to the gunwale, and slipped loose.

He had missed the jaguar, for it kept on toward the boat. Still Ken dared not shoot.

“George, what on earth is the matter with you?” shouted Ken.

Then Ken saw him standing in the brush on the bank, fussing over the crazy .32. Of course at the critical moment something had gone wrong with the old rifle.

Pepe’s head bobbed up just on the other side of the boat. The jaguar was scarcely twenty feet distant and now in line with both boat and man. At that instant a heavy swirl in the water toward the middle of the river drew Ken’s attention. He saw the big crocodile, and the great creature did not seem at all lazy at that moment.

George began to scream in Spanish. Ken felt his hair stiffen and his face blanch. Pepe, who had been solely occupied with the jaguar, caught George’s meaning and turned to see the peril in his rear.

He bawled his familiar appeal to the saints. Then he grasped the gunwale of the boat just as it swung against the branches of the low-leaning tree. He vaulted rather than climbed aboard.

Ken forgot that Pepe could understand little English, and he yelled: “Grab an oar, Pepe. Keep the jaguar in the water. Don’t let him in the boat.”

But Pepe, even if he had understood, had a better idea. Nimble, he ran over the boat and grasped the branches of the tree just as the jaguar flopped paws and head over the stern gunwale.

Ken had only a fleeting instant to get a bead on that yellow body, and before he could be sure of an aim the branch weighted with Pepe sank down to hide both boat and jaguar. The chill of fear for Pepe changed to hot rage at this new difficulty.

Then George began to shoot.

_Spang_!

Ken heard the bullet hit the boat.

“George--wait!” shouted Ken. “Don’t shoot holes in the boat. You’ll sink it.”

_Spang_! _Spang_! _Spang_! _Spang_!

That was as much as George cared about such a possibility. He stood on the bank and worked the lever of his .32 with wild haste. Ken plainly heard the spat of the bullets, and the sound was that of lead in contact with wood. So he knew George was not hitting the jaguar.

“You’ll ruin the boat!” roared Ken.

Pepe had worked up from the lower end of the branch, and as soon as he straddled it and hunched himself nearer shore the foliage rose out of the water, exposing the boat. George kept on shooting till his magazine was empty. Ken’s position was too low for him to see the jaguar.

Then the boat swung loose from the branch and, drifting down, gradually approached the shore.

“Pull yourself together, George,” called Ken. “Keep cool. Make sure of your aim. We’ve got him now.”

“He’s mine! He’s mine! He’s mine! Don’t you dare shoot!” howled George. “I got him!”

“All right. But steady up, can’t you? Hit him once, anyway.”

Apparently without aim George fired. Then, jerking the lever, he fired again. The boat drifted into overhanging vines. Once more Ken saw a yellow and black object, then a trembling trail of leaves.

“He’s coming out below you. Look out,” yelled Ken.

George disappeared. Ken saw no sign of the jaguar and heard no shot or shout from George. Pepe dropped from his branch to the bank and caught the boat. Ken called, and while Pepe rowed over to the island, he got into some clothes fit to hunt in. Then they hurried back across the channel to the bank.

Ken found the trail of the jaguar, followed it up to the edge of the brush, and lost it in the weedy flat. George came out of a patch of bamboos. He looked white and shaky and wild with disappointment.

“Oh, I had a dandy shot as he came out, but the blamed gun jammed again. Come on, we’ll get him. He’s all shot up. I bet I hit him ten times. He won’t get away.”

Ken finally got George back to camp. The boat was half full of water, making it necessary to pull it out on the bank and turn it over. There were ten bullet-holes in it.

“George, you hit the boat, anyway,” Ken said; “now we’ve a job on our hands.”

Hal came puffing into camp. He was red of face, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. He had a small animal of some kind in a sack, and his legs were wet to his knees.

“What was--all the--pegging about?” he asked, breathlessly. “I expected to find camp surrounded by Indians.”

“Kid, it’s been pretty hot round here for a little. George and Pepe rounded up a tiger. Tell us about it, George,” said Ken.

So while Ken began to whittle pegs to pound into the bullet-holes, George wiped his flushed, sweaty face and talked.

