Chapter VII: The Red Mammoth

Meanwhile Scarface Boston Jimmy, with Tom Jones, late of Harvard, and Arty, the little old jockey, had sadly buried the body of Antone Pease Ferreira. Mike Murphy's head still ached frightfully from the pistol-butt blow, but otherwise he seemed in fit shape.

There was no point in staying where they were, and no place to go, except toward the Viking city. So the four set off, together up a trail which they found leading inland from the top of the cliff. After several hours of hiking, and stopping once for lunch, their road finally led to the edge of a level plain, across which, a half mile or so away, they could see the steep cliffs of the plateau which they had observed from the sea.

Persons were gathered in one spot on the edge of the cliff, and even as the watchers gazed up from within the cover of the wood, those persons disappeared one by one, only to reappear among the bushes at the foot of the cliff. A glider slid off the crest of the plateau, circled the plain, and returned to its starting point.

"Just the way it was in that ARGOSY story," Scarface exulted. "We're here at last!"

"Yeah?" replied Little Arty pessimistically. "And what good does it do you? Are you planning for the four of us to attack all those squareheads?"

"Not exactly," said Jimmy. "We must use strategy now."

"Why not use just plain human decency?" suggested Tom Jones. "Come to the Vikings as friends, and mean it. Eric and Angus played square--"

"Played squarehead, you mean," interrupted Arty.

"Well, anyway," continued Jones, "it worked, didn't it? Eric and Angus are now sitting on top of the world--or inside the world--oh, it's all so complicated! Anyway, let's try the same tactics."

"We may be forced to that, as a last resort," admitted Scarface.

"Say, what about Theresa?" Tom asked suddenly. "Here we've been worrying about dreams of empire, and lamenting because Nick Fratelli has walked off with our boat, when all the while that poor little girl is in the clutches of those roughnecks. Mr. Lefavour, sir, we've just got to side in with the Vikings, and get them to help us rescue Theresa."

Scarface looked at Tom appraisingly.

"I had thought of that myself." He was obviously torn between two ruling passions. "I shall settle that question. Come on."

So together the four set forth across the plain toward the spot where they had seen the Vikings emerge.

They had little difficulty in finding the hole in the bushes. Crawling through it, they came to a crack extending vertically upward in the face of the cliff, and up this crack they clambered, by virtue of many foot-holds, hand-holds and knee-holds in its sides. But when they reached the top, the way was barred by a stone slab set firmly across the opening. Try as they would, they could not budge it. They shouted repeatedly, but no answer came. No one heeded them.

So, at last, they climbed down again, and crawled out through the bushes at the base.

After staring disconsolately for a while at the heights, they withdrew to the shelter of the woods, where they had supper and then slept, taking turns watching one by one, so that they would know if the expedition from the plateau returned, or if any further signs of life showed at the brink of the cliff. But there were no developments.

* * * * *

Finally Scarface roused them. "I've had enough of sitting here like this, doing nothing. We ought to be getting busy rescuing that girl. This isn't proving anything."

"Let's walk around the foot of the plateau," suggested Tom. "Perhaps we can attract some attention somewhere. If not, we shall just have to come back and wait here, until that expedition returns. I wish they'd hurry. Every minute may count with poor little Terry."

So they started circling the base of the cliff, munching their breakfast as they walked, and shouting and hallooing from time to time.

And at last an answer came to one of their calls. But not from the cliff top. Instead, it came from around a bend ahead of them. And it was a most peculiar sound, more like a squeaky Fourth of July tin horn than anything else--a giant's horn, loud as a calliope.

"Queer bugles these Swedes have," remarked Murphy.

"Bugle, hell! Look what broke loose from the circus!" yelled Little Arty, who was in the lead.

Around the bend, at a ponderous canter, came an enormous elephant-like creature with long red fur, trumpeting loudly as he came--a mammoth!

"Run!" cried Tom, and the four of them scattered in as many directions, as the beast bore down upon them.

Three of them were sure of escape, for the woolly red elephant could not chase all four at once. The mammoth selected Scarface Jimmy as his victim. Clumsy though the huge animal appeared to be, he could run as fast as a man, or a little faster. So Scarface shed his dignity without a thought and fled as never before in his life.

Straight toward a clump of trees he ran, and seized a branch and pulled himself up, just in time. It was not enough merely to gain the low-hanging branch. Up the tree he scrambled, scraping off bark and clothing and skin. He had scarce got above the level of the beast's head before it crashed against the trunk with an impact which nearly hurled the man from his perch.

Then, backing up, the mammoth reared and reached for the man with its trunk. Scarface, scrambling upward again, just barely eluded the snakelike menace. Thereupon the mammoth withdrew for a short distance and began a series of battering-ram rushes at the tree.

Scarface hung on for dear life each time, and thus escaped being shaken off; but the tree itself gradually yielded at the roots, and began to bend more and more, under the successive blows.

The elephant, finding that the tree had begun to loosen at the roots, changed his tactics and, placing his huge head squarely against the trunk, braced all four of his legs and began to push steadily. Inch by inch, the tree gave; there was nothing Scarface could do but climb higher and higher.