“We were up there a piece, round the bend. I saw a black squirrel and went ashore to get him. But I couldn’t find him, and in kicking round in the brush I came into a kind of trail or runway. Then I ran plumb into that darned jaguar. I was so scared I couldn’t remember my gun. But the cat turned and ran. It was lucky he didn’t make at me. When I saw him run I got back my courage. I called for Pepe to row down-stream and keep a lookout. Then I got into the flat. I must have come down a good ways before I saw him. I shot, and he dodged back into the brush again. I fired into the moving bushes where he was. And pretty soon I ventured to get in on the bank, where I had a better chance. I guess it was about that time that I heard you yell. Then it all happened. You hit him! Didn’t you hear him scream? What a jump he made! If it hadn’t been so terrible when your hammerless kicked Pepe overboard, I would have died laughing. Then I was paralyzed when the jaguar swam for the boat. He was hurt, for the water was bloody. Things came off quick, I tell you. Like a monkey Pepe scrambled into the tree. When I got my gun loaded the jaguar was crouched down in the bottom of the boat watching Pepe. Then I began to shoot. I can’t realize he got away from us. What was the reason you didn’t knock him?”

“Well, you see, George, there were two good reasons,” Ken replied. “The first was that at that time I was busy dodging bullets from your rifle. And the second was that you threatened my life if I killed your jaguar.”

“Did I get as nutty as that? But it was pretty warm there for a little.... Say, was he a big one? My eyes were so hazy I didn’t see him clear.”

“He wasn’t big, not half as big as the one I lost yesterday. Yours was a long, wiry beast, like a panther, and mean-looking.”

Pepe sat on the bank, and while he nursed his bruises he smoked. Once he made a speech that was untranslatable, but Hal gave it an interpretation which was probably near correct.

“That’s right, Pepe. Pretty punk tiger-hunters--mucho punk!”

*XVIII*

*WATCHING A RUNWAY*

“I’ll tell you what, fellows,” said Hal. “I know where we _can_ get a tiger.”

“We’ll get one in the neck if we don’t watch out,” replied George.

Ken thought that Hal looked very frank and earnest, and honest and eager, but there was never any telling about him.

“Where?” he asked, skeptically.

“Down along the river. You know I’ve been setting traps all along. There’s a flat sand-bar for a good piece down. I came to a little gully full of big tracks, big as my two hands. And fresh!”

“Honest Injun, kid?” queried Ken.

“Hope to die if I’m lyin’,” replied Hal. “I want to see somebody kill a tiger. Now let’s go down there in the boat and wait for one to come to drink. There’s a big log with driftwood lodged on it. We can hide behind that.”

“Great idea, Hal,” said Ken. “We’d be pretty safe in the boat. I want to say that tigers have sort of got on my nerves. I ought to go over in the jungle to look for the one I crippled. He’s dead by now. But the longer I put it off the harder it is to go. I’ll back out yet.... Come, we’ll have an early dinner. Then to watch for Hal’s tiger.”

The sun had just set, and the hot breeze began to swirl up the river when Ken slid the boat into the water. He was pleased to find that it did not leak.

“We’ll take only two guns,” said Ken, “my .351 and the hammerless, with some ball-cartridges. We want to be quiet to-night, and if you fellows take your guns you’ll be pegging at ducks and things. That won’t do.”

Pepe sat at the oars with instructions to row easily. George and Hal occupied the stern-seats, and Ken took his place in the bow, with both guns at hand.

The hot wind roared in the cypresses, and the river whipped up little waves with white crests. Long streamers of gray moss waved out over the water and branches tossed and swayed. The blow did not last for many minutes. Trees and river once more grew quiet. And suddenly the heat was gone.

As Pepe rowed on down the river, Cypress Island began to disappear round a bend, and presently was out of sight. Ducks were already in flight. They flew low over the boat, so low that Ken could almost have reached them with the barrel of his gun. The river here widened. It was full of huge snags. A high, wooded bluff shadowed the western shore. On the left, towering cypresses, all laced together in dense vine and moss webs, leaned out.

Under Hal’s direction Pepe rowed to a pile of driftwood, and here the boat was moored. The gully mentioned by Hal was some sixty yards distant. It opened like the mouth of a cave. Beyond the cypresses thick, intertwining bamboos covered it.

“I wish we’d gone in to see the tracks,” said Ken. “But I’ll take your word, Hal.”

“Oh, they’re there, all right.”

“I don’t doubt it. Looks great to me! That’s a runway, Hal.... Now, boys, get a comfortable seat, and settle down to wait. Don’t talk. Just listen and watch. Remember, soon we’ll be out of the jungle, back home. So make hay while the sun shines. Watch and listen! Whoever sees or hears anything first is the best man.”

For once the boys were as obedient as lambs. But then, Ken thought, the surroundings were so beautiful and wild and silent that any boys would have been watchful.

There was absolutely no sound but the intermittent whir of wings. The water-fowl flew by in companies--ducks, cranes, herons, snipe, and the great Muscovies. Ken never would have tired of that procession. It passed all too soon, and then only an occasional water-fowl swept swiftly by, as if belated.

Slowly the wide river-lane shaded. But it was still daylight, and the bank and the runway were clearly distinguishable. There was a moment--Ken could not tell just how he knew--when the jungle awakened. It was not only the faint hum of insects; it was a sense as if life stirred with the coming of twilight.

Pepe was the first to earn honors at the listening game. He held up a warning forefinger. Then he pointed under the bluff. Ken saw a doe stepping out of a fringe of willows.

“Don’t move--don’t make a noise,” whispered Ken.

The doe shot up long ears and watched the boat. Then a little fawn trotted out and splashed in the water. Both deer drank, then seemed in no hurry to leave the river.

Next moment Hal heard something downstream and George saw something up-stream. Pepe again whispered. As for Ken, he saw little dark shapes moving out of the shadow of the runway. He heard a faint trampling of hard little hoofs. But if these animals were _javelin_--of which he was sure--they did not come out into the open runway. Ken tried to catch Pepe’s attention without making a noise; however, Pepe was absorbed in his side of the river. Ken then forgot he had companions. All along the shores were faint splashings and rustlings and crackings.

A loud, trampling roar rose in the runway and seemed to move backward toward the jungle, diminishing in violence.

“Pigs running--something scared ’em,” said George.

“S-s-s-sh!” whispered Ken.

All the sounds ceased. The jungle seemed to sleep in deep silence.

Ken’s eyes were glued to the light patch of sand-bank where it merged in the dark of the runway. Then Ken heard a sound--what, he could not have told. But it made his heart beat fast.

There came a few pattering thuds, soft as velvet; and a shadow, paler than the dark background, moved out of the runway.

With that a huge jaguar loped into the open. He did not look around. He took a long, easy bound down to the water and began to lap.

Either Pepe or George jerked so violently as to make the boat lurch. They seemed to be stifling.

“Oh, Ken, don’t miss!” whispered Hal.

Ken had the automatic over the log and in line. His teeth were shut tight, and he was cold and steady. He meant not to hurry.

The jaguar was a heavy, squat, muscular figure, not graceful and beautiful like the one Ken had crippled. Suddenly he raised his head and looked about. He had caught a scent.

It was then that Ken lowered the rifle till the sight covered the beast--lower yet to his huge paws, then still lower to the edge of the water. Ken meant to shoot low enough this time. Holding the rifle there, and holding it with all his strength, he pressed the trigger once--twice. The two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Ken expected to see this jaguar leap, but the beast crumpled up and sank in his tracks.

Then the boys yelled, and Ken echoed them. Pepe was wildly excited, and began to fumble with the oars.

“Wait! Wait, I tell you!” ordered Ken.

“Oh, Ken, you pegged him!” cried Hal. “He doesn’t move. Let’s go ashore. What did I tell you? It took me to find the tiger.”

Ken watched with sharp eyes and held his rifle ready, but the huddled form on the sand never so much as twitched.

“I guess I plugged him,” said Ken, with unconscious pride.

Pepe rowed the boat ashore, and when near the sand-bar he reached out with an oar to touch the jaguar. There was no doubt about his being dead. The boys leaped ashore and straightened out the beast. He was huge, dirty, spotted, bloody, and fiercely savage even in death. Ken’s bullets had torn through the chest, making fearful wounds. Pepe jabbered, and the boys all talked at once. When it came to lifting the jaguar into the boat they had no slight task. The short, thick-set body was very heavy. But at last they loaded it in the bow, and Pepe rowed back to the island. It was still a harder task to get the jaguar up the high bank. Pepe kindled a fire so they would have plenty of light, and then they set to work at the skinning.

What with enthusiasm over the stalk, and talk of the success of the trip, and compliments to Ken’s shooting, and care of the skinning, the boys were three hours at the job. Ken, remembering Hiram Bent’s teachings, skinned out the great claws himself. They salted the pelt and nailed it up on the big cypress.

“You’d never have got one but for me,” said Hal. “That’s how I pay you for the tricks you’ve played me!”

“By George, Hal, it’s a noble revenge!” cried Ken, who, in the warmth and glow of happiness of the time, quite believed his brother.

Pepe went to bed first. George turned in next. Ken took a last look at the great pelt stretched on the cypress, and then he sought his blankets. Hal, however, remained up. Ken heard him pounding stakes in the ground.

“Hal, what ’re you doing?”

“I’m settin’ my trot-lines,” replied Hal, cheerfully.

“Well, come to bed.”

“Keep your shirt on, Ken, old boy. I’ll be along presently.”

Ken fell asleep. He did not have peaceful slumbers. He had been too excited to rest well. He would wake up out of a nightmare, then go to sleep again. He seemed to wake suddenly out of one of these black spells, and he was conscious of pain. Something tugged at his leg.

“What the dickens!” he said, and raised on his elbow. Hal was asleep between George and Pepe, who were snoring.

Just then Ken felt a violent jerk. The blankets flew up at his feet, and his left leg went out across his brother’s body. There was a string--a rope--something fast round his ankle, and it was pulling hard. It hurt.

“Jiminy!” shouted Ken, reaching for his foot. But before he could reach it another tug, more violent, pulled his leg straight out. Ken began to slide.

“What on earth?” yelled Ken. “Say! Something’s got me!”

The yells and Ken’s rude exertions aroused the boys. And they were frightened. Ken got an arm around Hal and the other around George and held on for dear life. He was more frightened than they. Pepe leaped up, jabbering, and, tripping, he fell all in a heap.

“Oh! my leg!” howled Ken. “It’s being pulled off. Say, I can’t be dreaming!”

Most assuredly Ken was wide awake. The moonlight showed his bare leg sticking out and round his ankle a heavy trot-line. It was stretched tight. It ran down over the bank. And out there in the river a tremendous fish or a crocodile was surging about, making the water roar.

Pepe was trying to loosen the line or break it. George, who was always stupid when first aroused, probably imagined he was being mauled by a jaguar, for he loudly bellowed. Ken had a strangle-hold on Hal.

“Oh! _Oh_! _Oh-h-h_!” bawled Ken. Not only was he scared out of a year’s growth; he was in terrible pain. Then his cries grew unintelligible. He was being dragged out of the tent. Still he clung desperately to the howling George and the fighting Hal.

All at once something snapped. The tension relaxed. Ken fell back upon Hal.

“Git off me, will you?” shouted Hal. “Are you c-c-cr-azy?”

But Hal’s voice had not the usual note when he was angry or impatient. He was laughing so he could not speak naturally.

“Uh-huh!” said Ken, and sat up. “I guess here was where I got it. Is my leg broken? What came off?”

Pepe was staggering about on the bank, going through strange motions. He had the line in his hands, and at the other end was a monster of some land threshing about in the water. It was moonlight and Ken could see plainly. Around the ankle that felt broken was a twisted loop of trot-line. Hal had baited a hook and slipped the end of the trot-line over Ken’s foot. During the night the crocodile or an enormous fish had taken the bait. Then Ken had nearly been hauled off the island.

Pepe was doing battle with the hooked thing, whatever it was, and Ken was about to go to his assistance when again the line broke.

“Great! Hal, you have a nice disposition,” exclaimed Ken. “You have a wonderful affection for your brother. You care a lot about his legs or his life. Idiot! Can’t you play a safe trick? If I hadn’t grabbed you and George, I’d been pulled into the river. Eaten up, maybe! And my ankle is sprained. It won’t be any good for a week. You are a bright boy!”

And in spite of his laughter Hal began to look ashamed.

*XIX*

*ADVENTURES WITH CROCODILES*

The rest of that night Ken had more dreams; and they were not pleasant. He awoke from one in a cold fright.